Angry God (All Saints High 3)

My dad wasn’t big on words, no, but his actions spoke volumes. He crushed his business opponents with an iron fist, without a blink or a worry.

He’d showed my mother he loved her a million times—by planting a pink, cherry-blossom garden in the backyard.

By tattooing her name on his heart.

By fixing her with a look that said, I’m yours.

The less you said, the more you were feared. The simplest trick in the book, yet for some reason, men were hell-bent on running their mouths to prove something.

I had nothing to prove.

I’d showed Edgar Astalis a piece that was maybe twenty-percent done, submitted it to the board of Carlisle Prep, and bagged the internship without breaking a sweat.

It was embarrassingly easy. Pathetically so. Yes, I manipulated the board. Especially Edgar, who had a dog in this fight, and Harry, who owed me a solid. And yes, if Lenora was ever to find out, she’d kill me, her father, and her uncle.

Then again, I would beat her to it, just as I had with the internship.

Everyone on the board had agreed I needed the full six months of the internship to complete something as complex as this sculpture.

I had time.

I had a plan.

I was ready to put things in motion and finally savor the sweet, poignant taste of fresh blood.

And it looked like I was also going to have a stubborn, feisty assistant to put up with my shit—one I could keep an eye on, to make sure my secret was intact.

Taunting her with a pile of garbage was not my finest moment, but the message had hit home.

Mercy was not on the menu.

She would fight for her place next to me. Always.

After Edgar broke the news to his baby daughter, I drove around her block, playing the CDs I’d shamelessly taken from her room when she wasn’t there one day—Kinky Machine, The Stone Roses.

A couple hours later, I parked my banged-up truck next to my motorcycle—both purchased with my own money after summers of hard work in galleries—and noticed the orange glow of the fireplace in our living room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I ran my hand over my dusty hair and cursed under my breath.

We had company.

I hated company.

Striding toward the entrance, I saw a shadow loitering in the rosebushes. The leaves danced above the sunbaked ground. I crouched down and whistled low.

Empedolces emerged from the rosebushes, strutting his ass like a Kardashian in my direction. I’d named my blind black cat after the Greek philosopher who discovered the world was a sphere. This cat, like the philosopher, thought himself to be God. He had a fierce sense of entitlement and demanded to be stroked at least an hour a day—a wish that, for a reason beyond my grasp, my sorry ass granted him.

It was by far the most human thing I ever did, being pussy-whipped by a literal pussy. Emp brushed past my dirty boot. I picked him up, rubbing the spot behind his ear. He purred like a tractor.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for your blind ass to roam outside? These hills are full of coyotes.” I walked into the house with him in my arms. Kicking the door open, I heard the sweet laughter of my mother, my father’s deep chuckle, and a gruff, male voice with an English accent I instantly recognized.

A toxic smile spread on my lips.

Time to rock n’ roll, motherfucker.

Glasses clanked, utensils cluttered, and soft classical music seeped from the dining room. I put Emp down in the kitchen, dumped a sachet full of wet food into his bowl, and advanced into the dining area, my boots thudding against the marbled floor. When I appeared at the doorway, everyone stopped eating. Harry was the first to dab the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

He stood, opening his arms with a shit-eating smirk. “I believe congratulations are in order for my favorite prodigy.” He gave me a little bow.

Expressionless, I walked into the room, eating the distance between us. He went in for a hug, but I slid my palm into his and squeezed hard enough to hear his delicate painter bones cracking.

He extracted his palm from mine and massaged it lightly.

Mom and Dad stood up. I kissed Mom’s forehead. Dad clapped my back.

“Harry was in town visiting Edgar and his nieces,” Mom explained. “I thought it’d be nice to invite him for dinner. I just bought another piece from him. I’m planning to put it right in front of your room. Isn’t it exciting?” She turned to grin at him.

“I can hardly fucking contain myself,” I said dryly.

Considered the most critically acclaimed expressionist painter in modern art today, Harry Fairhurst usually sold his paintings for $1.2 million a pop. Not a bad gig, considering his half-assed day job as a board member and professor at Carlisle Prep. Mom, of course, would hang anything he made, including his turds, for everyone to view and admire. His paintings were all over our house: the foyer, my parents’ bedroom, the dining area, the two living rooms, and even the basement. She’d gifted some of his paintings, too.