Cruel Infatuation (Underground Kings 3)

Another naïve thought. I’m just wracking them up today.

I sigh in relief when the cool, damp air of the shaded woods engulf me, drying the sweat on my skin. I reach behind my head and gather my hair, twisting it until it’s tight as a rope before circling it on the base of my neck. It’s too hot to wear it down.

When I move away here, I’m moving somewhere that doesn’t make me sweat so much.

I wipe the salty beads of liquid off my brows with the back of my hand before the moisture can drip in my eyes. The path I take is worn, the dirt showing from the every day use from my shortcut. I hold onto the straps of my backpack and step over a small tree branch that fell from a storm we had the other night.

My phone is burning a hole in my back pocket. I want to message Isaac back. One more time won’t hurt, right? My fingers twitch as I reach back to grab my phone, but I think better of it and drop my arm. I don’t want to be the person who traps a guy into liking her when he isn’t allowed to.

I already miss talking to him, the freedom and peace it brought me to talk to a complete stranger. Going as far to say I like him is a stretch because I don’t know him well enough, but I know I like talking to him. I like how I feel when I do.

It’s been a long time since I felt anything other than hatred.

I come to the end of the woods, and my broken-down house comes to view. It’s hard to believe something so ugly used to be beautiful. It’s a ranch-style three-bedroom home with plain white siding that needs pressure washed from all the residue build-up. The roof is missing a few shingles, and the right side of the front porch sags.

Where there used to be beautiful flowers, roses, daises, and tulips, are long weeds and dandelions. I stopped plucking the fluffy flowers when I walked up the front steps that led in the house six months ago. Wishing on weeds is pointless, especially when the wishes never come true.

I peek around a tree and glare at the front door. Trevor should be stumbling out of it any second now, to go to the bar where most of the illegal shit he’s involved in goes down. It’s where my mom met him. She was drowning her sorrows a few months after Dad died and met up with Trevor, who only seems to bring her lower to the ground every day.

I’ll have to bury her because of him. I guarantee it.

I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. My mom wants to wither away. My dad was her heartbeat. I’m not enough to keep her alive, and while it hurts like hell, I came to terms with it a long time ago. I can’t tell how many times I’ve seen her on the couch, passed out, with coke smeared on her nose.

She wasn’t always like this. She’s a different woman now. A part of her has died, and the longer I stay here, the more she drags me down, killing me alongside her.

Another bead of sweat falls between my breasts as I wait for Trevor to come out of the door. It’s around twelve in the afternoon, so I don’t understand why he isn’t on his way to collect money from his whores after the long night of having sex with multiple people.

Yeah, I know. I just called my mother a whore, but if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…

It’s a damn duck.

I love her, and I’ll never tell her that to her face, but truths hurt, and the truth laying in that house hurts me every damn day.

Realizing he isn’t going to come out of the house, I drag my feet from the woods and walk the plank to the front door. I stare at the ground, noticing the dead grass alongside of the broken cement path. There’s a lawn gnome beside the steps hiding in the tall brush, effectively creeping me out. His red gnome hat is covered in filth, and his eyes are faded from the weather. He looks more like a ghoul in my opinion.

“Protecting the yard, Frank?” I ask him, knowing he can’t answer back. Yeah, I named my yard gnome, so what? “Things might rise from the ground if you aren’t careful.” Out of habit, I pluck a dandelion from its stem and twist it between my finger, debating if I want blow the seeds off to watch them float in the air.

Making wishes are for silly little girls.

The dandelion slowly slips between my fingers and falls to the porch, leaving behind seeds of doubt instead of hopeful promises.

Twisting the knob, it’s hot from the high noon. I hiss and bring my fingers to my mouth. “Damn it.” My spit cools them off briefly, and I pull them from my mouth. I grab the hem of my shirt and wrap it around the silver handle, twist, and push. The old wooden door swings open on a haunted groan, and the sun spills in through the entryway.

The hardwood floors are worn and scratched. The light glitters off the dust particles in the air. If I knew the house wasn’t so rotten on the inside, I would think seeing the stepping inside a place I call home a beautiful thing.

The floor moans as I step inside, steady and unrushed. I look toward the couch and, just like every other day, there’s M

om, unconscious. Trevor is kicked back in the green recliner that used to be my dad’s. Trevor has ruined it, like everything else he’s touched.

I won’t let him do that to me.

Closing the door behind me, I send a silent prayer somewhere that it shuts quickly. The click is soft, and I let out a breath and take one last look at Trevor, snoring, and a few bottles of beer on the floor surrounding him.

Tiptoeing, I move as stealthily as I can down the hall and around the corner to get to my room. My only safe place. I hurry inside and lean against the door, locking it so no one can come in. Tears gather in my eyes, but with a shake of my head, I refuse to cry. This is my life now. This won’t be my life forever.

Letting out a deep breath, I shrug off my backpack and toss it on the bed, along with my phone. I’m sticky from sweat, frustrated, and annoyed. I need a shower.

“Hey, Dad,” I whisper, touching the picture frame on my computer desk as I stride into the bathroom and turn on the shower. The water comes out, and I twist the handles the other way to lower the temperature since it’s so hot out.