Bad Habit (Bad Love 1)

His knee ceases its bouncing, and his eyes widen. “What list?”

I can tell he’s being deliberately obtuse, and that Asher and my brother were right to be concerned.

“Don’t play dumb.” I sigh. “Am I on a list?” I ask again. I stand, crossing my arms, and Jackson follows suit.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, taking a step toward me.

“No,” I say, turning to walk back into my house. “That’s all I needed to know.” I feel sick. I don’t know what the list entails, but I don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s not good. That it most likely has something to do with why he pursued me, and that he betrayed my trust. That’s enough for me, without having the gritty details.

“Briar, stop,” he demands, but I keep walking. When I open the sliding door, Dash is sitting at the breakfast bar, while Adrian fries some eggs. My brother’s blond hair sticks up in every direction, and he looks half-asleep, but when he sees that I’m upset with Jackson on my heels, he snaps to attention. Adrian drops the spatula, and they both flank me in an instant.

“What’s going on?” my brother barks.

“Nothing. He was just leaving.”

Jackson swallows nervously, looking among the three of us, probably trying to gauge how close he is to catching a fist to the face. Ultimately, he decides to test his luck.

“There is a list, and that’s why I was interested in you at the beginning,” he admits, holding up his hands in surrender when both Adrian and my brother advance on him. “But, I never added your name. I swear to fucking God, Briar. Why do you think I kept pursuing you? If it was only about the stupid list, I would have bailed after…” he trails off, thinking better of finishing that sentence in front of my brother.

Dash’s nostrils flare, and Adrian huffs out a humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

“You have three seconds to leave before my foot meets your ass.” This comes from Adrian.

“Briar,” Jackson tries again, jaw clenched in frustration, but I shake my head in response. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know if it changes how I feel, even if he is telling the truth.

Adrian arches a brow, and that’s all it takes for Jackson to realize he isn’t going to win this one. Then, he’s out the door, leaving me with two pairs of expectant eyes focused on me.

“What?”

“Start talking.”

Why are all the men in my life so damn pushy?

Chapter 6

Asher

I finished the job I was doing over a week ago, so instead of working, I’ve been at my dad’s house. He’s getting worse—I can see it in his appearance, but his expression tells me that he knows it, too—and he refuses to go back to the hospital. He’s basically just waiting to die at home, at this point.

Suit yourself.

I’ve mostly busied myself with cleaning this dump in silence, while my dad searches for the words to say. He watches me. I ignore him. He talks to me. I ignore him. There’s nothing he could say to take back the past ten years of my life, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Where are you staying?” John asks from his place on his trusty old recliner. I fucking hate that chair. I’m surprised his skin hasn’t grafted to it by now. I glance up at him, debating on whether or not to respond, but something in his hopeful expression has me caving.

“Dash’s.”

He nods, expecting that answer, but doesn’t have anything else to add.

I turn my attention back to the giant oak entertainment center—probably about the same age as the decrepit couch—that takes up almost the entire length of the wall. The bottom is lined with cabinets sporting broken handles, and inside is filled with newspapers, my mom’s collection of Disney movies on VHS, art projects from when I was a kid, and old family pictures. What’s noticeably absent are photos of my mom and me. I know they used to be in here. That old bastard probably destroyed them.

I pick up a homemade Christmas ornament with a tiny handprint and a picture of a child I don’t even recognize anymore—happy and toothless and carefree. I turn it over. In jumbled, oversized letters, the back reads “Asher Kelley, age 7, 2nd grade”. A familiar feeling washes over me like an old friend—a mixture of anger and resentment—and I stuff it down into the trash bag full of all the other useless shit.

“You’re tossing that?” Dad asks, taking a swig of his water bottle, and I almost laugh. The sight is so foreign. I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but beer or liquor. The occasional cup of coffee, maybe. I want to tell him it’s too late for that, but I bite my tongue.

“Your mother loved that…” he trails off. Clearing his throat, he adds, “I loved it.” His voice is uncharacteristically gruff, and his eyes so sincere that it momentarily throws me off.

“Loved it so much that you threw it in with the rest of the crap you don’t give a shit about?” I start grabbing junk by the handful and shoving it into the bag, not even sparing a glance at it. It’s better this way.