Ryan’s paranoia knows no bounds. He’s been even more suspicious of me lately, but I haven’t exactly been discreet. I knew staying late at school every day wouldn’t go over well. But, I couldn’t—can’t—resist the urge to be anywhere but home lately. The fact that I’m spending all that extra time in Mr. James’ class—well, that’s simply a bonus. I love pushing his buttons almost as much as I love watching him squirm, but somewhere down the line, I didn’t know who I was torturing anymore. Him or myself? Today, in my self-induced detention, I wanted him to put his hands on me. To grip my waist and show me how a man touches a woman. Not a fumbling boy. I wanted to feel his skin on mine, to taste his tongue. What would he taste like?
Then Ryan called and reality came crashing down on me. He gave me the usual third degree about fucking other guys. I informed him that I could fuck whomever I wanted. He didn’t like that. Instead of going home, he made me tag along on his errands—one of which included stopping by his friend’s house to pick up a “package”. In hindsight, I should have known before that moment—the signs were there all along—but I’ve realized that sometimes we’re blind to the truth when it comes to the people whom we love most. It’s our heart’s way of protecting itself.
Ryan denied doing drugs, said that he was “just selling them”…because that’s so much better. The rest of the day was spent putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The paranoia. The mood swings. The late nights. It all made sense. My brain worked overtime, trying to figure out when it began, why it began, and wondering what I could’ve done to stop it.
When Ryan started calling people over to party—a prime opportunity to expand his clientele, I’m sure—a sense of dread swirled in my gut. I knew it wouldn’t end well. He told me to stay in my room, which was the norm on nights like this. Usually, I was happy to oblige. The last thing I wanted to do was hang out with a bunch of randoms. But tonight was different. I needed to pull the blinders off when it came to Ryan. To see the truth. And now, I wish I hadn’t.
He was sitting on the couch with something tied around his arm. His long, greasy blond hair hung in front of his eyes, and the girl on his lap angled herself toward him to inject something into his veins. At first I was frozen in place. But the sight of the syringe broke through my trance.
“What the fuck, Ry?!” I yelled, and the tears that I didn’t know I was crying started streaming down my face. He stood up, letting the girl on his lap fall on her ass.
“‘Just selling,’ huh? What is this?” Before I made a conscious decision to do so, I was in his face, shoving at his shoulders, smacking wherever I could land a hit. He grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking the shit out of me.
“Fucking stop, Rem. Go back to bed!” But I didn’t budge. My heart was breaking. Instead of breaking down, I held on to the other emotion fighting its way to the surface. Rage. How could he do this? To me, to my dad, to himself? All we’ve ever done is love him.
“You’re a piece of shit, Ry! Nothing but a junkie, just like Darla. Congratulations, big brother. You’re your mother’s son,” I ground out through tears.
It was that comment that did it.
One shove from Ryan and I fell backwards onto the glass coffee table. It shattered, and a chunk of glass stabbed my inner thigh. I braced myself for the fall with outstretched hands when I landed. A couple of pieces of the coffee table were embedded in my palms, but the only pain I felt was for Ryan. Ryan’s friend Reed stepped in then, and one of the girls tried helping me up, but I smacked her hand away. When I tried to go back to my bedroom, I found a girl jerking off a dude in my bed. That was the last straw. I had to get the hell out of there. I haphazardly threw some shit into my backpack—a change of clothes, my camera, and God knows what else—all while they carried on like no one was watching.
After twenty-seven million unanswered calls to Christian, I finally caved and called Mr. James. After all, that was exactly why he gave me his number. He probably wouldn’t even answer. Except he did. And more than that, he cared. This teacher of mine was more concerned for me than anyone else had been my entire life. There was something terribly sad about that fact, but I can’t deny that it felt good to be cared for.
Mr. James burst through the bathroom door, somehow looking more intimidating than a house full of bikers and junkies in only a pair of mesh gym shorts and a tight white V-neck. And he protected me. Defended me. Rescued me. I wasn’t usually the type of girl who needed saving, but Pierce James in white knight mode was a sight I won’t soon forget. His eyebrows were drawn together, his nostrils flaring. His skin was glistening from the hot, summer night. His usually tamed hair was an unruly mess, and he never looked better to me.
Now I’m in his car—once again—except this time, I have no idea where we’re going. I sense an internal battle going on with him, so I don’t ask. Anywhere is better than home. The glass barely even broke the skin on my palms, and the cut on the inside of my thigh has stopped bleeding, but I try to pull my skirt down further so I don’t get blood on his seats, just in case. Mr. James glances over and shakes his head.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly.
“I—”
“Never mind. Don’t tell me. Not yet,” he interrupts.
I swallow wordlessly, feeling my age for the first time since we met. We’re both quiet as he drives us out of the city limits, toward the Hoover Dam. I still don’t ask where we’re going. Wherever it is, I trust him. A few minutes later, I see a sign that reads Lake Mead Marina. He parks and we silently walk toward the docks. Finally, he stops and gestures for me to enter a houseboat tied to the dock.
It’s a modest houseboat, and there’s not much going on inside. A tiny white table with a blue booth wrapped around it in a U-shape and a little couch with an old quilt bedspread that’s sitting behind it. Mr. James walks straight for the mini fridge and grabs two beers. I reach for one, and he snatches it out of my grasp.
“No way.” He shakes his head. “It’s bad enough that you’re here. I’m not giving you alcohol on top of it. These are both for me.”
I’ve been drinking beers with Ryan and my pops since I was sixteen, but now isn’t the time to argue, so I hold back the eye roll. He downs both beers within minutes and gets another. He sits in the booth and gestures toward the bed with his bottle.
“Start talking,” he orders, gesturing for me to sit with a head tilt. I feel his demanding tone right between my thighs.
“You mean about tonight?”
“I mean about everything. Don’t spare one single detail, Remington. I want to know how you got to where you are, what happened on the way there, and how can we make it better for you.”
I sit down on the edge of his bed, and I tell him the whole story, start to finish. I tell him about my mom dying, my dad meeting Darla and taking in Ryan. Darla running off. Dad being on the road all the time, and how Ryan was my brother, best friend, and my parent, all at once. I tell him how lately I feel more like the parent. I tell him about how I got into West Point. I tell him how Ryan has been a loose cannon—hence the reason for hanging out at school more than any sane student should want to. Lastly, I tell him about the drugs. When I get to the part where I fell through the table, I think his
teeth might crack under the pressure of his jaw.
“I’m fine,” I insist, parting my legs slightly, absently tracing the dried blood. “It’s just a little cut.”
“It’s not the first time he’s been abusive to you. Physically,” he says, not asks. His hard stare penetrates my self-confidence. I stare down at the floor.
“If you mean the marks on my thigh….” And when I see the look in his eyes, the designated grown-up who doesn’t believe me, my voice is firmer this time. “Mr. James, I know how to take care of myself.”
“When is your father coming back?” He ignores my statement.