The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

She had a bedtime. Rules. A routine.

Sailor was Troy and Sparrow’s two-year-old. I loved her like a sister. Whenever she feared a monster was hiding under her bed and I was there, she’d slip out of her toddler bed and pad into my room and slide under my blanket, clutching me like I was a teddy bear.

“Keep me thafe, Sammy.”

“Always, Sail.”

“Not in front of the kid.” Troy stepped toward Cat, putting space between her and me. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since those McMeals I’d shoved down my throat.

“Sam, can you give us a minute?” Sparrow ran her fingers through my dusty hair. “I got you that Ghost of Tsushima video game, like you asked. Grab a snack and play while we finish up here.”

I took some beef jerky—Uncle Troy told me protein would help me grow taller—and disappeared into the hallway, rounding the corner but not getting into my room. I’d had my own room here since I was in first grade. Grandma Maria said it was because Troy and Sparrow lived in a good school district, and we needed their zip code to register, but even after I got expelled from my first school, I still came here often.

My “real” house was in a bad neighborhood in Southie, where tennis shoes littered every power line, and even if you didn’t pick fights, you’d sure as hell need to finish them in order to survive.

Eavesdropping, I heard Troy growl, “What the fuck?” from the doorway. I liked how he said the word ‘fuck.’ The sound of it gave me whiplash, and the skin on my arms turned all funny. “Maria has barely been gone for three weeks, and you’re already pulling shady shit.”

Grandma Maria passed away in her sleep less than a month ago. I was the one who’d found her. Cat had been out all night, “working.” I’d held Grams and cried until I couldn’t open my eyes anymore. When Cat finally got home, with whiskey breath and smudged makeup, she told me it was all my fault.

That Grams was too tired of my bullshit and decided to bail.

“Can’t blame her for kickin’ the bucket, kid. I’d do the same if I could!”

I packed my duffel bag that same morning and hid it under my bed.

I’d known Cat wasn’t going to keep me.

“First of all, watch your mouth. I’m still grieving. I lost my mother unexpectedly, you know,” Catalina huffed.

“Tough shit. Sam never had his mother to begin with.” Troy’s voice made the walls rattle, even when he spoke calmly.

“The boy is untamable. Dumb as a brick and as aggressive as a stray dog. Me sticking around ain’t gonna help. It’s only a matter of time before he lands in juvie,” my mother spat. “He’s a monster.”

That was her nickname for me. Monster.

The Monster did this.

The Monster did that.

“Look, I don’t care what you and your perfect little wife think. It’s just too much responsibility. I’m out. I can’t send him to therapy and shit like that. I’m not made out of money.” Catalina stubbed her heel on the floor. I heard her rummaging through her Chanel bag for her cigarettes. She wasn’t gonna find them. I smoked half the pack in the backyard while she was getting high in her bedroom. The rest were in my bag.

“If money is an issue—” Sparrow started.

“Bitch, please,” Cat cut into her words viciously, spluttering. “Keep your money. And I hope you are not dumb enough to think you’re better than me, with all the help you’re getting from your husband and harem of nannies and tutors. Sam’s the spawn of the Devil. I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not doing this alone,” Troy ground out. “We have shared custody of him, idiot.”

Fire blazed in my chest. I didn’t know Sparrow and Troy had legal custody over me. I didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded important.

“Either you take him or I drop him off at an orphanage,” Cat yawned.

In a way, I was relieved. I always knew once Grams died, Catalina would get rid of me. I spent the last few weeks worrying she’d set the house on fire with me in it to get insurance money or something. At least I was still alive.

I knew my mother didn’t love me. She never looked at me. When she did, she told me I reminded her of him.

“Same Edward Cullen hair. Same dead, gray eyes.”

Him was my late father, Brock Greystone. Before he died, he was employed by Troy Brennan. Brock Greystone was weak and pathetic and a weasel. A rat. Everyone said so. Grams, Cat, Troy.

My worst nightmare was becoming like him, which was why Catalina always told me I was so much like him.

Then there was Uncle Troy. I knew he was a bad man, but he was an honorable one, too.