The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)
“Me? Kick him out, Mom,” I hissed. “Call the cops.”
She sat against her pillows, tired and worn. “It’ll mess up your day. You might miss your flight and that can’t happen. Go, honey. I’ll be fine.”
I gritted my teeth and bent to kiss her forehead. “Call me if you need me. Promise.”
“I will.”
I dragged myself out of her room and went to mine to get my stuff.
Vi, Shiloh, and the guys were gathering for what Holden called a Remember Us When You’re Famous party. I figured I’d go to the beach and wander, try to calm myself down.
I slung my duffel over my arm and carried my guitar case out, then I stopped short. Chet blocked the hallway. His jowls were pasty under days’ worth of stubble, and he stank of stale beer and smoke.
“You think your little trip is going to change anything?” he said, eyeing me up and down. “They’re going to see right through you. A dirty, punk-ass little bitch singing your stupid songs.”
My pulse crashed in my ears and my throat went dry. “Back off, asshole.”
Chet looked ready to fight, but the bedroom door opened, and Mom came out. “What’s happening out here?”
“Nothing,” he said and let me go, giving my shoulder a hard knock as I passed, then followed me into the living room. “Nothing’s happening,” he said louder as I went to the shabby coat stand near the door to grab my jacket. “You hear me? You’re a fucking carny pretending to be bigger than you are. But you ain’t shit.”
I hunched my shoulders against his words, but they sank in anyway.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I muttered and reached for the door. Behind me, Mom gave a cry, and then my guitar case was torn out of my hand. I spun around to see Chet hurl it at the wall behind the couch. It struck hard enough to leave a scuff mark and tumbled onto the cushions.
“What are you—?”
My words—and air—cut off as Chet gripped me around the throat and shoved me against the door. He moved in close, seething, spittle flecking my lips as he spoke.
“For too long, you’ve been a smartass hotshot walking around here. I keep telling your mom to kick your ass to the curb. You’re eighteen now. I think it’s time.”
Black starbursts were flaring in my vision. Mom was shouting at him to let me go, tugging his arm and begging. I got my hands around his wrist and yanked him off me.
“Fuck you,” I cried hoarsely, then hurried to my guitar.
I felt Chet behind me, then his hand gripped my shirt between my shoulder blades. He yanked me back, throwing me off balance, and then shoved me forward. I stumbled and banged my shin on the coffee table, then crashed headfirst onto the couch. The right side of my face scraped against the edge of my guitar case. Pain flared like a burn.
“Stop it!” Mom cried. “Leave him be!”
I scrambled to my feet and gripped my guitar case. On instinct only, I swung it backward without looking and heard it connect with Chet’s gut. He made an ooph sound and staggered back. I raced for the door, grabbing my mom’s arm on the way, dragging her with me.
She tore out of my grasp. “Miller, no.”
I stopped. Stared. Sucking in air, my pulse crashing in my ears. “Mom… Let’s go. You can’t stay here.”
From behind her, Chet was breathing heavily, a triumphant smile splitting his thick lips. “She doesn’t want to leave with you. She knows better than that.”
I jabbed a finger in
the air at him. “Go to hell, asshole, I’m calling the police.”
He chuckled. “And say what? You think she’s going to press charges? You going to press charges, Lynn?”
I stared at her, waiting for her answer. She cast her eyes to the ground, and I felt something in me break off and fall away.
“That’s right,” Chet said. “It ain’t your house. It’s hers. This is her home. But you’re a grown man, son. I’d say it’s about time you got the hell out.”
“Mom?”