All the Little Lies (English Prep 1)

I kept my gaze on the glossy window, feeling the devil behind my back. “Spit it out, Pete. I have homework to do.”

My heart beat fiercely; my skin prickled with fear. I didn’t know why I mouthed off, but I suddenly wished I could suck the words back in.

“She didn’t believe a fucking word you said. Now she’s going to be checking in every other fucking day.” Pete grew closer to me, his voice loud and mean.

I spun around and leveled his sweaty face with a glare. “Let’s be real here. I could have told her that you have your wife suck your dick every night while I’m in the next room. Or I could have told her that you lock me in my room like some caged animal. Or maybe I could have told her that you only feed me leftover scraps from dinner and that you drink beer all night long and slap Jill around.” Pete’s face was redder than a tomato, his eyes blazing with anger. “But I didn’t. I didn’t because I need you just as much as you need me.”

He spat as he yelled, “I don’t need you. You’re an ungrateful little bitch. I could have you kicked out of here and replace you with a new foster kid if I wanted.”

I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes. “But could you really, Pete? I’m guessing you’ve been under suspicion before, which is why they placed me with you. The girl that no one wanted. I was your last resort.” My mouth kept rambling even though my brain was screaming at me to stop before he snapped. “What is it? What do you need the foster money for? Gambling? Some kind of crazy debt? You better watch yourself. Debt is what got my dad killed.”

I saw him lose it right in front of me. His eyes grew crazed, and I knew I’d just awakened the beast. The smart thing would have been to put some kind of barrier between us, but I didn’t. Before I could even think to defend myself, he swept me off my feet and kicked my ribs while I was down on the dirty floor. I yelled out a grunt as his boot connected with my side. I curled into a ball, knowing very well that I needed to stay down. He was much bigger than me. Even if I got back to my feet, he’d easily knock me down again.

My side burned with raging pain. Tears threatened to spill at the corners of my eyes. I bit my lower lip to stop it from trembling.

Pete bent down, but I kept my vision on the couch leg, not daring to look up at him. “You have it backwards. You need me much more than I need you. Mouth off again and I’ll throw you out on your ass faster than you can say your farewell.” Pete stormed away, stomping to the kitchen. I heard the fridge door clank open and the pop of a beer tab.

He

shouted, “Door’s getting locked at seven tonight. And no fucking dinner.”

I slowly pulled myself up and grabbed my bag, basically limping upstairs.

Not one single tear was shed. Not even from the dull ache in my side or from the fast-approaching purple bruise.

I didn’t cry for men like him.

I didn’t cry when my father died.

I didn’t cry when Gabe proved to be someone he wasn’t.

I didn’t cry when Christian told me he hated me.

And I wasn't going to cry because Pete kicked me like I was a dog.

Instead, I opened up my laptop, finished my homework, and applied to another college far, far away from this town.

Chapter Fourteen

Christian

My room was pitch black when I tore my eyes open. I knew what day it was, but I had no intention of indulging in it. Birthdays lost their meaning over time, and it was the one thing Mom always went all out on. She may have been absent every other day of the year, but when Ollie’s and my birthdays came around, she pulled out all the stops.

I used to look forward to the chocolatey cake and her high-pitched voice singing “Happy Birthday.” My father would even join in on the occasion. But today, the only thing I was looking forward to, at least right now, was the coffee waiting for me downstairs.

As soon as I reached the kitchen in my drowsy state, I paused. There was a steaming pot of coffee already brewed. Ollie? I guessed it would be nice of him to actually get himself up to make coffee on my birthday. His silent gift to me, knowing very well I hated celebrating.

“Mornin’, son.”

My hand froze in mid-air as I reached for a mug.

“Happy birthday,” he said, coming further into the kitchen.

I inhaled and poured my coffee before turning around. “Thanks. Didn’t know you knew when my birthday was or that you’d be home today.”

My father was wearing a plain T-shirt and running shorts, like he was about to go for a run. Maybe that was his norm? Wake up. Get coffee. Run. I wouldn’t know. He wasn’t here long enough for me to pinpoint a routine.

He sat at the breakfast bar and placed his hands on the marble top. “I didn’t want to miss your birthday. It’s the big one. The big eighteen.” He grinned, ignoring my first comment. “I remember when I turned eighteen. I thought I was on top of the world. Finally an adult.” He glanced down and shook his head back and forth. Then, he brought his attention to me. “I was nothing like you at age eighteen. I was an immature kid who felt he was entitled to everything.”