The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,5

she knew something I didn’t. She was wrong.

Grams died and left me with Cat.

Cat almost killed me multiple times.

Women weren’t reliable. Men weren’t either, but men I could at least punch in the nuts, and men never made any promises. I didn’t have a father or a grandfather to get mad at.

“I will never change my mind,” I muttered, fighting my heavy eyelids that demanded I pass out.

I crashed in Sparrow’s arms hours after Troy left.

When I woke up the next morning, I found a golden chain on my nightstand.

I scanned the Saint Anthony charm on it. My initials was engraved around the coin.

S.A.B.

Samuel Austin Brennan.

Years later, I’d learn Troy and Sparrow petitioned to legally changed my name from Greystone to Brennan the same hour they filed for full custody of me.

I knew who Saint Anthony was, the Patron Saint of all lost things.

I was lost, but now I’d been found.

Next to the necklace was a paper plate with a glazed donut and a hot cup of cocoa.

I was a Brennan now.

Boston underworld aristocracy.

Privileged, respected, and feared above all.

A legend in the making.

I intended to live up to my namesake at any price.

I would never be lost again.

My parents failed, but me? I’d prevail.

I would rise from the ashes and make them proud.

Would soar into the sky.

This was the first time I felt this way.

Certain.

Age 17.

The heart was a monster.

That’s why it was locked behind our ribs, in a cage.

I’d known this all along, from the moment I was born, but tonight I felt it, too.

Twenty minutes after taking the Mass Pike out of Boston, I finally came to terms with the fact that I was lost.

I drove with the windows rolled down, the humid summer air whipping at my wet cheeks. The tears kept on coming.

The scent of spring’s blossoms lingered in my nostrils, heady and sweet, mixing with the crispness of the night.

She is never going to smell spring blossoms again.

To smile lopsidedly, like she is holding the secrets of the universe between her lips.

To press a dress against my chest and shimmy her shoulders excitedly, exclaiming it’s, “Tres you!”

Why’d you have to do this, B?

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

In the distance, neon lights flashed from striped yellow and red tents. There was a giant sign in the middle of a glittering Ferris wheel.

Aquila Fair.

Drown.

I needed to drown.

In lights and smells and noises, with simple lives that weren’t mine.

I took a sharp turn right.

I parked among the SUVs, beat-up vehicles, and sports cars, stumbling out of the Volvo in my black hoodie, cut-off shorts, and sneakers. The Daisy Dukes were my doing. I took scissors to an old pair of jeans and cut them off so that the curve of my ass was visible even from space. My attire usually resembled that of Kate Middleton. Prim, proper, and princess-like. But tonight, I wanted to piss her off for dying on me. To give her the middle finger for not sticking around.

“American girls show skin like men don’t know what awaits under their garments. You, mon cheri, will make a man earn every inch of you, and dress appropriately and demurely, you hear?”

My feet carried me forward, the mouthwatering fragrance of cotton candy, buttered popcorn, and candy apple trickling into my system.

She didn’t like it when I ate junk food.

Said Americans were in the habit of eating themselves into type 2 diabetes. She had a lot of ideas about Americans, all of them bordering on xenophobic, and I used to spend half my time arguing the merits of America with her.

Tents that offered live shows, vendors, and a small arcade surrounded the rides, serving as a border. The ding-ding-ding of machines, peppered with the mechanical noises from the rides, reverberated in my empty stomach. The Ferris wheel sitting in the center was bathed in an ocean of lights.

I bought myself pink cotton candy and a Diet Coke and walked around.

There were couples making out, laughing, fighting. Clusters of teenagers yelling and hooting. Parents screaming. Children running. I was irrationally, maddeningly angry with all of them.

For being alive.

For not grieving with me.

For taking for granted the rarity of their precious condition: alive, healthy, and well.

I tossed the remainder of cotton candy into a trash can and looked around, deciding what ride to go on first. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a giant sign.

The Creep Show: A Haunted Mansion Experience.

Haunted mansions were my playground.

I lived in one, after all—my house held the secrets of