Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,60

peek into the fridge to see what we have to eat. It’s slim pickings, most of it with questionable expiration dates. Looks like we might be eating out this morning …

The first coffee finishes and I swing the fridge door shut, but the second I turn to walk away, there’s a knock at the door.

I check the clock on the microwave before deciding to ignore it. It’s probably some place trying to slide pizza menus under the door or some shit.

I switch out the pods and mugs and press the brew button for the next cup.

Only the asshole knocks again.

Louder.

Harder.

“Talon, I know you’re home.” And then he says my name. “Open up. It’s Mark. We need to talk.”

Jaw tight, I force a breath through flared nostrils. If I ignore him, he’s not going to go away … he’s going to let himself in.

He has the master key to every apartment in this entire building because he owns the place.

Exhaling again, I head to the door. I’d rather let him in myself than put Irie through some kind of family drama shit show staring Mark Masterson.

“Yeah?” I answer the door in nothing but a pair of navy sweats, one hand cocked on my hip.

“I called you all weekend,” he says.

“I know. I was out of state.”

Mark pushes his way into the apartment, pacing the small kitchen and glancing around like he’s looking for something.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, scratching at my right temple.

“You haven’t signed the contract yet,” he says.

“I know.”

“It expires this week. The hell kind of stunt are you trying to pull here?” Spittle flies with each syllable and his tan skin turns a shade of cherry almost instantly.

“Tal, I had to use the last clean towel,” Irie’s voice floats from around the corner, and a second later, she appears in the hallway, a white towel wrapped around her taut body, hair dripping wet. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

She scampers off, disappearing into my room and leaving nothing but a wake of thick tension in the air.

“Is that what this is all about?” he asks, sneering.

“No,” I lie.

Kind of.

My reasons are rooted much deeper than Irie, deeper than he could begin to realize, and I’m not in the mood to shoot the shit with my good ol’ stepdad over any of it right now.

“I’m still figuring out a few things,” I say.

“What’s there to figure out, Talon?” Mark throws his hands in the air, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around. “Don’t be a goddamned moron. Don’t throw away everything we’ve worked for over a fucking girl. You know how much tits and ass you’re going to be getting, kid? She’s nothing. One of these days, you probably won’t even remember her name.”

My teeth grit. “Leave.”

“Sign the contract, Talon,” he says. “Or else.”

“Or else what? You’re going to leave my mom?” I scoff. “That might have worked on me when I was a kid, but that was before I knew how ugly and complicated a California divorce can be … especially when it comes to splitting up assets, and especially when one of you has been habitually unfaithful to the other.”

He wrinkles his stout nose. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Dierdre … Cara … Hollie … Becca,” I say. “Want me to keep going? Because I can.”

Mark turns a deeper shade of crimson than before. His thin lips move but nothing comes out.

“That’s what I thought,” I say, walking back to the door and swinging it open. “Like I said, Mark, I’m figuring some shit out and you need to leave. Now.”

He puffs his barrel chest and storms out the door, slamming it so hard behind him it rattles the apartment windows.

I give myself five deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself down, and then I make my way to the bedroom, where Irie is perched on the edge of my bed, fully dressed as she combs through her damp hair.

“What was that all about?” Irie asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just Mark being Mark.”

Chapter 35

Irie

I switch a load of clothes from Aunt Bette’s washer to her dryer Tuesday morning when my phone rings. A strange number flashes across the screen, but the area code is local. I’m tempted to answer it out of sheer curiosity … and I almost don’t …

“Hello?” I catch it on the final ring.

“Irie?” a woman asks.

“This is she …”

“Irie, hi, it’s Camilla,” she says with a chuckle in her voice. “Camilla Masterson. Talon’s mom