Make My Move (Hannaford Prep #5) - J. Bree Page 0,59
in my business. If you can’t pull your fucking head in then I’m cutting you off. Say goodbye to every last luxury in your life; I’m done bankrolling your deviant lifestyle.”
That doesn’t faze me at all really. He only pays for my phone on the regular, and Ash will get me a new one the second my dad cuts it off. It’s more the idea of him cutting me off that stings.
I should really tell that to Annabelle to get her to leave me the fuck alone.
“I suppose we should be grateful it’s not that Beaumont boy with you; I suppose you have those photos locked down tightly.”
Of course.
Because I couldn’t possibly offer Ash or Harley or Avery anything but my fucking body in my father’s eyes. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him that I’m straight, I must be a fucking defect in his bigoted eyes.
“If I find out you’ve shown those letters to anyone else, boy, I will ruin you. I’m already trying to get rid of you, the succession plan has changed, but if you try this shit again to drag me to hell with you, I will ruin you.”
Finally he gets sick of listening to his own goddamn voice and hangs up.
I throw my phone at the wall.
If he’s going to cut it off anyway, why the fuck not?
“Well, that’ll shut him up,” Ash drawls, opening the bottle of water and pressing it into my hand.
It won’t though.
Nothing ever shuts him up.
I drink myself into an oblivion all day Thursday.
Lips doesn’t drink with me—annoying as hell because a drunken hookup is exactly what I need to get me through this—but she skips classes to babysit me. Only, it doesn’t really feel like the usual suicide watch that I’m put on when I’m in the hole.
She wakes up before I do, and she makes me French toast for breakfast. I don’t want to eat, because it’ll take me longer to get wasted later, but the syrup and rainbow sprinkles are so fucking out of place that I find myself taking the plate from her and digging in. They’re delicious and in the quiet of the morning room, I find myself calm for the first time in what feels like weeks.
Doesn’t stop me from chugging back the drinks all day.
She studies and cleans, folds laundry, scrubs at a pair of her Docs, paints her toenails, reads a book… she does everything possible in this tiny fucking room while she watches me slam back drink after drink.
I can’t remember passing out, but I wake up Friday morning lying in the rollout bed with my head over one side, heaving into a bucket while Avery mumbles curses and threats at me as she wipes down my sweaty brow.
When I stumble out of the shower later, the alcohol is gone, disappeared, poof into thin air.
I’m like a fucking crackhead chasing a hit, and this is not the bullshit I signed up for. When I finally find the stash, Lips narcs on me to Arbour and the fucking traitor comes running for his little love, taking all of the booze with a smirk my way.
I think about killing them both.
By Saturday, I’m climbing the fucking walls and even Lips is sick of listening to me rage about sobriety. It doesn’t make her give in though, fuck my actual life. Her answer is always fucking coffee.
“Fuck coffee, haven’t you ever heard of the hair of the dog? I need tequila.”
But still she doesn’t break.
I refuse to admit that the only reason any of this is fun for me is that I get to be here with her, messing with her and watching her rein herself in. She always holds back around me, and I find myself poking and prodding at her more and more just to see if she’ll snap.
It backfires on me when the others get home to see it.
Ash smirks when he sees the look on Lips’ face, joy oozing out of him at the thought of me pissing her off. It gets my hackles up, like me pissing her off is fine but him enjoying it takes shit too far.
I’m completely fucked in the head.
“How is suicide watch going? Have you hidden the bed sheets from him yet? Why are you still using real forks? You should switch out to plastic until he’s come down from the ledge.”
Harley walks in with arms full of my shit, including a guitar so at least I’ll have something worth doing tomorrow.