Never His Girl (Kings of Cypress Prep #2) - Rachel Jonas Page 0,51

the floor, because what the hell else would he do on Thanksgiving. But not only has this asshole pissed himself, he’s definitely shit himself, too.

Happy Thanksgiving to me.

“Damn it, Mike! Get up!” I yell, trying to lift his worthless ass.

It takes a few tries and Scarlett’s help, but we finally manage to hoist him from the soggy stain he made on the carpet. Smelling like an entire distillery, and a public port-o-potty, he groans. Now that he’s off the ground and mobile, the smell is suddenly stronger.

“What do we do with him?” Scar rushes to ask, pulling her shirt over her face to shield her nose.

“Take him to his room. He can rot in there for all I care.”

The odor hits me hard and fast and I have to stop in the hallway, gagging twice. I’ll be so pissed if this bastard makes me barf up dinner.

When I regain my composure, I nod to Scar and we start again. The second we get him over the threshold of his bedroom, we drop him on the floor. I don’t even pause to see if he’s okay before rushing to close the door behind us. Now, he’s trapped in there with his stench.

Scar and I are out of breath from carrying his dead weight through the house, and as we share a look, there’s a mutual sense of this being a new low. Even for our family.

I fall against the wall, trying to keep calm. Trying to accept that this is my life.

“Fill a bucket with hot water—as hot as you can get it,” I instruct her. “Dump in whatever cleaner you can find. Then, gather every rag in the house.”

I’m so pissed, my vision’s going dark. I haven’t wanted to kill Mike this badly in a while, and there’s no promise I won’t return to his room at some point tonight to do just that. Especially after I finish scrubbing his piss from the carpet.

“I’ll help.”

“No.”

Scar turns when I say that a bit more harshly than I mean to. But she’s sweet and thoughtful and, God help me, I’m trying to keep bitterness as far from her as possible. That’s where this life we live will lead her if I’m not vigilant, and shielding her gets harder every day. But, believe me, I won’t stop trying.

“I can handle it,” I say a little softer.

She scans me with sadness in her eyes and I turn to walk toward my room. I have to. Otherwise, she’d see I’m upset, crying furious tears as I head in to change into clothes I don’t mind ruining.

At what point will life stop shitting on me? I mean, really? Today, hanging with Scar, Jules, and her family, I actually felt normal for a while. No worrying. Nothing to stress about. It was just a quiet, peaceful Thanksgiving dinner with a stable family—something I’ve never had.

Then, I get home, and it all comes crashing down.

Reality.

I storm down the hall in sweats and a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. I should’ve gotten rid of it months ago, but it’s coming in handy now. Angry, I yank my hair into a ponytail. On my way past Mike’s door, I toss up both middle fingers as if he can see me, and then stand in the entryway to the living room.

The bucket and rags I requested are all there, and even a bandana Scar’s stuck a sticky note to that says: ‘For your nose’. I tie it beneath my hair and start scrubbing.

I’m numb. Too tired of all the shit I deal with to even feel anymore. If I do let the emotions in, I’ll fall apart and turn into someone I hate. Someone everyone hates. Someone no one can reach.

Ever.

So, I just scrub in silence, occasionally swiping tears with my shoulders. I’ve changed the water three times and the smell is finally leaving. My fingers are raw, my knees ache, but it’s clean.

Exhausted, I carry the last bucket of water to the laundry room and dump it into the wash tub, hearing commotion behind me just as I finish. The second I make it back to the kitchen, I spot Scar racing out with my phone in hand, working quickly to unlock the screen.

“Hold it! What’re you doing?”

She looks like a deer caught in headlights, bouncing a look between me and the phone, knowing she’s been caught red-handed.

“I… There’s just… I thought…”

“Hand it over.”

When I turn my palm up, expecting her to do as she’s just been told,