that practice and I’ll likely be up late tonight.
“Connor,” Dad acknowledges as he strolls past me, pausing to check his reflection in the microwave. “How was practice? The team shaping up to have a good year?”
I grunt in response, narrowing my eyes when I pick up a whiff of his cologne. It’s not his usual, this one something heavier on the musky notes. My grip tightens on the can in my hand and I blow out a sharp breath, eyeing him up and down.
Dad’s salt and pepper hair is slicked back and he has on a new tie, which he straightens in the murky reflection. I roll my eyes and turn my back on his stupid primping. If he’s given up, he doesn’t need to make it so fucking obvious.
A faint giggle drifts from the second floor hall, followed by a deep murmur.
My brows pinch together and I drag a hand through my hair, digging blunt nails into my scalp.
This family is such a fucked up nightmare.
Then again, who am I to judge my father when Mom does nothing to hide what she’s doing either?
A year and a half of this shit and it still feels like the first time I walked in and found her on the kitchen counter with her campaign manager’s pale ass pumping between her legs. My stomach rolls at the memory, the traumatic image permanently burned into my brain. At least back then she kept it a discreet secret. Now Damien eats dinner with us and spends almost every night in my mother’s bed. Everyone on the block waves at our dear family friend when he comes around.
It makes me sick.
“Going to bed. Have a good night, Dad.”
“Oh, Connor, don’t forget.” Dad gestures toward Mom’s insane anal retentive calendar on the wall. Well, her personal assistant is the micro manager, I suppose, but Mom’s no better. She trains her people well, and the rest of the world falls in line or faces the wrath of a socialite who fancies herself a self-made political woman. Dad peers over his shoulder. “Appointment tomorrow. Meet me in my office. I have a morning budget meeting with the school board, but I’ll still be able to take you.”
My lip curls. I cover it with a deep gulp of soda.
“Never forget.” With a tight smile, I wave my phone, where the calendar reminder Mom’s assistant programmed will go off soon. “Night.”
I don’t hang around for an answer before going up to my room and slamming the door behind me.
My athletic bag gets tossed in the corner as I cross over to my desk by the window, booting up my computer. I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt.
The quiet hum of my custom built tower and the glow of my double monitors sets my mind at ease. Soccer is fun to obsess over and keeps me in killer shape, but this right here is my real ticket to leaving my parents before they can leave me in the dust like they seem hell-bent on achieving this year once Mom’s re-election campaign is over.
They’re throwing everything about our family away, including me.
Fuck ‘em. I don’t need them if they don’t want me. The trust fund granddad set up for me isn’t accessible until I turn twenty-one, so I have an insurance plan in the meantime.
I won’t rely on anyone. The only person I can trust to look out for number one is myself.
While the computer powers through the loading sequence at top speeds, I set my Coke down, open the desk drawer to retrieve my stash, then drop into the high-back orange and black gamer chair. The wooden box has a design on the lid of a trippy night sky burned into the grain that I thought was sick as hell when I was fifteen and a bit of a dweeb. Now I think it’s kind of lame. Whatever, it keeps my bud dank.
Mom got all pissy when she found my old stash jar. We live an hour from Denver for fuck’s sake, yet she still has a stick up her ass about smoking as if she wasn’t sneaking into granddad’s conservatory to get away from boring society parties doing the same thing when she was my age. I found her stale leftovers out there when I was exploring the estate during brunch years ago. I know what’s up.
Smirking, I hold up a rolled joint. “Hello, beautiful.”
The first puff after lighting up has me relaxing back in the chair, hooking an arm