Page 75 of Angel Eyes

Twenty-Six

Cristian

My stepfather was a mean son of a bitch. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in years, but I doubted he had changed much.

These days, whenever I spoke to my mother, more often than not, I ended up cutting our conversation short before she could bring him up. She was always slipping in details about him—about how he was doing well with his sobriety, how he’d held down a job beyond the probation period, how he was being diligent with his anger management counseling. It turned my stomach to hear her optimism, as if she actually believed he was capable of being a decent human being. I knew better. The only reason he was doing any of those things was because I had threatened to put a bullet in his head if he ever got violent with her again. That pleasant little interlude had taken place years ago.

It seemed like he had gotten the message.

Before then, I hadn’t been able to look him in the eye—the man who had done nothing but make my childhood a living hell until my mother sent me to live with Marcel. Sending me away was the best thing she could have done for me, even though I still harbored lingering resentment over the fact she had put me out rather than that asshole. But for whatever reason, she needed him, and I was no one to judge.

We all had our demons.

For most of my childhood, my stepfather had been that for me—a loathsome entity I had to face on a daily basis. The bastard never missed an opportunity to tell me I was worthless or unleash his bottled-up rage on me, as if I was the reason his life was a train wreck. When I got older, I learned to avoid him altogether, slipping out of the house before he stirred from his drunken slumber and staying out until well after dark. I figured if he wanted to beat the shit out of me, he would have to catch me first. Needless to say, he was a terrible parent.

But then there was that one percent of the time, that random day out of a hundred when he was sober enough to do something halfway decent like take me to the park. He never pushed me on the swings or anything, but he would sit on the bench and smoke a cigarette while I played. It was during one of those rare occasions when he taught me the only lesson he had to offer—Own your shit. It was beyond hypocritical coming from a man who would rather drown himself at the bottom of a bottle, but that didn’t make it any less valuable.

I’ll never forget the day he said it to me. We were at the park, and I was being reckless on the swings, pumping my legs as hard as I could, preparing to launch myself into the air and stick the landing like I was an Olympic gold medalist. Except I didn’t stick the landing. I lost control of the swing and flew several meters before collapsing on the ground like a ton of bricks.

I had howled like an animal, more out of shock than actual pain. But before the tears even hit my cheeks, my stepfather hoisted me up by my collar, clapping me hard on the back, which I supposed was his version of a hug.

“You don’t get to cry, you hear me?” He knelt in front of me, placing his hands on my shoulders as tears burned the back of my eyes. “You made a stupid choice and now you’re paying the price. So, you have two options—you can either stay on the ground, or you can get back up and own your shit.”

So here I was, standing outside the literature department on AUP’s campus, preparing to do that very thing—to own my shit.

I glanced at my watch as students filtered in and out of the building. Had I gotten the time wrong? I was pretty certain Juliet’s class should have ended at least half an hour ago, assuming the online course schedule was correct. But I still hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of her.

Speaking of owning my shit, what the hell had I been thinking the other night?

I’d never meant to call her a coward, never meant to say half of the things I said to her. But it was like she circumvented my defenses, making me reveal things I’d never told anyone. And what was that bit about it was nice to be needed? God, I wished I hadn’t told her that. Not that keeping it to myself would have made it any less true. It had felt good getting that call from her, knowing she had chosen me to help her instead of Gabriel.

If only I hadn’t lost my temper.

Little did she know, her words about not being anyone’s replacement had been a balm on an old wound. But then I lashed out when she started talking about honesty, accusing her of being a hypocrite. In truth, I was just uncomfortable confronting my own insecurities.

Then, to make matters worse, I’d gone and pushed the envelope, thinking I could turn her words around on her and get her to open up about Gabriel. Except, the second I leaned into her space to disarm her, the reverse happened. It was like I had blacked out and suddenly all I knew were wide green eyes and the scent of lavender. Then she went and touched me, and I totally lost the plot. Goddamn right, I thought about kissing her. She was just hovering there, tempting me with those rosy lips, breathing hard and shuddering, and I was only a red-blooded male after all.

So sue me.

I dragged a hand over my face, checking my watch again. What’s done is done. I needed to focus on damage control now. If I was going to make sure everything went according to plan, I had to mend fences with this girl.

Just as soon as I could find her.

The door swung open, and I searched for a hint of brown-gold hair and freckles. Instead, my gaze latched on to that guy who had been at Galeries with Juliet and Simone. What was his name again? Calvin? Cedric? I was pretty sure it was C-something.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I sauntered over to him, tipping my head in greeting. His eyes narrowed when he saw me. Evidently, he wasn’t my biggest fan. Not that I could blame him after the way his girlfriend had been checking me out the other night.

“Hey,” he said. “Cristian, right?”

“Yeah. Good to see you again.” He gave me a look that said the feeling wasn’t mutual. I pressed on anyway. “Would you happen to know where I might find Juliet?”

He frowned, his brows drawing together. “Don’t you have her number?”

“Left my phone at the office, I’m afraid.” I swear, if Caleb Martin calls me before I get what I need from this guy, I’ll gut him like a fish. “By the way, Juliet appreciated you helping her out the other night. She was telling me what a great guy you are and how lucky her friend is to have you.”

He gave me a skeptical look, like he was deciding whether he was in the mood to be helpful. Finally, he sighed. “She’s upstairs in Professor Benoit’s office. But she’s working, so—”

“Thanks, man.” I clapped him on the shoulder, leaving him to gape after me, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout.

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