Page 5 of Explosive Prejudice

With his hands clasped behind his back, Orson looked to the floor. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Taking a deep breath, my father got up and crossed the short distance until he was face-to-face with him. “I don’t recall asking for an apology. I asked a simple question. Did you speak to him?” The tension in the room rose, and anxiety filled my insides. I was afraid because if Orson told my dad the truth, it would be the end of me, too.

Clenching his jaw, Orson looked anywhere but at my father. “I only said that you were waiting to eat breakfast with him. That’s all.”

“So you’ve been to his room?”

“Only for a minute,” he lied, and the silence following his words told me my father knew it. Looking at me over his shoulder, my dad waited for me to either deny or admit his suspicions.

“It’s true,” I said without hesitating. “He just told me you were waiting. I was angry because I didn’t appreciate him coming into my room uninvited. But nothing happened, Dad.” His penetrating stare hardened as his cold eyes pierced into my soul, and my body froze from the inside as it did so many times before. Whenever he looked at me that way, I was reminded of how powerless I was. But, to my father’s sorrow, or pride, he’d raised an excellent liar. So much so that not even he could spot my lies.

With his hands shoved in his pockets, he looked back at Orson. “Make sure it never happens again.” He didn’t need to say anything else; the threat his words carried was enough for Orson to get the message.

“Very well, sir,” Orson said and turned to walk out of the room, making sure not to look in my direction.

Shay-Lee

Lying in my expensive bed gave me anything but comfort. It was too big, making me feel too small when that wasn’t even the case. I was tall and, thanks to football and regular gym sessions, full of muscle. One of the reasons I chose such an intense sport was because I thought it would make me feel strong. Powerful. And I did feel strong everywhere but where it mattered. Here I was, eighteen years old, still afraid of the dark. Why? Because whenever I shut my eyes, it was his hands I felt on my body, his breath on the back of my neck, and his lips threatening me to keep quiet or I’d regret it.

So even though I was finally home, with an ocean separating me from him, it still didn’t help me feel any safer. After a week of having him touch me, hurt me, and mock me afterward, I knew that sleeping wasn’t about to happen tonight.

Looking to my left, I saw the orange plastic container filled with magic pills that often made it possible for me to sleep. Without them, I’d wake up screaming from nightmares. The thing was that ever since I gave my ex-best friend, Miles, the same pills in the hope that they’d help him the way they did for me, I couldn’t take them without being eaten up by guilt. Whenever I reached to take one, the image of him spread out on his bedroom floor, overdosed on those same pills, forced me to throw them away. Even though Miles was doing better now, no thanks to me, it still didn’t make a difference. I’d forever be the one responsible for what almost happened to him.

For a few weeks, the one that helped me sleep was Jordan. Exhausted after sex and wrapped in his arms, which had held on to me so desperately, I was able to shut off my brain long enough for me to doze off. But I ended up hurting him, too. Now, I was filled with guilt not only over Miles but over Jordan, too. For pulling him into the gutter called my life, just so I could leave him to drown by himself.

Getting up from my bed, I tried to think of things to do to pass the time until morning or until I’d be too exhausted to dream. Since I’d already hit the gym straight from the airport, I didn’t feel like working out, and I wasn’t hungry, so I ruled out eating. I used to hang out with the guys from the team, but that was the last thing I wanted.

After all the shit that went down with the Kingston twins, I took a step back from the rest of our team. Not only that, but the twins’ arrest had also affected the others. Apart from Ty, who’d helped me in his own idiotic way, the boys on the football team had no idea I was the one responsible for having the twins arrested. Scared the LAPD was targeting them next for whatever illegal shit they were pulling, and trust me when I say they did tons, our team kept a low profile. Besides, it wasn’t like I enjoyed being with those assholes in the first place. They were a bunch of shallow idiots, and the only reason I ever spent time with them was to keep up with my King of the School reputation. I didn’t give a flying fuck about that title, but it came in handy when I needed people to do shit I didn’t want to do myself. I also enjoyed the feeling of control. Out there, I made people fear me. I made people respect me. While here—here, I was nothing.

But it wasn’t always like that. Until this year, I still had Miles. He used to be where I went whenever I needed comfort. With his warm home, loving family, and a life I wished for myself, he was my escape. Because of our closeness, I had convinced myself I was in love with him. But I hadn’t been. Not really. After he ended things between us, I realized I didn’t mourn the loss of our friendship but the loss of my sanctuary.

By the time I eliminated working out, eating, or meeting friends from the list, I was only left with one option.

Getting fucked-up.

My bedroom had two floors, and the second one was basically a closet with enough space to get lost in, along with my studio. Sometimes I enjoyed sewing and making my own clothes. Take away football and messing with other people’s lives, and you could say fashion was a hobby.

As I climbed the black metal stairs, I wondered if getting high was a smart choice since it was a school day tomorrow, but as I reached the second floor, I thought, fuck it. Playing a normal high schooler was becoming pathetic anyway.

In the middle of the space stood a black marble island with several drawers. Each held different items, from thousand-dollar watches Dad had gotten me to cufflinks, jewels, and whatnot. My father wasn’t frugal when it came to me. In order to keep me by his side, he made sure I could buy anything I wanted. As sad as it was to admit, it worked. Without my dad’s money, there was no way for me to survive in this world. I knew that, my father knew that, and so did Orson, who loved calling me a whore for that exact reason.

With a slight tap on a touch screen, the first drawer opened, and I pulled out the glass box that held my drugs. Another rich kid sniffing coke to get his mind off of his sad, empty life. What a fucking cliché.

I didn’t bother hiding my drugs. My dad knew I was running lines on a weekly basis, and he didn’t care. Fuck that. He was my fucking dealer. Well, not him directly, but Orson was, who ensured I was wiped out whenever it suited their schedule. They also made sure I used high-quality stuff because God forbid I used the cheap crap.

After spreading the white powder on the marble surface, all I needed was a card to cut the lines, so I reached for my pants pocket. Grabbing my wallet, I took out one of my credit cards, but as I did, I pulled another card by mistake. The thin metal card immediately caught my attention, with its matte finish and the name The Venetian debossed with golden letters.

Forgetting about the coke, I grabbed the fancy card and flipped it over. On the back side, written in glossy black letters, was an address.

Suddenly, I had new plans for the night.

Shay-Lee

Stepping out of my Bugatti, I handed the keys to the valet while checking out the entrance to the four-story building. Compared to many other private clubs I’d been to, this was no different, at least not from the outside. My dad was a member of a few clubs, and sometimes I joined him. Even though he had no plans for me to ever take over his dynasty, he still loved bringing me along, claiming it was a nice way of introducing me into the business world. But the Venetian wasn’t a place for business. No, this was a place to get lost.

Yet, there were a few noticeable differences from the other places I’d been to, like the number of armed guards that stood outside the front doors, and that they all wore black masquerade masks with matching all-black suits.

One of them stopped me at the entrance, and while annoying, he was only doing his job. Without wasting time, I pulled out the metal card and handed it to the man. I’d thought he’d clear the way for me to enter, but he was examining me as much as the card.

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