Page 109 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

“Wow, hello to you too, Uncle Marcus. It’s been years. I’ve been good, thank you for asking,” I say sarcastically, trying to stomp down my anger.

“Get your ass over here and bring $10,000. Cash.” He hangs up right after.

An overwhelming wave of anger and outrage sweeps over me.

How fucking dare he?

I’m fucking Briar Reyes, damn it! I shouldn’t let him talk to me like that, as if I’m going to drop what I’m doing and happily give him money.

I should call Mr. Rogers again, but I don’t want to bug him. I’m a grown-ass adult now. I should be dealing with my own mess.

I got this.

*-*-*-*

Okay, well, my fantastic idea to storm into my uncle's place and demand some basic respect may have panned out differently than I hoped.

Did I burst into the house, guns blazing with fury, demanding they leave me the hell alone?

I tried.

Seriously, I did.

But I was bitched slapped by my Uncle when he realized I didn’t bring the money. Now, usually, if some random asshole did that to me, I would have gauged their eyeballs out with my beautifully manicured nails or bedazzled pink knife.

Fuck, one time when Nat came home crying because some asshole taped her when she lost her virginity to him and threatened to post it on the internet, I went berserk. No, I didn’t kill the guy. Mr. Rogers forbade it, deeming it too merciful. So, I had to get creative.

Where is the asshole now? Last I heard, he’s still locked up in some facility, where he has to be monitored because he keeps babbling about some crazy lady with a tiny knife.

It was me. I was the crazy lady.

But this is my uncle.

As much as I hate him… I could never bring myself to hurt him. I don’t know why; he’s not my family anymore. He never watched over me the way Mr. Rogers did, and his late wife never cared for me like Mr. Rogers does.

It’s because you know you deserve all those beatings.

He blames you for the fire that killed your parents.

The fire was an accident.

It was your accident.

“I just asked you for one favor, and you can’t even do that.” My uncle snaps, interrupting my thoughts.

I raise a brow, “Asking for $10K in cash is not just a favor.”

The painful sting seeps in when my head snaps to the side. I taste saliva and blood forming in my mouth, so I turn to face him and spit on the floor defiantly.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him. “Why the hell should I give you any money? Shall I call Drake Rogers so you can speak to him for the money?”

My uncle pales for a second before he masks his fear with anger. “That man has nothing to do with this.”

“True,” I shrug, a hint of sarcasm lacing my tone. “But it’s not my fault you blew through half a million dollars in the blink of an eye. And now you're asking for more just because you're getting kicked out of your house?” I let out a mocking laugh.

I wrinkle my nose when I breathe in—the place reeks of alcohol and drugs.

The fucking audacity of him.

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