Page 3 of Something So Strong

Shuffling to the shed, I link an empty paint can over my arm and hobble back.

My room light is on and the once closed door is now open.

Mom must have heard me and this is her way of saying I’m glad you’re home, but I don’t want to know why you’re sneaking in.

Barely non-existent and never spoken is my mother’s love. She cooks and cleans and hopes it’s enough. Her life is spent on eggshells, but it’s my opinions, thoughts, and feelings she’s meant to care about. Not his. But I know, I’ve always known—ever since my father backhanded me at five when I couldn’t catch his drunken spiral pass and Mom didn’t do a goddamn thing about it—that if I was going to be saved, I’d have to do it myself.

9 Years later

Vistas' Alpine Resort

Alberta, CANADA

Cliché, cliché, cliché!

One word shouldn’t be able to so easily sum up a person, but for me, it does. Given, I wouldn’t call my life boring, but it has thus far played out like a second-rate straight-to-streaming film that left the producers wondering what went wrong. You know, the kind penned by an American who believes they understand the culture and customs of their middle-class cousins from across the pond. But all they scripted is a trite caricature of a frat-boy in a prep school uniform, and all the supporting characters are way more interesting than the intended lead?

I know, I know, woe is me. How hard it must have been to be born into a life of privilege with a literal silver spoon in my mouth. But I swear, if the words Posh Twat were together in the dictionary, there would be a picture of me and the definition would be scathing:

Jesse Kendrick, 24.

His superior intelligence and good looks have ensured he excels far beyond the lofty birthright his surname afforded him. Whether it be his academic achievements or talking the pants off any female he sets his sights on, young Jesse makes sure not to ruffle any feathers. You’re never left wanting more because you scarcely recall him being there in the first place.

The irony is so palpable I can taste it. A self-deprecating bellend with a whining inner monologue.

Bet you wish you’d skipped my book altogether, and I wouldn’t blame you. Not because I’m lackluster—I’m actually a fucking riot—but out of pure predictability. I’m not a bad boy, I haven’t sworn off women, my heart isn’t damaged nor is it made of gold. I’m simply a round peg in a round hole, and for the consumer, that means no jeopardy.

Shit, the fact I’m standing in this freezing hallway is the most out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. It wasn’t the plan to take a gap year before completing my Masters, but I couldn’t exactly let Saxon and Romeo down, either. Though, it is quite funny to consider traveling halfway around the world as the lesser of two evils.

Speaking of my rat bastard of a best friend, Saxon, he’s once more letting his mouth run before his brain has time to catch up.

Thirty-eight hours; that’s how long it’s been since my body has experienced the sweet solitude of sleep. Three flights, two continents, one entry to the mile-high club later, and I’m a comatose shell of a man barely hanging onto cognizance, yet, in usual Saxon fashion, he is making things impossible for me by proxy. I know he’s just as depleted as I am—minus the sex at thirty-thousand feet part—but the prospect of getting under someone’s skin has given him an unbearable second wind.

Barely able to keep myself upright, I lean forward on the wall and rest my cheek against it. I swear the window at the end of the hall was closer before I blinked my eyes because now it feels like it’s running away from me—the corridor stretching like in a horror movie. The only thing missing is the ominous staccato of suspenseful music and the Devil’s spawn peddling around on a tricycle.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I rock my forehead back and forth against the cold brickwork, and though initially setting out to smirk, I end up spluttering and laughing at my sleep-drunken misfortune.

“What are you so happy about?” Romeo drones, slumping against the wall beside me. His head falls backwards against it as his arms hang limply by his sides. A sharp nasal exhale quickly followed up by a moan of disdain is my response, and he knows what it means; the groan that spoke a thousand words. “Do you think he’s trying it on?”

“Do you think he stands a chance?” I smirk. Successfully this time.

“True, but he is a glutton for punishment. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to fuck the boss on the first night.”

“Even though it was hate at first sight?”

“A good hate fuck can be fun.”

Opening my mouth to say something utterly hilarious, Saxon’s tone steals my moment as it wafts out from his room and into the hallway to join us. “Is there anything else you require of me, sweetheart, or am I right to take a shower? I mean, you’re more than welcome to join me, but the lads might get a little bored while they wait.”

This prick is starting to try my patience now.

Pushing off the wall, I step towards his room, but Romeo stops me with a hand against my chest. “It’s not worth it. You know going in there will only make this take longer.”

Alas, my handsome friend is correct, for that is Saxon Suzuki in a nutshell. All explosion and impulse with no regard for the consequences. He is a crazed bull and our lives are the china shop. Unless we want to clean up the aftermath of his carnage, sometimes it’s just better to leave him well enough alone.

“Is a little tact too much to ask?” I gripe, retracing my steps and leaning back against the wall.

“Do I need to get the mirror, Mr Kettle? Taunting him is your favorite pastime.”

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