Page 26 of For the Love of Layla

I roll my eyes. The amount of alcohol I’ve consumed hitting me all at once as I stand, “I sign your paychecks, you can afford it.”

“Not everyone grew upsoundingwith silver rods, asshole.” He grumbles as I cringe inwardly. That’s a visual I’ll never be able to purge from my mind. That was also the last time I ever let myself into Brandon’s house unannounced. He’s not wrong though. Despite all of their outward appearances, the Remus family never actually had much money. It was all an elaborate front, loans and empty handouts, especially after his dad bailed and fled to Cuba. Leaving his wife and son to drown in debt they didn’t know they had. It was around that time that we met. He was only five and stupid as all fuck, but he was fun to be around and the only friend I ever really had.

It wasn’t until my cunt of a mother mocked his parents’ financial situation in front of him years later that he figured out anything was even wrong. Not that she’s ever done a damn thing to earn money apart from living with the Curran name and spreading her legs for any wealthy man willing to give her a second glance. Our money is old and endless. Grandmother died a few months after I rejected my trust, my namesake.

“You did this! You killed her, you pathetic, vindictive boy.”

I crack my neck, the pop earning me another glare from Brandon as I pour more dark liquid into a globe shaped glass. He spent the first money he earned with Curran Enterprises to bail out his mom. He’s bought her a house and paid for her to live ever since. The idea is so…off putting to me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of killing the woman that birthed me.

It’s been that way since that day. Maybe even before.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Brandon calls as I tip back the glass, finishing my fifth…sixth cup of absinthe. I don’t look back at him as I discard it on my kitchen counter, grabbing my keys.

“I have shit to do.”

“The hell you do, you’re drunk.” He says, removing his headset and jogging to my side.

Maybe. Probably.

The room tilts as I open up the front door, sighing deeply before tossing my keys at him. “Okay then, you drive.”

His eyes widen before narrowing, “I am not helping you stalk your ex.”

She’s not my fucking ex.

I take another deep breath resisting the urge to slam my skull into his. I’ve fought Brandon enough times to know I probably won’t win drunk. He’s a big guy, always has been. His bulk frame was established long before he started spending countless hours in the gym on hisgainsas he calls them.

“You drive or I do.”

He groans, running his bear claw hands down his face, “If we get caught, I am one hundred percent ratting you out.”

“You’re staying in the car.” I mutter as we head towards my detached garage. Arming my security system from my phone. I trust him with my life, but I’d open up his belly with my knife before I’d ever let him inside her home. Let him or anyone else torment her like this. No, this is special between Layla and I. It’s only for us. Does she know that?

She took out the cameras. She could be doing anything. With anyone.

My heart starts to race as a sick feeling spills into my gut, mixing with the alcohol in a way that makes my stomach twist and flip on itself. I blink my eyes as the fluorescent lights flicker on, making me squint.

Those contacts are going to be a bitch tonight.

“What the fuck is that?” Brandon asks, gawking at the old beater car with its rusted paint nestled between my street bike and Audi. I don’t have time to respond before he hits unlock, making the rust bucket come to life. Its ripped cloth seats smell like a wet cigarette. He makes a repulsed face as we get in, making me chuckle despite myself, “What happened to that humble attitude of yours?”

“Does the stereo work at least?” He asks as I grab my hoodie and mask from the backseat. Removing the brown contacts from the center console. I lean up, pressing the power button asI Don’t Like Change by Roarfills the scratchy half blown speakers of the car.

I Can’t Handle Change by Roar

Layla

My heart leaps from my chest as I jolt awake in bed, the sound of the hundred and fifty decibel siren blaring throughout the house. I don’t think when I scramble from the covers gripping the gun I now keep on my bedside table tightly in my hands.

Smash!

A scream leaves my throat as a loud crash from downstairs competes with the siren for the loudest thing in the house. Creeping out of my bedroom slowly, fighting the urge to cup my hands over my ears, but they stay gripping the gun as they shake.

Too fucking loud.

Smash!

“Peaches!” I yell, running down the stairs when she doesn’t come. I know I’m supposed to stay hidden until the police get here. I want to, but I don't.

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