Page 38 of Brutal Prince

Guess it doesn’t matter.

They’re both gone.

But their deaths taught me the most important lesson of all.

Love is for masochistic fucks who enjoy the feeling of having their heart ripped out.

Right now, I’m free. I love no one, and I never will again. All that shit about it’s better to have loved and lost?

I’ve done both. And in my mind, love’s just not worth the fucking pain.

* * *

Briar

“So when yougonna grow a pair of balls and tell your Dad to fuck off?” I say. Well, slur is probably a better word. We’ve almost finished the bottle of rum; the tequila suffered severe collateral damage.

We gave up playing pool and went to go watch a rerun of the weekend’s game. The plan was to figure out a strategy and suggest it to the coach for our game this weekend.

But as soon as our friendly debate began heading toward a screaming match, we decided to finally order a pizza and wait for it to be delivered on the front lawn.

That was ten minutes ago. Pizza takes a while to reach us out here in the rich part of town — sometimes up to thirty minutes. But we slump in a set of garden chairs and watch the moon rise while we wait, passing the last bit of rum from hand to hand.

Marcus snorts at my statement, and taps out a cigarette from a brushed steel case. We both stopped smoking a while ago, but on nights when liquor seemingly flows from the fountain of eternal fucking youth, nothing beats a cancer stick. He lights it, tugs at it, and passes it to me before replying.

“You make it sound so fucking easy.”

“It is. You say, Dad…fuck off.”

He laughs. “Yeah, and then he’ll tell me to fuck off.”

“And? Then you fuck off. Just make sure you got some money, and you’re good to go.”

“Yeah, money. You forget, my dad’s a stingy fucking bastard.”

I let out a massive sigh. “Jesus, then you save up. You get a fucking job. Or you could stay there and eat up his shit for the rest of your life.” I wave a hand. “Your fucking choice.”

“So I get enough money to make a move. Where would I go?” Marcus asks, but his voice softens as if he’s actually really considering this shit. I’m fucking glad — it’s only taken what, ten years to get my point across? I get that despite how flush his dad is, Marcus hardly has any walking around money on him. But if I were him, I’d have gotten a job a long time ago.

Where would he go?

“Here.” I sweep a hand out behind me and take a drag of the smoke. “I got a couch in the living room that’s got your name written all over it.”

Marcus laughs again, trading rum for the cigarette. “Sure your dad will just love that,” he mutters.

“He probably wouldn’t even notice. I bet you could stay here for months, and he’d just think it was pure fucking coincidence that you’re here every time he bothers to swing by and pick up fresh clothes.”

“He still working so much?”

I press my lips closed. I don’t whine about my personal life, because what kid my age wouldn’t kill to be where I am? I’m one weekday-visit away from being an orphan. “I get the whole house to myself.”

“He working on a new project or something?”

I shrug. “Probably. If I see him again this year, I’ll let you know.”

Marcus shakes his head as he laughs, and we trade again. “Might as well finish it, bro,” he says.

There’s about three fingers left, but I shrug and down it anyway. Not as if I’m driving home, and no girls around for me to assault.

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