Page 190 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I make it to the side of their French Colonial a minute later, and climb up the trellises with ease. I’ve been doing this for years, so most of it’s muscle memory. My actual muscles help, of course. Football’s great for building bulk…and getting a practically absent father to pay attention once in a while when I make the Lavish Times cover story every now and then.

Marcus’s bedroom window is open. I slip inside, whipping away the lace curtain that drapes my face, and stop to give my eyes time to adjust to the dark.

“Where you at?” My voice is deep and low. If his father’s still around, the last thing I want is to let him know I’ve broken in again. If it wasn’t for the fact that our fathers were friends, he’d have given me a beating too.

Still have to figure out why the fuck my father thinks Mr. Brandon Baker is the kind of person he wants to spend his time with. Honestly, I think he just feels sorry for the guy. Fuck knows it’s got nothing to do with Baker’s personality; Marcus’s father has a mean streak the size of the Mississippi River. I think they may have been friends when they were younger, but Dad’s never really spoken to me about it.

Especially after Mom’s accident.

“Over here.”

My heart sinks at the sound of Marcus’s thick, rough voice. I hurry over to the bed, perching on the edge and reaching for the shape I can now make out.

When I touch his shoulder, he flinches away from my touch.

“Old man still here?” I whisper.

“No. Got picked up a few minutes ago.”

I let out a long breath and work my shoulders while I wait for Marcus to gather himself.

Sometimes it takes minutes. Sometimes days. It all depends on how empty the whiskey bottle was before Marcus’s father came to find him.

“You said you’d get out the next time he was here.”

I know I shouldn’t be blaming Marcus for any of this, but if he could have avoided another?—

“I was asleep,” Marcus croaks. “Smoked too much, knocked me out.”

“Shit,” I mutter, and rake my fingers through my hair. “Is it bad? Do you need ice or something?”

“I need a fucking drink.” Marcus shifts, pauses, pushes up into a sit. His head is low, chin to his chest, as if it’s too heavy to keep up. “Bring me a bottle.”

“Marcus—”

“Please.” This time, he pushes the words through his teeth.

“All right, man. All right.” I stand and leave his room, closing the door partway behind me. I move quickly, but I’m not fast enough. I hear Marcus let out a tortured sob, and my jaw clenches so tight, the scratch on my cheek starts to throb. I finger it gently as I make for the stairs, grimacing at myself.

Can’t believe that little stray cut me.

I jog downstairs and head into the mansion’s large den. This room always reeks of cigarettes and whiskey, but it’s a stench I’ve gotten used to over the years.

There’s a laptop on the desk, but it’s closed. An empty crystal tumbler, an ashtray with a few cigarette butts inside. Evidence of Marcus’s father being home.

But for how long?

Just like my dad, Marcus’s father is away from home more often than not. You’d think he’d be happy to see his son, but all he does when he’s in Lavish is drink, beat up Marcus, and then go out on ‘business meetings’ until the small hours of the morning.

There’s a wet bar against one wall. I grab the bottle of vodka from it, not bothering with glasses.

I linger for a few seconds, mentally preparing myself to go upstairs, and giving Marcus enough time to pull himself together.

When I get back to him, he’s standing by the window, staring out at his garden as he leans against the wall. I hand him the vodka and he takes it silently by the neck.

His Adam’s apple slides up and down as he gulps vodka straight from the bottle. I can’t see a single bruise on him, but that’s one of his father’s specialties—he never leaves a mark that his kid can’t cover with his school clothes.

“Break anything this time?” I ask.

---