Page 14 of Hate Game

Then why does my heart ache for him?

6

MALICE

I’m pacing inside my place when there is a knock on the door. Pissed that it could be Rue coming to shove another mistake in my face, I yank the door open. It’s the sheriff.

“Malice.”

“Sheriff Hanson.”

“Do you mind answering a few questions, son?”

Why would I mind? I’m not guilty of anything other than moving the party to my parents’ house. I stand off to the side and gesture for him to come in. I offer Sheriff Hanson a drink.

“Thanks, but I’ll take a pass, being on duty and all.”

Did he think I was offering him booze? Jesus H. Christ, what kind of dumb fuck does he think I am?

We sit at the kitchen table. I’m silent and antsy. He’s quiet and contemplative. The silence stretches on. Finally, after what seems like minutes, he asks a question.

“Kids are telling me you didn’t show up until later. Did you not hear the fire trucks, boy?”

What he means is shouldn’t I have given two fucks?

“I had the music blasting, sir.”

Honest to God truth. Plus, the windows in this house are super thick.

He taps his fingers on the table. “Malice, there’s talk you have a contentious relationship with your parents.”

I smirk. Where does everyone get this idea that I have a bad relationship with my parents? They’re hardly around for me to make something good go bad.

“Doesn’t every teenager?”

He sighs, and it’s heavy. He wishes I cared more. Done with the conversation, I stand and walk to the door. I open it and wait, hoping he gets the message. He can pay me another visit when the authorities determine the cause of the fire. It was probably an electrical fire that started in the office. Mom warned Dad before about having too much stuff plugged in.

It doesn’t help that Mom shares the office with him and has her long list of electrical devices, including an ancient lamp she had shipped from Greece.

That house has two huge offices, yet they prefer to be in the same space. Talk about being role models for romance. Except their love won’t spare me an ass-chewing from my dad.

Sheriff Hanson walks over and lingers in front of the open door. “Have you called your parents?” There’s hope in his voice.

“Yes, sir. They should be here right about now.”

On cue, my father steps into the porch light. Calm expression. Unhurried stride. Beneath the calm, he isseething. I look past his shoulder. Mom isn’t anywhere in sight. I turn my back on my father and Sheriff Hanson and occupy myself with repositioning the overstuffed pillows thrown haphazardly on the couch. Mom bought them for me to help “liven up the place.”

She’s disappointed in me again. It’s the reason she sent Dad to do the talking. Or more like reaming. He says a few words to the sheriff before he slams the door shut and lashes out at me with his words.

“You are done, Malice. Pack up your shit and find a different place to crash.”

“You’re throwing me out?” I straighten and pivot so fast; I swear I get whiplashandtweak my fucking back.

“Yes, I am. You’re eighteen. A grown man who needs to understand there are consequences for his actions.”

“Actions?” I stomp over to him. We are toe to toe. Eye to eye. “What actions? I did nothing wrong.”

“You hosted a party when we made it clear before we left. No fucking parties. You brought a girl home when we made it clear. No fucking around.”

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