Page 11 of The Prodigal

If I wanted a girlfriend to keep tabs on me and have me hold her purse while she tries on clothes at the mall, I’d drown myself in the nearest body of water. I’ve seen the most hateful of men grow soft under the hands of the right women. Not that they weren’t good women or that those men didn’t deserve to be taken down by a woman, but I am wired differently than they are.

I don’t need someone to hold my hand.

I don’t need whispers in the night or hugs before class.

I need—no, I crave—only one thing.

Vengeance.

Anything else is simply a distraction I can’t afford.

Like Belinda here, who is still trying to hold her smile through the awkward silence and steady blinks I offer.

“So,” she tries again. “Is today your first day? I haven’t seen you around campus since orientation.”

Well, isn’t that charming? She’s watched and waited until I showed up to class, which—spoiler alert—still won’t be the day before fall break. I’m only showing my face for two reasons, one of which is now lying on the grass. I have no interest in going to class because none of it matters. I won’t stay in Georgia long enough to graduate.

“Listen, Belinda.” I light up a cigarette—Ramsey will have to understand—and take a long drag. “I don’t know which rumor you’ve heard but let me clear up any fantasy that you might have about me.” I flash her a wicked smile and stand, spotting Midnight Garden’s Employee of the Year gathering her things and heading to the cafeteria. “I don’tdothe average.” I lean in closer, my voice taking on a threatening tone. “I find they bore me.” No one’s pussy is that magical—especially not hers.

Betty smiles, her gaze traveling down my body leisurely, like it’s supposed to make me horny. “How do you know if you’ve never tried?”

Trust me, if bedroom eyes and perky tits were the keys to reviving my cold, dead heart, Betty here would have a claim, but alas, such is not the case.

Betty’s tits and lack of respect for herself don’t interest me.

The oblivious girl walking across the lawn does.

Without sparing Barbara another look, I turn and head across the lawn. I hope Duke is proud that I’ve managed to go nearly an entire day without making someone cry. But then again, my moodisimproving by the minute.

Why?

Because I love conflict.

I eat that shit up like pussy.

And right now, my meals are full of conflict.

Striding into the cafeteria, I pass theno smokingsign and take another drag from my cigarette, getting inherline. There’s something about seeing Eden serve me that has excitement blooming in my chest. Let’s call it my kink. Okay, fine. It’s not a kink. I’m just an ass, and the thought of surprising Eden at school fills the void of boredom in my dark soul. I knew she went to school here, just like I knew she didn’t stay in her dorm at night because she pulled overnight shifts at the motel. My little pawn, apparently, is a hard worker.

“Can you get me a fresh salad from the back?” My head snaps to the left in response to the pretentious voice beside me. A blonde about my age has her nose turned up at the salad in Eden’s gloved hand.

“These are the fresh ones,” Eden argues gently—a stark difference from how she came at me the other night at the motel. It’s pathetic, especially when her lip quivers, unsettling my stomach to the point I need to take another hit off my cigarette.

“No,” the girl in front of me barks, “get me a fresh one, or I’ll report you to your boss.” She smiles. “I’d hate for you to get fired. I know how much you need this job since”—she turns to her friend—“Ashlynn saw you digging change out of the front fountain last week. Did your crazy mommy forget to send you lunch money?”

Tears well in Eden’s eyes, and it only serves to shit all over my excitement at threatening her today. I love the conflict and tension between me and my mark—not power plays from some dick junkie who needs attention.

Leaning over, I grab a salad from the window and toss it onto this no-name’s tray. “Enjoy.”

Again, Duke should be proud.

“Just who the hell do you think you’re talking—” She stops mid-sentence when she realizes just who the fuckshe’stalking to. “Remington.”

She says my name like it’s a curse. If she isn’t careful, it will be.

“I’m sorry,” she tries explaining, “I didn’t realize you were behind me.”

Clearly, but at this point, I don’t give a fuck. She’s ruined my day.

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