Page 55 of The Prodigal

Still, I take his phone with me to look for him, which isn’t all that hard since I find him as soon as I open the door.

“I’m hungry,” is how he greets me from his plastic throne. “We’re leaving as soon as I finish this cigarette.”

I nod and glance at his feet, where several cigarette butts lie. “Are you sure you don’t want to smoke another pack? I think there’s still a little oxygen left for the kids next door.”

Those darkly haunted eyes flash up at me, and I know in an instant, the guy who held me last night is gone. “You have until I finish this cigarette.” He flicks the ashes on the ground as he holds my stare. “I suggest you hurry.”

“And if I don’t want to come with you anymore?”

Call me a hopeful moron, but I thought after what we went through last night that his reaction to me would be a little gentler this morning.

Remington chuckles darkly. “Then I suggest you dress comfortably. I hear long trips in the trunk can get cramped.”

I’m freaking warped.

That’s the only thing I can think when I flash this bastard a smile.

He isn’t going to leave me—even if I wanted him to.

There’s definitely something wrong with me for thinking that’s some kind of weird sign of affection from the king of rudeness.

“Fine,” I say, dropping his phone into his lap, “but I want pancakes for breakfast.”

The corners of his lips twitches. “And if I don’t want pancakes?”

I shrug, fighting the urge to laugh. “Then I hope those cigarettes have enough calories to sustain you until lunch.”

Remington

Ifucked up.

Not only did I fall asleep, but I also slept like the dead.

In. The. Fucking. Closet.

With the daughter of the man who gave me away to another man who taught me that the only place for me was a four-by-four space meant for accessories.

Because that’s what I was—an accessory to the wealthy.

When the audience permitted, I was taken out and shown off like an ugly Christmas sweater. I was created to appeal to heartstrings and wallets.

I was the poor boy who couldn’t be saved.

But I could save others.

I was a placeholder for those who matter—those the world couldn’t live without.

The world didn’t need a boy born to two teenagers, who hid away and birthed him in secret. Those parents were scared children who couldn’t care for me even if they wanted to.

I was a Tooney now—a symbol of their charitable contributions to the world.

At least, that’s what my adoptive father told me as he locked me in a room designed for the child they always wanted. That room might have been for me, but it wasn’t mine—the closet was.

Because I was a mistake.

“So, who’s Dr. Depressing?”

It’s the first question Eden’s asked since we packed our stuff up in the room and checked out. Thankfully, she hasn’t mentioned the closet incident, where I basically spooned her all night and felt like a giant vagina.

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