Page 101 of Bad Boy
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO
REMI
It’s Saturday morning, and we’re snuggled up in my bed in our boxers. Sasha drove my car home, and Lincoln and I rode with Otto. No one wanted to let us drive, and I don’t blame them. We snuck in early before Mom or Gramps were even awake.
I made Otto promise to let me talk to my mom first. No matter his intentions, this isn’t his family or business. It’s not his place to tell her what happened—that her lying, cheating, soon-to-be ex-husband has been threatening her son. My father had me jumped last night and nearly stabbed, too. Fucking scum of the earth. I hope he shows up here. I fuckinghope.
Lincoln’s parents are still out of town and completely out of the loop as usual. How can they continue to neglect him yet try to control him at the same time? My heart hurts when I think of how he must have felt as a child in that environment. What kind of sick, twisted psychological bullshit is that? It’s not happening under my watch.
My side aches as I lie here stewing over everything that’s happened. Everything with Linc’s shitty parents, the asshole bullies, and my psychopath of a father. It’s fucking ridiculous, and I just need a moment’s peace for once in my life.
I pull Linc closer, nuzzling his neck as I curl my body around his leaner frame, spooning him. He’s my peace. The best thing in my life. Our connection is so deep it fucking resonates in my bones.
My thoughts waver as much as my fingers as I run my hand over the curve of his hip and down his thigh, feeling his soft skin and making sure he’s okay. That we’re here. Together. We made it out. Because fuck, my mind keeps going to some pretty dark places of whatcouldhave happened. Whatalmosthappened.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice still a little raspy from lack of sleep and, well, general fucking trauma.
I hate that I brought this on him after everything he’s been through with Connor and Brandon. And I know I don’t even know half of what they’ve done to him over the years. Whether he believes it or not, he’s strong, and he holds his pain deep like I do.
“Talk to me. Please.” He rolls over and faces me, both of us on our sides. Tucking one hand under his cheek, he reaches out and places his other palm tenderly on my face, cupping my bruised jaw.
“You can be vulnerable in front of me. You don’t have to be so tough all the time. Let me fight for you sometimes, too. Show me what’s underneath all this beautiful art.” He slides his hand down my neck and across my shoulder until he’s caressing my bicep and tracing the details of my tattoos. His fingertips circle the life-like compass on my forearm.
“What’s this one mean?” His voice is soft and earnest, like he really wants to know.
“To guide me. Show me where to go when I’m lost,” I murmur. Our eyes lock, and an intense energy pulses between us. So strong it’s tangible
“And are you lost now?” There’s hope in his tone.
“Not when I’m with you,” I confess, blinking away the moisture pooling there.
Lincoln grabs my hand, squeezing gently. “Show me everything inside your soul, Remi. Let me carry the burden with you, handle the lows and celebrate the highs. We’re a team. Can’t you see that? We’ve been a team since day one.”
He’s completely taken over my brain. His honest, caring words and kind, innocent eyes break every last barrier away, causing unwanted memories to surge to the surface. Things I’ve kept buried so deep, telling no one.
Fear and anger and a million other emotions swirl around inside me, tangling together until they form a knot in the pit of my stomach. My dad is still out there, and knowing this has me on edge. I just need to talk to my boyfriend.
“I don’t even want to tell you all this. But I need to get it out.Fuck, Linc.” I peer at him with pleading eyes that I know are swimming with tears. “I need to get it out,” I say again, this time in a defeated whisper.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing instead of the whirling torrent of emotions inside me. It all pours out.Everything.I start with my dad’s gradual decline into alcoholism until he became a drunk deadbeat with no job, living off of his own wife and son.
Lincoln’s beautiful eyes shine with unshed tears when I start to tell him about the abuse.
“He started hitting me when I was sixteen. First time it ever happened was because I didn’t put his beer in the fridge, and he had to drink it warm all night. Things like that. Mom was never around; she worked all the time. And that’s not her fault. It was his.Everythingis his fucking fault.”
And then I tell him the worst of it all. Something I’ve never told a soul. The horrible memories I usually push away rise to the surface and won’t let me continue to ignore them. I squeeze my eyes shut as they take over.
* * *
A rough hand clasps onto my upper arm, yanking me from my pull-out sofa bed and out of a deep slumber. “Did I say you could take the car, you little shit?” a raspy voice sneers.
I’m disoriented from sleep and make the mistake of answering the question truthfully. “Huh? You did say I could, Dad.”
He shakes me roughly, and spit lands on my cheek as he drunkenly yells at me to shut the fuck up. The smell of stale beer wars with the stronger, more pungent odor of sweat.
“Don’t talk back to me, smartass. If you wanna take the car without asking. . .” He drags me behind him through the living room, grabbing the car keys from the hook by the door. Dad’s so much bigger than me. I’m helpless to do anything but flail behind him the entire way. “Then go sleep in it,” he finishes and opens the front door. The keys go flying down the dirty outside stairwell that drunks and junkies like to piss in, landing with a clunk at the bottom.
Then he starts to pull me toward the stairs, too.
