Page 33 of Bad Boy
Who the fuck could it be?
I rack my brain and come up completely blank. I can’t pinpoint one specific person with the skills needed to track me here, let alone have a big enough vendetta to try. It makes no sense. There’s no way it’s my deadbeat loser of a dad. He’s too lazy for games and anything involving too much effort. Besides, he wouldn’t beat around the bush; he would make his demands known. Loudly and violently.The prick.
I’m startled when my pacing is interrupted by a giant standing sentry in my path. “Jesus Christ, Lurch!How are you so big yet so fucking quiet?” I place my hand over my already racing heart.
Seriously though, how did this giant fucker just sneak up on me?
I need to get my shit together. Quick.
His dead eyes glance from the bottle in my hand to the two on the counter and my crumpled ball of clothing. He just grunts and retreats back to wherever he came from.
Fucking weirdo. No wonder Mom doesn’t like him.
Not even two minutes later, I open my fourth beer and a bag of Doritos. I’ve stopped pacing and am perched on a rustic wooden barstool at the kitchen island.
Richard wanders in, his gaze zeroing in on the four beer bottles, and I get it now. Lurch is a snitch.That’swhy Mom doesn’t like him.
“Sup, Gramps?” I ask casually, like I’m not starting to get a major buzz. All thoughts of the threatening text messages easily float away.
I wish I had some weed. I need to find a guy ASAP.
“Remi, my boy. How was school?”
“It was good,” I answer honestly. I get to spend every moment with Lincoln, so I actually fucking like school now. It’s wild.
“Well, then. Is there a particular reason you’re on your fourth beer on a Wednesday evening?”
“So, you’re saying if it was a Saturday or something, it’d be cool? Just not Wednesdays? Is that a family rule? Or a house rule?” I smirk, the alcohol loosening my already smart mouth.
Good thing Gramps can take a joke, just like Mom. He ambles over, chuckling in that bowl-full-of-jelly way—warm and kind, like Santa Claus.
What the fuck?
I must be drunker than I thought.
He grabs the empty bottles and walks them to the recycling bin under the sink. I chug the fourth before he can take it away, setting it down on the counter too loudly, misjudging the distance. I blink a few times—the beers hitting me harder than normal with no real food in my system.
“What does your mother allow? I don’t feel it’s my place to tell you whether you can or can’t drink. I don’t think Rainy would appreciate that. And I’d rather you do it safely if you’re going to. Here at home.”
My grandfather is literally the nicest old person on the planet and fucking reasonable, too. Mom would probably chew his ass out if he tried toparentme. “She lets me have a couple of beers every now and then, ever since Dad left. . .” I trail off, unsure if he knows about my dad being a deadbeat and if Mom would want him to or not.
He nods sagely. “Ah, yes. Your mother opened up to me on the phone a little when she called to explain yourcircumstances. I know about Logan and his problems.”
I snort, the stupid alcohol lowering my inhibitions. “You don’treallyknow about him. Neither does Mom.” I hop off the barstool and stroll over to the fridge, my vision wavering slightly. Four beers in less than thirty minutes on an empty stomach willfuckyou up, apparently. Hydro would get his jollies off over this—I’m not usually a lightweight.
I reach in and grab a fifth because talking about my old man really pisses me off. All the shit I’ve let him get away with has been festering and rotting inside me. And there will come a time, probably soon, when I’ll need to let it out before it poisons me. But it sure as shit won’t be around my new grandfather. Or even my mom.
“And what don’t we know, dear boy?” he enquires, pinching his chin and studying me intently. It would normally put me on edge, but I’m either too drunk or he’s just too nice. Probably both.
“He’s a prick,” I mumble, guzzling my fifth beer while Richard observes me like some kind of wild animal in its natural habitat.
“I’m starving. I need cheesy eggs.”
I open the fridge again and grab the necessary ingredients, nearly dropping the carton of eggs and ruining what’s bound to be the nicest drunk food I’ve ever had. I think I even saw fucking gouda in here. I set everything on the counter and look for a mixing bowl and skillet.
I find everything I need, but Richard grabs the whisk from my hand and slides the eggs away from my reach. “Let me whip this up for you, Remi. You just take a seat.”
“Make sure you use the gouda,” I instruct him before slinking off to the living room. “I’m gonna lie down for a second.”
