Page 34 of Bad Boy
“I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I’ll make enough for all three of us.”
And that’s how my Wednesday night ends—wasted off my ass, full of the fanciest cheesy eggs I’ve ever had, and watching a movie. . . as afamily. In my new home.
It all just feels so normal that I almost forget about the threatening text messages and Lincoln’s psycho bullies. . .Almost.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
REMI
Aloud beeping noise pulls me from the alcohol-induced slumber I was pleasantly suspended in. I reach out and slap my hand around until I find the old-fashioned digital alarm clock on my nightstand. I mash the buttons repeatedly, but it continues to beep obnoxiously.
My head is fucking pounding. Why won’t this piece of shit stop?
I grab the old black box and yank it from the wall, throwing it to the hardwood floor with a loud clatter.
Who even set that?
Thoughts of Lurch sneaking into my room in the middle of the night to set my alarm clock send little prickles of unease skittering up my spine.
And with that, more memories flood in as my brain starts to wake up—mainly the attack on Lincoln and the threatening texts from yesterday. My stomach churns, and I rush for the bathroom. I turn the faucet on and splash cold water against my face, ignoring the headache pulsing behind my eyes until I can fight this nausea.
I’ve been here five days.Five. Fucking. Days.
I should be focused on my next Chem exam, not whether someone’s after Lincoln or coming for me.
Fuck.
We need to get out of town, and this weekend couldn’t be more perfectly timed. I’ll take one of the blacked-out SUVs, and we’ll stay inconspicuous and under the radar.
Once the nausea passes, I jump in the shower and wash quickly so I don’t make Lincoln late. I grab one of the neatly-pressed uniforms hanging in my closet and throw it on, combing my wet hair with my fingers.
When I rush into the kitchen, Richard and Mom are both there, sitting in front of a full fucking breakfast spread on the island. I’m talking eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, pancakes, and fruit. And I think I see biscuits and gravy.
Yep, I sure as fuck do.
I head straight for the food, not even saying good morning to anyone. I need to beat this hangover before I leave for school, and I’m pretty sure biscuits and gravy are exactly what’ll do it. I load my plate high and skip the fruit.
There’s an empty seat between them, so I take it, plopping down unceremoniously. “Morning, Ma. Gramps,” I say nonchalantly, like I’m not hungover as fuck on a Thursday morning. I set my full plate down and dig in, enjoying the flakey, buttery biscuits and the savory white gravy with little chunks of sausage in it. “This is fucking amazing stuff right here,” I mumble around a mouthful.
“Thank you very much,” Richard says proudly, his kind eyes crinkling in the corners.
“You made this?” I ask rudely, waving my fork in the air toward all the food in front of us.
“I sure did. I’ve always loved to cook. I just don’t do it enough lately, but I hope to change that now that you and Rainy are home.”
“Fuck yeah, I’m down with that,” I agree, shoveling more food in. Mom doesn’t cook; the best we ever did were leftovers from the different diners and restaurants she worked at over the years.
“Remi.”
Uh-oh. She’s using her stern voice.
“Mom,” I mimic her tone.
She huffs at my response. “Please explain to me why you decided to get drunk last night. And also why you decided to do it so openly. I mean, really, Remington. You could have just snuck a few beers to your room like a normal teenager. Are you trying to make me look like a bad mother?”
I roll my eyes just as Richard sets two pills in front of me. I’m not telling them the truth; they don’t need to worry. Mom’s trying to settle in here just as much as I am. I’m not willing to saddle her with this extra weight. And Gramps,fuck. His eyes light up every time he glances at Mom or me. Now is not the time to stress either of them out. I can handle this one on my own. I just need to figure out who the texts are from first.
“Gramps don't care, Ma. See?” I grab the ibuprofen that Richard gave me, swallowing the little pills dry. “I’m eighteen anyway. You can’t ground me.”
