Page 34 of Wrecked
“It would be a shame if something got in the way of that.” The tone of the conversation shifts, his words coated with an icy callousness. I start to feel uncomfortable sitting so close to this man I don’t know.
“I guess it’s a good thing he doesn’t let anything get in the way of what he wants,” I reply as I begin to pack up my books. I’ll wait for Nate in the gym.
The man grabs ahold of my wrist, effectively stopping all movement. I suddenly feel stupid for not thinking anything could happen up here. Of course something can happen! He could throw me down these bleachers for starters.
“I didn’t mean to run you off. Please, sit.” His request brokers no argument. I feel myself involuntarily lowering back down onto the cement slab, a shiver working its way through mybody. I’m not sure if it’s the drop in temperature or the man sitting next to me. “An ivy league school would be the best option for a boy like that,” he continues as if he didn’t just have my arm in a death grip.
“If that’s what he wants, sure.” I find myself getting pissed. Who the hell does this guy think he is?
“What one wants doesn’t matter. A solid future is what is important. A career that offers longevity and allows for financial gain.”
“If hewantsa job with a lot of money, he will have it. If hewantsto work as a server at a restaurant, he has my support just the same.”
“That’s disappointing.” The pure hatred in his tone paralyzes me. I was just threatened. Not by the words, but by the way he said them. “You look very familiar to me. Tell me, what’s your father’s name?”
“Christopher Hansel,” I answer before my common sense comes flooding back to my brain. I was in a state of shock, I didn’t even think before I spoke. Shit, shit, shit. I just gave the man thatthreatenedme, my family name.
Disregard for danger? One.
Situational awareness? Zero.
The unnerving asshole stands up, and a malicious smirk forms on his lips, promising all sorts of evil murderous activities in his future.
Okay. That may be dramatic.
But itiscreepy.
He turns to face me. “We all live in glass houses. Houses built on top of the dirt we try to keep buried beneath the foundation. The only way to guarantee personal success is to dig out the houses around you, find the dirt, and expose it. The victor is always the man with the biggest shovel.” He looks down at me and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I always have the biggestshovel, Ellie.” He turns his back to me and begins to walk down the center stairway.
“I never told you my name,” I shout at his back, alarmed that he already knew it.
“No, you didn’t,” he replies over his shoulder as he jogs down the remaining stairs, disappearing before I can figure out what the hell just happened.
CHAPTER 17
NATE (SENIOR YEAR, HIGH SCHOOL)
My truck climbs up the tall curb leading to a dilapidated driveway, cement crumbling beneath my tires as I drive closer to the front door. The red brick colonial looks to be in much better shape, but the shutters are boarded with wooden planks that appear to be hanging on by a single nail. The gutters are littered with the debris from last autumn, causing rainwater to cascade off the sides.
My windshield wipers sway back and forth as I take in the distressing condition of Ellie’s home. She told me to wait in the car, but I feel compelled to go to the door and rescue her from whatever the hell is inside. I step out of my truck and walk the short distance to the front stoop. Rainwater collects in small puddles along the walkway, indicating the likelihood of internal flooding with heavy showers.
I walk up the short staircase and feel the ground shift underneath my weight. The rickety stone steps rest loosely on top of moldy concrete pavers. I make sure to walk in the center to avoid cracking the limestone. The neglected exterior of the house is a glaring contradiction to the expensive vehicle in the driveway.
I lift my hand to knock on the rustic mahogany-painted door, but before it can connect with the solid oak, loud voices breach through the cheap lumber. I lower my hand back down and strain to hear what the yelling is about, praying it’s not directed at Ellie. God, I won’t be able to stop myself if that hostility is aimed at her.
A male voice booms through the shoddy wood with little effort. The opaque glass windows adorning the French style doors display two blurred figures standing near the entryway. Neither appear to be Ellie, so I assume they are her parents.
I notice that the left side of the front door is unlatched, held in place only by a chain lock. The gap between the two entry points allows the conversation inside to flow out easily and enables me to hear more clearly.
“Don’t tell me how to act in my own home!” the male voice slurs, clearly irate. The sway of his body reveals his inebriated state, and the size of his protruding abdomen suggests this is a regular occurrence.
“My home, Chris. Mine,” the woman’s furious voice responds. She has a quiet, nervous quality to her anger. It’s almost as if she’s reining in her feelings to keep from disturbing a fragile semblance of peace.
“Oh…yourhome! Your girls! Everything is YOURS! Right!? While the man of the house provides for you and raises your bastard children!”
“Lower your voice, Chris. Now.”
“Why, Diane? Don’t wantourprecious Ellie to know her mom’s a?—”
