Page 29 of Ominous: Part 1
I slide my fingers up my belly, resting my palm over my chest and feeling the nerve-wracking thunder of my own pulse as I blink open heavy eyes, staring at his newest text.
I didn’t even feel the vibration in my hand, thanks to the one ripping through my body.
Him: Don’t fall asleep without telling me goodnight.
I smile at the words, no less hot now than when I was coming. In the morning, maybe I’ll be mortified with his demands. Maybe I won’t go to the tournament or see him at all. Maybe I’ll pretend this didn’t happen.
But tonight…
Me: Goodnight, Eli.
My eyes are heavy, finally drifting closed, but I force them open when he sends another text.
Him: Good girl. Goodnight, Eden. I’ll see you in the morning.
We’ll see.
6
Eli
“Where were you last night?”Dad’s greeting, full of bite. He doesn’t look at me as he comes sweeping into the kitchen, adjusting his tie like it needs it, fiddling with his cufflinks.
I keep staring down at my coffee, the newspaper beside it, soft gray pages turned over to the classifieds. Cars. I pick up the blue, ballpoint pen on the island and trace a thick circle around an older model Supra.
I hear the suction give on the fridge as the door is pulled open. I don’t need to glance over to know Dad is grabbing his orange juice. Me and Mom never drank the stuff. Sometimes though, when he’s not around… I do. Straight from the fucking bottle.
“We were supposed to watch that movie.” He continues talking, losing the edge in his tone, and I marvel over the fact he has none of the Southern drawl his brother, my Uncle Edison, has. Jasper speaks just like his dad. I guess my accent is a careful mix of my parents’.
Dad swipes a glass from the cabinet after he closes the fridge, sets down his cup on the gleaming white marble counters, by the sink, and starts pouring his juice. His back is to me, and I doodle in the margins of the newsprint, a car of my own making. Nothing that should actually ever exist. Something out ofThe Flintstones,maybe, powered by feet.
“I ended up getting stuck onHow to Get Away with Murder.”Dad caps the juice and drinks from his glass, gazing out at the windows over the sink, giving half a view of our sprawling gardens. Bushes and flowers and a fire pit we don’t take care of. He hires people for it.
He hires people for everything.
He’s probably giving his secretary a raise this weekend for accompanying him on his business flight to Dallas, then fucking him in her hotel room later. Maybe not ethical, but shockingly, lawyers and ethics don’t always come hand-in-hand. Hence the show he referenced.
I grip my pen a little harder, working on the second tire of my car, sloped dome roof, only two wheels visible because I’m not an artist.
In my head, I see Eden’s fingers holding her pen. I watch her chew her nails when she thinks no one is looking. I wonder if she can draw. She can probably do anything.
“I’m sorry I can’t make it today.” There’s genuine remorse in Dad’s words and I hate the way the pity pricks at my skin. I preferred his angry tone.
I shift on the bar stool at the sprawling white island.
So much white in this house, I spare a glance to the burnished, textured tile of the floors just to scrub the color from my brain for a second.
My phone pulses beside my coffee mug, face down, I know who it is, but I don’t reach for it. I just set my right elbow on it, feeling the vibration on my skin.
“Make sure you’re not tiring yourself out.” He finishes his orange juice, rinses the glass in the sink, then opens up the dishwasher, finds it’s full of clean dishes, and instead of emptying it, he sets his glass carefully on the counter before he puts away the container of juice. He’s still staring at the closed fridge when he speaks again. “Season hasn’t even started, you know?”
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering just how long I can sit here in silence before he snaps. As the quiet between us stretches on, only broken by the distant hum of the pool pump at my back through the triple set of glass doors that lead to the patio, I go to work on the grill of my car.
He still hasn’t turned around. That means he’s really, really trying.
I bite back my smile and color in the windows, tinted black. Definitely illegal.
A soft sigh, which means he isn’t going to explode. Not yet. “Luna’s mother sent me an email.”
