Page 60 of A Master's Destiny
“You know how I found out?” Slater asks, his voice gruff.
I shake my head, forcibly swallowing down my own pain.
“The fucking newspaper. How screwed up is that? Aren’t they supposed to wait until family members are told before they report shit like that? Oh, wait. That’s right. I don’t fucking count. Never did.”
He angrily swipes at the tears that fall, growling in disgust.
I have no idea what to say to him.
Slater opens the book back up and tries to find the page he was reading.
I mutter, “Don’t worry about the paper. I’ll come up with something.”
He glares at me. “Fuck you will, Davis. I don’t trust you.” Flipping through the pages at a faster pace, he eventually lands on the page.
I feel no love or comradery for the guy, but it’s obvious that he is suffering. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be,” he snaps, slamming his fist down on the table. “The dick stopped being a father the second he walked out the door. I was just too stupid at the time to realize it.”
His statement conjures up memories of my mother. The first time I caught her cheating on my father, it severed our relationship—but I had no idea at that point.
By sheer force of will, the two of us get through the assignment and, with only seconds to spare, I finish writing out the last sentence and hand the paper to Slater to look over.
He stands up and shoves it in his back pocket.
“Wait. I just wanted you to read over the damn thing,” I snarl.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want. I’m keeping it safe so you can’t screw me over.”
My hackles rise, and I wonder if he means that as a threat. “Give it back.”
“Fuck you!” He grabs his tool bag and skips the elevator, heading straight to the stairs.
I refuse to chase after the asshole. Instead, I slowly stack the books on the table and grab my things.
Whatever it takes, I’m not letting him hurt another soul.
I return late to my apartment. I smile, able to smell the Ribollita simmering on the stove before I even unlock the door.
“About time,” Anderson exclaims when I step inside. “You’re lucky you asked for soup, or dinner would be ruined.”
He heads to the kitchen and dishes up two bowls, asking with interest, “So, what’s this about an assignment after class?”
I groan, setting down my tool bag before joining him in the small galley kitchen. “If you can believe it, I had to write a paper with Surfer Boy as a punishment for not paying attention in class tonight.”
He drops one of the spoons and it clatters to the floor. “Isn’t that the guy who’s been messing with you?”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s the one who switched the candles, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
He hands me one of the bowls and a fresh spoon. “Did you end up ratting him out?”
Before I answer, I sip a spoonful of the hot soup. The moment I taste the Ribollita, I feel a rush of dopamine and sigh in contentment. My father used to make this dish when I was a boy, and it has become my comfort food of choice.
I hold up the bowl and smile. “Thank you. I needed this.”
He grins. “Soup soothes the soul, buddy.”
I nod in agreement. “As far as Surfer Boy, I didn’t say anything because I need proof.” I frown, thinking back on the night. “It was strange though. For a guy who is plotting my demise, he was weirdly open with me tonight.”
