Page 42 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

Or simply because she feels rightfully guilty for being too drunk to be a parent.

Either way, I’m not a fan.

She gives herself a heavy pour of red with dinner, and every night, the wine mixes with the Valium she sneaks in the kitchen to the point she is practically falling asleep in the middle of the conversation.

Family bonding at its finest.

“I thought I heard you playing the other day,” she mumbles, stabbing awkwardly at the dry chicken she cooked for dinner. “You haven’t played your guitar in so long. How was it?”

“Fine.”

Her eyelids grow heavy, and she rests her chin on her hands. “I know you and your dad used to play, so it can be hard, but—”

“It’s not hard. It’s fine.”

“Noah, I only wan…” Her words drift into unrecognizable garble.

That’s my cue. I take my plate up to my room.

* * *

The next night, I skip family dinner in favor of a drive-thru hamburger and head to J.C.’s house.

He lives in a gated neighborhood less than five minutes from mine. The houses all look the same—imposing brick or stucco exteriors with large windows, big double doors, and aggressively landscaped lawns.

I don’t realize what I’m seeing until it’s too late.

Until I’ve slowed to a crawl on the road.

Until the door of Penny’s white Mini Cooper opens in front of her house and she gets out.

She doesn’t look up at she grabs her bag from the passenger seat. Doesn’t see how I’ve unconsciously taken the long route to J.C.’s, driven past her place, looking for… what? A glimpse of her?

Fuck no. I’ve had plenty of those.

She has on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that show off her long, toned legs. When she lifts her arm to free her hair from under her backpack strap, her shirt lifts to reveal a stripe of her tanned midsection.

She goes up the stairs. She doesn’t look back once.

As soon as she’s gone, I slam on the gas pedal and peel down the road.

* * *

J.C.’s room is a mess.

His family hires a maid, but he requests she doesn’t clean his room.

“Because I’m not good at hiding my weed, and my mom doesn’t know her little boy is a rascal,” he explained when I first asked why he doesn’t have someone come in and take care of the pig sty if he’s not willing to do it himself.

Clothes are draped over the backs of his chairs, piled on the floor in front of the closet, and shoved behind his television, for reasons I’ll never understand.

Then, as if that isn’t enough, there are bottles and empty cans and sticky glass cups everywhere.

It’s foul.

“Are there any cups left in the kitchen?” Caleb teases, sweeping aside a small sea of cups so he can roll a joint on the coffee table.”

“Shut up. You two are smoking my weed, so I demand respect.”

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