Page 2 of Kings of Westbrook High

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hisses, snatching the joint from my mouth. “You're sat in a room full of badges and a dead body for fuck sakes. Have some respect.”

I raise a brow at that, reaching up to snatch my joint back. “Respect? Seriously?”

He sighs, dropping his ass down on the coffee table to level with me. “Look, I feel for you, babe, I really do. I don't wanna see you in a group home any more than you do. But what's your plan here? Get yourself booked every night for the next three months until your eighteenth birthday rolls around?”

“Exactly.” I grin, appreciating the way his chest and arms look in that tight gray t-shirt he's wearing. “You think I could rent a drawer in your desk at the station? Just a small one for my thongs and a toothbrush, some deodorant, condoms, that kinda thing.”

He tries, I'll give him that, but he fails to hide the tiny little grin pulling at his lips. “You're a cocky little shit, you know that?”

I smirk, running my nail over the police badge wrapped around his neck. The first time he said that to me was the day we met. He caught me and a few friends drinking in the park a couple years back, told us to pack it up and move on, so I told him show me what he was packing and maybe I'd consider doing as I was told.

He arrested me.

“You gonna cuff me again, Officer?”

“Not tonight, babe.” He mutters, glancing around the apartment, and it's only now I realize he seems on edge. “I got a feelin’ the silver bracelets are a helluva lot different where you're headed.”

I frown.

Dean Anderson is one of the dirtiest cops you'll find in Sin City. Mid twenties, built like a machine, won’t hesitate to slit your throat from ear to ear if you push him far enough. If he's nervous about whatever comes next, pretty sure I should be, too.

“Dean..” I drop the act, leaning my elbows on my knees. “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

He sighs, sliding his eyes back to mine. “Look, I don't even understand it myself, so let's just see how this plays out, yeah?”

My jaw ticks because that makes no fucking sense to me, but I don't get a chance to think on his meaning before some blond haired, hazel eyed chick walks through the front door like she owns the place, eyes on me and headed this way with a clear purpose. I eye her when she stops in front of me, taking in her skin tight, knee length, very expensive looking cream dress, long blond hair curled into perfect beach waves and a face full of professional looking make up. She eyes me right back, and I don't miss the way her nose turns up a little when she takes in my black sweats, the too big hoodie draped aimlessly around my shoulders, the several piercings in my ears and the metal ring on the corner of my bottom lip.

She's better than me and she knows it.

“You must be Callie.” She tries a smile, fake as shit.

“Lookin' a little overdressed for a social worker, aren't we?” I raise a brow, enjoying the way she falters a little. “Are those seriously Christian Louboutins on your feet?”

“You know your shoes.” She muses, nodding her approval while she gives me another once over. “I guess you really are my daughter.”

My joint hits the carpet.

The fuck did she just say?

The silence that follows is deafening.

My ears ring, my vision blurs, and the useless organ in my chest starts pumping wildly, begging me to feel the emotions creeping up my throat and squeezing. I almost feel it, but then I remember who the fuck I am and what she is, so I do what I taught myself to do when I was thirteen years old. I release my death grip on the locket around my neck and force that shit down.

“Callie, this is Katherine Kingston.” The officer beside her starts, clearing his throat when I slide my eyes to him. “Your father called her before he passed earlier tonight, confessed his plans to her and asked her to take care of y-”

I hear laughter - full blown, hysterical laughter - and it's only when all the heads in here turn my way that I realize it's coming from me, because this has to be a fucking joke. The woman who took off on the day I was born and never once bothered to show her face my entire life, the woman who chose herself and money over me is standing in my fucking living room of all places, honest to god planning on taking me home with her.

So, yeah, funny as shit if you ask me.

“Callie..”

Ignoring Dean's bullshit warning tone, I pick up my joint, relight it, and look her dead in the eye, staring openly so she knows just what I think of her.

Nothing.

I won't deny there were nights I cried myself to sleep at night when I was a little girl, wanting nothing more than to be wrapped up in my mother's arms, wishing she'd come back and protect me from the monsters I knew were all too real, but that ship sailed a long fucking time ago. She's just as dead to me as the sick bastard lying in a body bag across the room is now. Always has been, always will be.

"Get the fuck out."

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