Page 10 of Reckless at Westbrook High

When I eventually lose him, though..

I shake that off and lock the door behind me, dropping my case down on the four poster bed I haven’t slept on in weeks.

I can’t think of a life without him in it.

It’s too fucking painful.

I move quickly to change out my clothes and grab a black duffel bag from the closet, shoving a bunch of shit inside without paying attention to what I’m packing because I’m not about to spend any more time here than necessary. After my shower, I grab the hydrogen peroxide from the bathroom cabinet to clean the cut beneath my eye, sighing when I realize there’s no hiding the bruise there.

Fucking lovely.

Once I’m dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt, I grab my shit and head back outside to my car, tossing my duffel on the passenger seat before jumping inside. Sick Boy by The Chainsmokers blares through the speakers and I hit the gas, pulling my phone from my pocket to dial Ross’s number. He’s a twenty two year old asshole with a messy head of bleach blond hair and a weird ass fetish for gun play, but he’s also the only guy on my father’s payroll that I can trust.

“Yeah?”

“You got any jobs right now?”

“Not a one,” he sighs. “I’m fuckin’ bored, man. I almost wish one of these idiots would make a mistake so I can get a little blood on my hands. They’re too clean.”

I laugh lightly at that, shaking my head at him while I drop my eyes to my hand on the wheel.

Yeah, mine too.

We hang up and I stop outside the corner shop at the end of the street, quickly glancing around to check no one’s watching. Once I’m satisfied no one’s gonna call the cops on me, I grab a black hoodie from my bag and throw it on, jumping out to walk along the side of the building towards the back entrance. I pull my hood over my head and look around one more time, then I take a deep breath and pull my fist back to punch the brick wall. I wince at the pain but keep punching until my knuckles are split and bleeding, all the while imagining it’s my father’s smug fucking face.

* * *

I pull up on Ryan’s driveway and kill the ignition, freezing with my ass half way out of the car when the front door opens. Ryan’s parents walk out with their weekend bags in hand and I curse, quickly ducking my head to check my reflection in the driver’s side window.

I thought they’d be gone by now.

“Levi,” Stella calls, walking over to inspect the damage on my face. “Baby, what happened to you?”

“I got into it with this guy I met at the gas station just now,” I lie, tossing my bag on the ground to wrap my arms around her shoulders. “Scrawny little fucker didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

She raises a brow at my language but she doesn’t call me out on it. Instead she wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me back, somehow knowing what I need without having to ask.

“Did you kick his ass?”

“Course’ I fuckin’ did.”

She smacks my chest and feigns a glare, pulling back an inch to point a finger at my face. “That’s two dollars in the swear jar.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughs lightly at that, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “I left you a couple lasagnes and a strawberry cheesecake in the fridge.”

“Did you get the cream?”

“Course’ I fuckin’ did,” she jokes, grinning when I bark out a laugh.

“You’re the best.”

“You bet your ass I am,” she winks, turning to look at her husband over her shoulder. “He got jumped, Brian.”

“I can see that,” he muses, moving his eyes over my face while he tosses their bags into the trunk of his Range Rover. “You alright?”

I can’t tell him no so I nod, rolling my eyes at Stella’s dramatics. “I didn’t get jumped.”

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