Page 4 of The Tangle of Awful

We are kings and everyone else exists to serve us in some capacity.

Pops: Someone vandalized your car?

Me: Yup.

Pops: At home? Did you pull the camera footage?

I could easily tattle to him that it was my bratty stepsister, but that would take all the fun out of making her pay for what she did.

Me: Bad connection. Wi-Fi wasn’t working. It’s fixed now, but I can’t drive around with my car looking like shit, Pops.

Pops: I know a guy. Let me give him a call.

When Pops says he “knows a guy,” it means someone owes him and he’s ready to cash in. The long, ugly gouge in the paint of my car will be erased from existence within a few days. There are many, many perks to being a Park.

Satisfied that Pops will take care of it, I shove my phone in my pocket and stalk across the yard to his house. My gaze scans Park Mountain Lane, but Aubrey is long gone. I’m not sure where she went, nor do I care. All I do know is she’ll be back, and when she returns, I’ll be ready for her. Today, she got the element of surprise. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be doing all the surprising.

Dempsey, technically my uncle, but who feels more like a cousin, is home. He’s more than just family or a neighbor, he’s my best friend. Though we couldn’t be more different, we get each other like no one else does. Both him and his twin sister, Gemma, are some of the few people I actually trust.

I let myself in the front door and listen for any signs of life. Usually, Gemma, or her mom, Jamie, are yapping, their cheerful voices echoing all around. Considering the silence, they must be out shopping or some shit.

Good.

I need to plan with Dempsey without Gemma throwing her two cents in. She’ll try and make me feel bad or side with Aubrey. I don’t need that shit right now.

As I take the stairs, I hear the soft thump of bass coming from Dempsey’s room. If he’s jerking off, he’s going to be in for a rude interruption. Thankfully, when I push open his bedroom door, he doesn’t have his dick in his hand. He sits at his desk that faces the window, back to me and hunched over, as he feverishly draws on a sketchpad.

“Thought I was fucking my hand, huh?” he asks, sensing my quiet entry.

I chuff and prowl forward, stepping over discarded clothes and shoes along the way. “Nah. I knew you were doing something much worse. Drawing.”

He tenses but continues with his art. This particular topic is a point of contention between Dempsey and Pops. My grandfather views drawing as pointless. And while I agree, I don’t see why he can’t drop it. Dempsey would probably be more pleasant to be around if he didn’t have to fight for every damn thing he wanted to do in this life.

“Who’s that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I try to place where I know the eyes from.

Dempsey grunts out something under his breath before slamming his sketchpad closed, away from my prying eyes. He spins around in his desk chair to face me. His dark hair is in disarray as though he’s been running his fingers through it all day. Smudges from his charcoal pencil dust his prominent cheekbone on one side.

“Do you ever shower?” I flick my fingers toward his gray T-shirt that’s rumpled and stained with something pink. “Have you even left this bedroom since school let out?”

His lips curl into a taunting grin. “Someone’s pissy today and looking for a shoulder to cry on. Do tell, cuz, what has your panties crawling up your tight ass?”

My teeth clench together and I straighten my spine. Sometimes I hate how easily Dempsey can read me.

“She’s back,” I grit out.

Dempsey’s eyes widen comically. “Neena? Where the hell was she?”

Scowling, I give a sharp shake of my head. “Not Neena. My stepsister.”

“No shit?” He starts laughing so hard his stupid ass nearly falls out of his desk chair. “This is good. Too good.”

I glower at him before casting my gaze over to his bed. Energy thrums through me and I have the urge to pace, but in his messy room, I’m likely to break an ankle. The bed, however, unmade and probably crusted over with jizz, doesn’t look all that inviting either.

“Come on,” Dempsey says, rising from his chair. “Let’s play a game of pool before you have an aneurism.”

A rush of relieved breath escapes past my lips. I give him a clipped nod and then stalk out of his room toward the game room. Dempsey ambles behind me, humming a familiar song. Once we’re in the immaculate game room, I can breathe a little easier. Jamie, Dempsey’s mom and technically my grandmother through marriage—though there’s no way in hell I’d ever call her that—makes sure the rest of the house is showroom ready. Dempsey is the smear of imperfection in this household.

While he racks the balls, I grab a cue stick and roll my neck over my shoulders in an attempt to release the tension. Dempsey, who’s never been tense a day in his life, makes the first shot, knocking two of his balls into the corner pocket.

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