Page 21 of Tempting Little Thief

She’s all right.

He’s dead.

Too kind of an ending for a heavy-handed motherfucker like him, if you ask me. I’d have liked to drag it out a bit, maybe tie him up, put him through half the shit he put us through, but that would have given my mom time to try and save him, and turning a gun on her wasn’t necessary … at least not in front of my sister. That, and a bullet, is too merciful anyway.

She didn’t deserve the air she was left to breathe. She was everything a mother shouldn’t be, a real piece of shit wholoved her husband more than her kids, went along with all he did because he was more important. He never hit her, and she never did raise her own hand to us … just helped him ice his own after he would. She is a weak, worthless woman who will get what’s coming to her, wherever the fuck she is.

My sister Brielle and I, we’re nothing like them.

Nah, that’s a lie.

My dad was an angry piece of shit, and so am I, but it ain’t the same. I get pissed, annoyed, vindictive when I feel the need, and yeah, I’m pretty fucking violent, but when you grow up in shit you can’t control, controlling the shit you willingly put yourself into is a whole lot different.

I made a deal when I moved to this group home, and that deal meant the scrappy motherfucker inside me gets to come out to play when the situation calls for it. Lucky me, it just so happens the situation always seems to call for it.

Rich pricks mixing with poor punks will do that.

Thankfully, what I said about my sister is true. She might share our blood, but she’s different. Better. Brielle is gentle, kind, and quiet. She’s thoughtful and selfless, and I miss the hell out of her, but after the life we were born into, the last thing I wanted was her living in a group home full of teenage girls angry at the world, so when I was offered a job in exchange for a room in this twisted town, I countered the offer, asking Brielle be shielded from any more bullshit.

How she isn’t as jaded or as screwed up as the girls in the home across the yard from this one, I don’t know, but she ain’t, and I’ll die trying to keep it that way.

She’s staying with our aunt a state over, still has a couple years of school left, which should be enough time for me to set us up someplace new. Somewhere that will be ours, where the only rules I’ll have to follow are the ones I set for myself.

I don’t hate it here. The house might be old and worn down, full of teenage punks with more problems than sense, but the hot water works, and the food’s free. Money ain’t much, but at least they pay me, and the job feels like shit I was bornand bred for. But the biggest fuckin’ bonus? I’m here because I choose to be, not ’cause some jackass judge, who knows nothing about the streets or the kids who come from it, says I have to be.

I aged out a while ago, but this place ain’t like most, and I’m here until I’m ready to leave.

Or until I fuck up.

Only, I won’t fuck up.

But Iwilllevel up.

I don’t want to be the poor punk. The hands’ man. The go-to guy.

I want to betheguy.

My mind itches for more. I just have to figure out where to find it.

“Bishop, let’s go!” Keefer’s voice slices through my thoughts.

I quickly tug on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, then snag my jacket off the bed, making it as quick as possible—something we’re all required to do. I don’t have the same rules as everyone here, but I do the basic shit so no one bitches and causes unnecessary problems.

Slipping out of the room, I close the door behind me, meeting Keefer in the kitchen.

He’s a big dude, tall as me, but with muscles that bulge like a beast. The man’s shoulders are so wide he has to turn his body to fit through the doorframe. His physique is probably part of the reason he’s “caretaker” of this house—it takes a monster of a man to keep all these punks in line. He can rein in a gang of teenage assholes with ease, most times with just a look, depending on the situation.

Keefer leans against the counter, coffee cup in hand, watching a kid named Wyatt finish up his chores. Wyatt nods my way as he walks out, and once he’s gone, I pull open the fridge, pushing aside the piles of vegetables to find the energy drink I buried.

Fucking thing’s gone.

Sighing, I stand, flipping off Keefer when he laughs.

“Take it your skipping classes again this mornin’?” he asks.

“I’ll be there.” Late, but I’ll be there.

He nods. “Warehouse again tonight?”

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