Prologue
TYSON STONE: AGE 13
“Say it again, I dare you,” I seethed at the kid standing across from me. I hated him. I hated everyone that was standing around us, laughing at me.
He raised his hand up to his nose, wiping off snot with the back of his hand, before grinning from ear to ear. “I said that your mother’s a whore!” he shouted, and all the kids around us began to laugh and chant “Whore! Whore! Whore!”
I’d told my Dad I didn’t want to go on this stupid field trip, but he’d insisted. It was good for me to learn that not everyone was as well off as I was, he’d explained. Since Kindergarten, I’d attended King’s Academy, a preppy private school in Potomac, Maryland, just outside of Washington, D.C. It’s where Ambassadors, Congressmen, and the 1% paid to send their children to school. And our teachers had decided it would be an excellent idea to do a joint field trip with a middle school located in Anacostia, which was basically the worst neighborhood outside of the city.
The news had traveled even all the way across the Potomac River and all the way into this little shit’s head. The woman that had raised me for the last thirteen years was leaving my father. Mom didn’t do it privately, either. No way. She left my father in a media blitz that would have made TMZ proud.
And all of it was because of me.
I’d always known that I was adopted. It wasn’t entirely hard to figure out, even at a young age. I was significantly different looking than my father. I had tanned skin and a stockier composition, whereas Dad was ghostly pale, tall and skinny. But, I guess my true origins hadn’t been fully disclosed to the woman who was no longer my mother.
When she found out that my Dad took me in because he managed to get a stripper knocked up one night and not because I was just some kid he’d decided to adopt, that was it for her. At least that’s what she said was the reason. Even at thirteen, I wondered if she always sort of knew. But Dad’s business wasn’t doing so hot these days and money was a bit tighter than normal. Not like middle-class tight. Just like, no new Ferrari tight. So, maybe that was the real reason.
I didn’t really care.
If my mother wanted to walk out of my life with a look of disgust on her face over something that wasn’t my fault, then fuck her.
I didn’t need her.
I didn’t need anyone.
But, what I did need to do was teach this little punk in front of me a lesson. We were currently inside the Anacostia Community Museum, surrounded by useless exhibits I didn’t care about. So, here was as good a place as any.
I walked straight up to the kid. I didn’t care that he had a good three inches in height on me. He was skinny and looked like he’d never been punched. I was about to change all that.
I landed a fist right to his jaw and he crumpled like a cheap tent.
Exactly as I’d expected.
The kids around us started to cheer, and I climbed on top of him, straddling him.
“What was it you said?” I asked him. “I couldn’t hear it through all the blood.”
I had to give the kid credit. He looked like he was about to cry, but he didn’t break. Instead, he tried his best to spit at me. I dodged the bloody wad easily and shrugged my shoulders.
“Have it your way,” I said. I landed punch after punch on this kids face.
The cheers around me started to fade.
I wasn’t sure if it was because the teachers were coming, because this kid’s face looked ready to cave in, or because I was just blocking it all out.
I didn’t care.
This kid deserved it.
He wasn’t going to embarrass me like that and get away with it.
I’d show him.
I’d show them all.
I felt something pull on my shoulders, but I didn’t stop.
Then I felt something crunch against my elbow, and I heard a scream.