I gripped the edge of the gray marble countertop, wanting to rip it out of the wall and tear the whole world up in the process.
Fuck.
I struggled to inhale, my ribs aching with every stretch.
I couldn’t visit that cocksucker every week! There was no way!
Maybe I should just tell Mr. Brandt about everything. Everything.
There had to be another solution.
Pushing off the counter and out of my seat, I ran up to Tate’s room, crawled out of the double doors, and through the tree to my own bedroom.
Fuck him. Fuck them all.
I switched on my iPod to Apocalyptica’s I Don’t Care and crashed onto my own bed, breathing in and out until the hole in my gut stopped burning.
God, I missed her.
The reality disgusted me, but it was true. When I hated Tate, my world got small. I didn’t see all the other shit: my mom, my dad, or my brother in foster care. If I only just had her here again, I wouldn’t be such a jumble of fucking breathing fits and outbursts.
It was stupid as hell, I know. Like she should be around just for me to push whichever way I wanted.
But I needed her. I needed to see her.
I reached out to grab the handle on my bedside drawer where I kept the pictures of us as kids, but I pulled back. No. I wasn’t going to look at them. It was bad enough that I kept them. Throwing them away or destroying them had been impossible. Her hold on me was absolute.
And I was fucking done.
Fine.
Let them think I played their game. My brother was the most important thing, and Mr. Brandt was right. I wasn’t any good to him in jail.
But I wasn’t going to any fucking counselor.
I exhaled and sat up.
Scumbag father it was then.
I slapped on some dark washed jeans, a white T-shirt, and gelled my hair for probably the first time in a week.
Walking down my stairs and out the front door, I found Tate’s dad in his garage removing stuff from his old Chevy Nova. Tate and I used to help him do little jobs on the car years ago, but it was always drivable.
He looked like he was clearing out the trunk and any personal stuff from inside.
“I need to replace the spark plugs on my car,” I told him. “And then I’m going to Fairfax’s Garage for a job. I’ll grab some clothes on my way back and be inside in time for dinner.”
“By six,” he specified, offering me a half smile.
I slipped on my sunglasses and turned to leave but stopped and spun back around.
“You won’t tell Tate about any of this, right?” I checked. “Getting arrested, my family, me staying here?”
He looked at me like I’d just told him that broccoli was purple. “Why would I do that?”
Good enough.
Not twenty-four hours later I stood in front of another cop, getting patted down, only this time I wasn’t in trouble.
According to Mr. Brandt’s judge friend, I didn’t have to start the visitations for a few weeks. They wanted my mother’s approval first, but I had no interest in waiting. The sooner I started, the sooner I’d be done.
“Through those doors, you’ll find lockers where you can put your keys and phone. Get rid of that wallet chain, too, kid.”
I eyed the Neo-Nazi-looking corrections officer like he could take his orders and shove them up his ass. He was bald, white-like-he’d-never-seen-the-sun, and as fat as a dozen Krispy Kremes a day will do to you. I wanted my shit on me, because I fully expected to turn around and walk out of here the moment I laid eyes on the sick bastard that was my father.
My father. My stomached turned at those words.
“How does this work?” I asked, reluctantly. “Will he be like in a cage, and we talk through some air holes or are there phones we use?”
Asking questions wasn’t my style. I either figured it out for myself, or I shut up and fumbled along. But the idea of seeing the twisted fuck made my muscles tense. I wanted to know exactly what I was walking into. Looking like a helpless kid to this cop was nothing if I could walk in there like a man in front of my father.
“Cages with air holes?” the Nazi-with-a-badge teased. “Watching a little Prison Break lately?”
Fucker.
He looked like he was trying to hold back a smile as he buzzed me through the double doors. “Thomas Trent isn’t here for murder or rape. No additional security needed, kid.”
No, of course not. It’s not like he was dangerous. Not at all.
Tipping my chin up, I walked calmly though the doors. “The name’s Jared,” I corrected him in an even voice. “Not ‘kid.’”
The visitation room—if that was what it was even called—boasted a high-school-like common area. Benches, tables, and snack machines filled most of the room, and windows along the south wall brought in enough light, but not too much.
It was Saturday, and the room was packed. Women held children in their arms, while the husbands, boyfriends, and significant others smiled and chatted. Mothers hugged sons, and kids shied away from the fathers that they didn’t know.
It was all happily horrible.
Scanning the room, I wasn’t sure if my father was already in here, or if I was supposed to sit down and wait for them to announce him. I wanted to dart my gaze everywhere at once. I didn’t like him knowing my position when I didn’t know his. My mouth was dry, and my heart pounded in my ears, but I forced myself to slow down and do what I always do.
I surveyed and tried to appear calm and comfortable, like I owned the place.
“Jared,” I heard a voice call, and I stilled.
It was the gruff voice I’d never forgotten in my dreams. It always sounded the same.
Patient.
Like the snake sneaking up on its prey.
Slowly, I followed the sound until my eyes landed on a fortyish looking man with blonde hair that curled around his ears and azure blue eyes.
He sat there, forearms resting on the table and fingers interlocked, dressed in a khaki button-down with a white T-shirt underneath. He probably had on matching pants, too, but I didn’t care enough to check.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his face. Nothing had changed. Other than being clean shaven now and his skin tone a little healthier—from not being on drugs, I would assume—he looked the same. There was still a little gray in his hair, and his once average build was now on the lighter side. I doubted inmates got the chance to get fat in prison.
But the part that got my palms sweaty was the way he looked at me. Unfortunately, that hadn’t changed, either. His eyes were cold and distant, with a hint of something else, too. Amusement, maybe?
It was like he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know.
He knew everything, I reminded myself.
And all of a sudden I was back in his kitchen again, my wrists burning from the rope and paralyzed from despair.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the one thing I knew I would need. Tate’s fossil necklace.
I balled it up in my fist, already feeling a little stronger.
It was technically her mother’s, but I’d taken it when she left it on her grave one day. At first, I told myself that I was keeping it safe. Making sure it survived. Then it turned into another piece of her that I could claim.
Now, it was like a talisman. And I was no longer keeping it safe, but it was keeping me from harm.
Narrowing my eyes for good measure, I stalked over to him, not slow enough to look timid and not fast enough to appear obedient. On my own time, because he didn’t call the shots anymore.
“So what did you do?” he asked before I even sat down, and I hesitated for a moment before parking my ass in the seat.