Page 11 of Endgame

“One more word, Rourke,” Gabe shot back in a threatening tone. “And I swear to god, I’ll pull your ass from the team this year.”

I watched as Rourke’s face reddened to the point I thought it would burst. Then he exhaled a slow breath and nodded, offering a mumbled “sorry” to my mother.

Ah, now I remembered. Football was a pretty huge deal around here. It was back home, too, but Mom had mentioned how Gabe’s son lived and breathed for the sport. Apparently, the Ocean Bay Falcons were two-time state champs and this year were going for their third in a row. Interesting.

“That’s alright,” Mom replied sweetly, making Rourke grimace further. “I know this is hard for you. It’s going to take some time to adjust.”

I knew how he felt then. Rourke thought Mom wasn’t being sincere. Her voice was sickly sweet and enough to drive her own daughter crazy. Rourke thought she was faking it. She wasn’t. Mom was a people pleaser and genuinely wanted this boy to like her. I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.

The last course of dinner was eaten in palpable silence.

“That was delicious,” Gabe announced as he dropped his napkin on the table and rose from his chair. “But I’m exhausted.” Turning to my mother, he reached out a hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me show you to our room.”

Ugh.

“Your bedroom is on the second floor, right alongside Rourke’s,” Amelia explained as we walked back to the main foyer behind our parents. My eyes met hers and she smiled sympathetically. “It’s really bright and fresh and open. I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure,” I muttered, unwilling to be cruel to this timid girl.

“Sergio brought your bags in earlier,” she continued to say, nodding towards my duffel bag placed at the bottom of the staircase. “I can help you bring them up if you like?”

“Sergio?”

“Dad’s driver.”

“Oh. Well, no. Thanks. I can manage,” I replied, patting the lone duffel bag before hoisting it up. Turning to Mom and Gabe, I asked, “Is my room to the left or right of the bannister?”

“The right.” Gabe frowned at me like he couldn’t understand how a seventeen-year-old could have so little belongings.

Two words, Gabe;food stamps.

I preferred eating to wearing fancy clothes.

Splurging every cent we had was my mother’s forte.

One he would soon learn.

“Is that all you have?” he asked.

“I travel light,” I shot back. Everything I owned was contained in the bag in my hands and the backpack on my back.

“Rourke,” Gabe announced then, calling on his son who was sulking in the corner. “Show Mercy where her room is.”

“Do I look like your bellboy?” Rourke snarled, glaring at his father with an almost murderous expression. “Do it yourself.”

“It’s fine,” I interjected, moving for the staircase. “I’ll find it myself.”

“Now, Rourke!” Gabe hissed, displaying a little steel in his spine.

As much as I despised Rourke, Ihatedthe way Gabe just spoke to him.

If he thought he was going to pull that parental bullshit on me then he had another thing coming. Mom and I had a different kind of a relationship. She had always taken a back seat to parenting. I was almost eighteen now, and I sure as hell didn’t need her getting any notions.

“Fine, but she can carry her own shit,” Rourke growled, shoving roughly past me as he stalked up the marble staircase.

I didn’t think that comment rendered a necessary reply, so I kept quiet. I was sure Rourke Owens and I would have plenty to fight about in the coming months. I planned on conserving my energy for the ones that mattered. Besides, I didn’t need his help.

Asshole.

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