Page 43 of Hate So Deep

Great.

I’m about to be subjected to another twenty minutes of hearing all the reasons why I suck.

At least with the others, Colt merely glares while Celia looks at me with cow eyes.

Once we’re in the truck, Dirk peels from the lot and I silently sigh, grabbing the oh-shit handle above my head.

His words from before swirl in my brain and although it shouldn’t matter what he thinks, I say, “I had to get straight A’s for two years before my mom gave me her old car.”

“Huh?” he grunts.

“I paid for my own insurance and every single haircut and pedicure, since I turned sixteen. For my seventeenth birthday, my mom gave me a lecture about my education and told me if I wanted any help for school, I had to attend the college of her choice and study business.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry that you have to study business?” he spits. “My dad worked two fucking jobs to get his degree.”

“Oh, so youdohave your own family,” I sneer but he doesn’t comment beyond clenching his jaw.

Sensing a new chilliness to the air I avert my gaze, but the words still bumble on my tongue, and I rasp, “Did your dad create a whole new family because he couldn’t stand the original one?”

Eyeing the tic in his jaw, I slam my palm against my chest and sneer, “Did your mom hate you so much that she thought about aborting you?”

“Lauren,” he growls, and I shake my head.

“Enough! You don’t know me. You don’t care about me. So, you don’t get to lecture me. Asshole. My mom. Buck. Do you have any idea…”

Trailing off, I lean my head against the window, willing back the tears that were blessedly absent before this dick came along.

“What? Let me guess,” he says with a dark chuckle. “Your poor fucking mother can’t figure out why her precious son is dead?”

Whipping around, I stare at him wide eyed until he turns to glare out the window.

He doesn’t know my mom. Why would he say something so perfectly cruel?

After a moment, he mutters, “You want to be alone, baby girl. You’re doing a damn fine job of ending up there.”

Maybe it’s true but he doesn’t get to judge me for shit that he can’t possibly understand, all of which fades when my dad calls again, and I’m reminded of where he was today while the others shopped for meaningless fucking gifts over a holiday that lost its shine a long time ago.

I can’t continue to ignore the fact that the police must think I did something and although I’d rather poke out my eyes than ask this asshole for help, I have to know what he knows about that night.

This is why I suck in a breath as I smooth my icy fingers down my thighs and say, “The night that my brother was attacked…”

He eyes me sideways and grunts, “Yeah?”

“You, uh, came to the party after Cory’s, you were there,” I mumble.

“So?”

“Do you know, uh, who I went home with?” I whisper, my pulse pounding in my throat.

What if he says it was Buck? What then?

“Why are you asking me this?” he says, and I turn my head to the window.

I don’t want to admit my worst fears but if I don’t meet him partway, he’s not going to understand why I’m asking the question, which is why, I say, “I-I don’t remember what happened but…”

“You don’t fucking remember?” he growls, and I shake my head. “Jesus, Lauren. Grow the fuck up. You think because you’re rich, you’re fucking immune?”

Rolling my head, I grin bitterly and say, “No, I don’t. I’m not stupid. Look at Buck. Do you know who I left with or not?”

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