Page 6 of Blitz
My August was fucking bullshit.It was getting to know the Railers; it was pretending to be fucking happy and dealing with having a potential sister bullshit.
“It’s bullshit,” I told my rental. “Fucking bullshit,” I explained in the shower to my shampoo. It was a nice shower in a nice rental decorated in a nice style with nice sofas and a nice kitchen in a nice neighborhood. “And it’s all bullshit.”
Naked in my bedroom, letting it all hang out to give me some natural drying time, I studied my clothes, searching for the least bullshit outfit I could wear to yet another Railers barbecue at which I was supposed to forge a lifelong bond with my fellow skaters as we headed into pre-season.
“Lifelong my ass,” I snapped and yanked jeans and a T-shirt out of the closet. It was only as I was tugging the T-shirt over my head that I realized it was Atlanta Phantoms’ colors, with my freaking number on the back. “Shitting fucking bullshit,” I muttered and tore it off like it was burning my skin, then sagged to the bed, hollowed out. Just like that worn faded T-shirt—discarded and pointless.
Thoughts of the girl at the rink wouldn’t leave me alone. The envelope she’d handed me, the way her eyes looked so damn hopeful—as if she already knew the answer. Rebecca Jensen.
My sister?
A sister. For fuck’s sake.
I yanked the Pastor-Cole-only phone out of my pocket, heart hammering. I didn’t let myself think twice. I hit call before I could talk myself out of it.
“Do I have a sister?”
Silence.
Not bad reception silence. Deliberate silence. The kind he used as a weapon. The kind that came right before the sermon.
Then, finally, his voice—smooth, graveled, soaked in righteous indignation. “Our lawyers are dealing with it.”
“Do. I. Have. A. Sister?”
“I said our lawyers are handling it. She’s a liar, a con woman. She just wants your money.”
I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Bit like you then.”
That hit. I heard it. But he recovered fast. “Watch your tone,” he thundered, voice booming as if he thought he was still preaching from the pulpit. “You are being tested, Cole. Temptation comes in many forms, and Satan often wears the face of family. The girl is not your sister. She is a distraction. A snare. Her entire story reeks of manipulation, and you are letting your flesh guide you instead of your faith.”
“My what?”
“This is what happens when you step outside the light. When you abandon your purpose. I raised you to be a warrior of the Word, not a slave to lies. If you let her in—if you believe her—you shame your mother’s memory. You shame me.”
“Good,” I snapped. “Because you’ve never once made me proud to be your fucking son.”
The silence that followed wasn’t righteous anymore. It was ice-cold.
Then, the line went dead.
My hands were shaking, and fury rose hot and fast—like it always did with him. I wanted to throw the phone. Crush it. Slam it into the wall until it cracked in half, until there was nothing left of the connection between us. But I didn’t. I sat there, staring at the plastic as if it had personally betrayed me.
Because what would it change?
If she was my sister—if he was her father by blood—then that didn’t fit in to his version of the truth and was a crack in the perfect lie he’d built.
And I’d fallen right into the trap. Let him in my head again. Let him flip the switch, tear up the floor under my feet like he always fucking did.
My fists loosened and my shoulders dropped.
I hated him.
But I couldn’t go against him.
I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror, thick skater thighs stretching denim, honest-to-god six-pack, sinful cum gutters, nipples perfect, a slight dusting of dark hair, broad shoulders, muscled arms, but it wasn’t all the good stuff I was staring at, it was my miserable face. I should’ve been happy—I wasn’t in Atlanta anymore. I was free.
“Smile,” I ordered and watched as my muscles twisted into a weird-ass grimace, and I closed my eyes.
