Page 3 of Riot's Thorn
I know there’s something wrong with her brain, like depression or some shit, but it’s not like I didn’t try to get her to the doctor. She wouldn’t go, and I couldn’t make her.
I walk across the hall to my room, a towel around my waist, when doubts suddenly creep in. What if Mom’s right and I can’tmake it on my own? What if I change my mind? I’ve never lived alone, and I’m always good with change. When things change, it messes up my whole schedule. I’ll forget what day it is and not show up for work. I’ll get fired and not make rent on my new place.
I pound the side of my head once, twice, three times, jerking away from those thoughts. I can’t spiral. There’s too much riding on this. If I want something better for myself, I have to leave to make it happen.
And I can’t do it with her around because fuck her, and fuck this disgusting trailer.
I get dressed and pack my meager belongings. Most teenagers have a room full of mementos and pictures, but all I have are some clothes and toiletries. Everything else in this house is trash.
Walking into Mom’s room, I shake her awake. She curses at me groggily, telling me to let her sleep, but I stay strong. Eventually, her eyes open, and her lips purse in a way that tells me she’s about to get creative with her insults, but I speak first.
“I’m leaving.”
“Knock it off, Lucas. Go to bed, and we can talk about it in the morning.” She slurs her words—not just from sleep, but also from the booze and pills she’s addicted to.
“You’re not fucking listening. I’m leaving.”
She sits up. “Don’t let your mouth write a check your ass can’t cash. Get the fuck outta my room.”
That darkness living inside me that everyone in my life has been feeding since the day I was born, turns into a ball of rage. I tried to push it away, learning early on that fighting back got me nothing but backhanded or kicked out. Now, I realize that’s what I got when I shut up and took the abuse too.
“It’s not a threat,” I say lowly, hoping she hears the seriousness.
Lying back down, she fluffs her pillow and closes her eyes. “Shut the door on your way out.”
Fury takes over, and before I know what I’m doing, my hands are around her throat, and I’m squeezing. “You’re a liar, just like everyone else. I thought I could trust you because you’re my mom, but I was wrong.” Her face turns red, and her hands claw at my skin, making me bleed. “You never loved me.”
The first thing that strikes me is how quiet choking someone is. She can’t argue or even gasp for air, since I’m not allowing any to pass. The only sounds in the room are the insults I spew as I watch her eyes bulge and her energy drain. Sooner than I’m ready for, she goes limp.
I killed her. I killed my mother.
Pushing off her lifeless body, I fall to the ground, exhausted from the exertion. I wait a minute for any remorse to fill me, to feel sad, but there’s nothing. The only thing I feel is freedom.
A fractured mind doesn’t come back from everything I’ve been through.
CHAPTER ONE
PARKER
Dread fills me as I pull up to the estate. It’s so ostentatious it makes my lip curl in disgust. While I know Dad grew up here, I still can’t believe he chose to move back after Grandpa died a few months back.
Despite our family’s wealth, Dad never flaunted it before now. After Mom died, he raised me in a modest home in a good neighborhood. I had to do chores to earn an allowance, and when I turned sixteen, he made me get a job so I’d learn the value of hard work. The only thing he ever splurged on was his Aston Martin.
Dad justified the move by saying Grandpa’s investment company has always been run from here, and now that he’s the CEO, it makes sense for him to live here. In my head, this will always be the place my obnoxious grandparents lived. I never imagined it’d also be the place I’d come home to on the weekends or during breaks from college.
As I park, a man in a suit walks up to my car and opens the door for me. “Ma’am.”
“Sir,” I retort, saluting him. It’s hard to take this level of grandiosity seriously. I’m no one important, just an average twenty-one-year-old college student.
His lip quirks, and I grin, feeling the same accomplishment I felt as a little girl when this game of trying to get reactions from the emotionless staff began. Dad and I were required to attend weekly dinners here with my grandparents while I was growing up, which turned into dinners with Grandpa after Grandma died. I had to occupy myself somehow. Everyone here is so serious for no reason.
“Your father is waiting for you in the study,” he says, lowering himself into the driver’s seat. Heaven forbid the house’s curb appeal be ruined by my older model sedan, so it’ll be parked in a lot out back until I’m ready to leave. He makes a strangled sound as his knees are forced to his chest, and I bite my lip at how long it takes for the seat to slide back to accommodate his large body. I’m five-foot-seven, but imagine if I were shorter. Hilarious.
I’m still giggling as I take the steps up to the front door, where another man stands in wait. My laughter fades instantly as I take him in. Unlike the usual staff, who exude a balance of professionalism and warmth, this man is different. He doesn’t glance in my direction as I approach, yet he is aware of my arrival, holding the door open with a practiced motion. His attire sets him apart as well. Rather than the typical, understated black suits worn by everyone else, he’s wearing something poorly tailored, the fabric cheap-looking and the fit awkward, hanging loosely in some places and pinching in others.
Maybe Dad doesn’t have the same exacting standards Grandpa did?
Although his eyes remain fixed ahead, I can’t shake the feeling he’s tracking my every movement. I catch a slight twitch in his jaw beneath his close-cropped beard, and his free hand curls into a fist. Shivers race down my spine, and each second feels like an eternity as I approach him. His vibe chills my blood and tells me there’s something not right about his presence.
