Page 8 of Killer Confections
I snort, “I’m suspended for three days.”
She smiles, “See you then.” She quickly walks down the hallway, sparing one last glance at my dad as he nears the doors. She ducks off into a classroom and I instantly feel my whole body relax.
“What the fuck did you do, boy?” My dad’s rough, gravely tone pierces my ease like a dagger. That relaxed feeling? It’s gone.
Before I can answer him, Mrs. Wilma glides out of the office and intercepts him. She talks to him quietly, explaining how the fight started, but I know it won’t matter. He’s going to punish me regardless of if I was defending myself.
“Get up,” he commands.
I push from my seat, ignoring my aches and cuts.
He places a hand between my shoulder blades and I nearly flinch at the touch. Mrs. Wilma watches us leave, her gaze following as dad guides me out of the school.
As we get to the truck, his hand slides to the back of my neck and he grabs me tightly. I wince, a hiss leaving my lips before I can stop it.
“Threefuckingdays, Atlas,” he grits, his anger permeating the surrounding air. “I hope the fight was worth it. You just earned yourself three days in solitary. No sleeping and no eating.” He pushes me forward and I stumble, catching myself on the truck’s passenger door. “Get the fuck in, and I don’t want to hear a single word on the way home.”
I numbly reach for the door’s handle and open it, climbing in. The forty-minute trip is silent but tense. Dad’s knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel, his rage contained for now.
At least it isn’t a beating.
As I stare out the window, the city limits turning to heavy, dense forest, my mind circles back to Loxley.
Her smile.
Her laughter.
Her show of concern for the poor, beaten boy she had just met.
And it was all for me.
I’ll never forget it. Any of it. No matter what happens, I’ve found a safe space with this stranger.
But I don’t want her to be a stranger. I want to know her.Maybe I’ll regret this decision later, but right now, I can’t think beyond her.
When the compound comes into view, the thought of my punishment sits at the back of my mind. We pass the acres of land, a few nicely built brick and stucco homes spaced on the property.
Dad takes a left, driving us down the long gravel road that connects to our own two story home. It looks eerily different from the others—more like a hunting lodge than a family home.
The grand entry way is light, cream-colored bricks surrounding the glass doors. Lanterns hang on either side of the door, the lights of them snuffed out during the daytime. The outside is a dark gray, a tall, pointed black roof bringing the design together.
Dad parks the truck in his normal spot, climbing out and slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t wait for me, so I ease out, moving quickly to catch up.
His boots sound heavy on the cement steps and he throws the glass door open as he steps into the house.
I follow behind him, keeping my mouth shut. I know better. My punishment started in the truck. If I speak now, he’ll probably hit me.
Mom stops in the massive kitchen, her blue eyes finding me. They flicker to my dad, giving him an impatient look. “What happened, Jack?”
“What hasn’t happened?” Dad laughs humorlessly. “Your son decided it was a damn good idea to get into another fight. He’s going into solitary for the next three days until he can go back to school.”
“Ourson,” she corrects before her ocean gaze settles on me. Concern seeps into her expression, but I know she won’t help me. She’s just like him, but she hides her crazy behind a mask of motherly kindness. “Why did you fight?”
“The other boy made fun of his clothes,” dad answers for me.
Mom shakes her head as she empties the dishwasher. “And what did we learn?”
“To stop doing that shit,” dad snarls before grabbing my bicep and pulling me out the back door.
