Page 80 of Maddox
Delaney
After our blowout, I don’t speak to Draven and my life settles into boring once more while I focus on making some cash and keeping up with my homework.
It’s been a shitty ass week followed by the day from hell. I woke to the sound of Joey retching in the bathroom.
When he emerged, pale and sweaty, my irritation faded to concern, and I asked him if we should go to the hospital.
He brushed me off and I lashed out. Story of my life with the stubborn man.
I should leave but in just a few months, it’s do or die, and I can’t afford to slack off if I want to graduate.
To be fair I don’t know if I care anymore. Once I’m done with high school, I have nothing to look forward to.
Since I’ve been trying to pick up all the shifts I can and completing the extra credit required to graduate, it’s been pretty quiet.
Now I’m staring at a text from Mom, which I’ve been doing for thirty minutes while I try to decide how to answer.
What are your plans for Thanksgiving, sweetie? I thought maybe you could visit me here.
On the one hand, I want to spend the holiday with people who care about me, but I can’t imagine sitting across from her and pretending that everything is okay.
Not only that but I can’t decide if everyone is lying to me. Who is my dad if it’s not Joey? Why didn’t I know about his affiliation with the Aces?
What if thereissomething about my mom like Dad said? What other lies am I living?
“Delaney!” Joey barks and I glance up from my phone to glare at the closed door.
“What?”
I’m not in the mood for his bullshit today.
Asshole.
“Short a few bucks for the rent. Don’t answer the door,” he says, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling. Great.
What an ass. He probably spent it on booze.
“You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
When he walks away, my thoughts turn back to what he said the other night and with a silent groan, I eye him sitting on the couch as I exit the room.
If I want answers, he’s the only one likely to give them although I’m not holding my breath.
“Joey?” I ask as he belches and rubs his belly.
“Huh?” he grunts, not bothering to look away from the game.
Curling my lip, I grit through my teeth, “I found the patch in the closet.”
Apart from the way his shoulders stiffen, he doesn’t respond for a minute, and I eye his hand holding the beer halfway to his mouth before he shakes his head and says, “What patch?”
My spine tingles but whether it’s suspicion or flat-out rage, I don’t know.
Either way, I spit, “What’s really going on? Are you a biker? What did you mean about saving my ass?”
I’m waving my arms around, but it’s lost on him because he won’t look at me until I step in front of the T.V. and cross my arms.
