Angry God Read online

  After emerging from the showers, downing more coffee, and helping myself to another heavenly brownie, I uncovered my work in progress and stared at it, holding its dead gaze. It had taken a familiar shape, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something about the frown of the sculpture made my heart squeeze in pain. I continued working on it all day without taking as much as a bathroom break, until someone knocked on my door.

  “Who is it?”

  It was probably Rafferty, checking in on me. I’d turned to the door and started walking when a voice boomed behind it, grave and serious.

  “It’s your father.”

  I froze in my spot, like a statue carved from ice. It took me a second to recompose.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Frankly, that’s exactly why we should be having a conversation right now.”

  Frankly, you’re a fifty-nine-year-old perv, and I carry your DNA. I wish I could scrub myself clean of my association with you.

  I turned around and made my way back to the statue, picking up the needle and thread for the fabric I’d stitched to its shoulders.

  I didn’t expect him to barge into my room.

  I didn’t expect him to fling the door so hard it put a dent in the wall.

  Edgar sucked in a shocked breath behind me. “Whoa.”

  At first, I thought it was because I looked like something that had crawled out of a sewer. But I turned around and noticed it wasn’t me Papa was looking at.

  It was my assemblage sculpture.

  “You did this?” he gasped, his eyes wide and exploring.

  I snorted out a chuckle. Now he was impressed with my work? How bloody convenient. And unlikely.

  I returned to the stitching, ignoring his words.

  “Lenny, that is…”

  “Brilliant? That’s quite a coincidence, considering you didn’t give me the internship I’ve been dreaming of since I was five, and this comes less than a full day after I publicly called you a pig. Are you trying to make amends, or are you trying to cover your arse so I won’t go around telling people what kind of person you are? Because rest assured, Papa…” I spat out the word. “I don’t want people to find out the extent of how corrupted you are.”

  Strong words, but time, I found, had two opposite effects. Either it made the pain dull and evaporated the anger or it allowed you to stew in your fury, multiplying your rage. The more I thought about my encounter with Arabella yesterday morning, paired with the two occasions where she’d slipped from his room, the more I was livid with my father. She’d confessed the affair to me, and Vaughn had confirmed it. In fact, according to Arabella, Vaughn had caught them in the act. It couldn’t get any clearer than that.

  Papa put his hand on my shoulder, twisting me around to face him. I swatted his hand away.

  “Touch me again, and I’m calling the police.”

  He stared at me, confused and hurt, the creases around his eyes deeper than I remembered them yesterday. He had dark circles under his eyes. He was tired. Sleepless. Pale as the ghosts of his castle. Bet it was Arabella who kept him up at night, not the showdown with me.

  “Darling, what is this about? You are worrying me to death. It is unlike you to get irrationally upset. And it is definitely unlike you to lash out. What happened yesterday?” His voice was tender, crisp as an autumn leaf. My father was not an unkind person, but he was busy, impatient—a gentle giant.

  I could tell he was being genuine, but just because he regretted hurting me didn’t mean he was excused.

  “Maybe I got bored of being good.” I hitched up one shoulder, thinking about Vaughn’s pet name for me. “Maybe my eighteenth birthday resolution was to be myself. And I don’t like you right now. You disgraced Mum, me, and Poppy. I know it was very convenient for you when I walked around in black clothes and piercings. I got the grades, did my volunteer work, steered clear of trouble. But know what, Papa? It didn’t work for me. You didn’t work for me.”

  He stared at me, shocked. “What on Earth are you on about?”

  His question only riled me further. I couldn’t help myself. I gave him a little shove toward the door. He was huge, yes, but he also knew social clues when they were thrown in his face. He took a step back.

  “I’m talking about how you never asked me about my art. About my life. Mum died, and you did nothing to make us feel like we had someone to talk to. I was lucky Poppy took the role of a mother. But what if she hadn’t? You were always too bloody busy for me. Still are.” I shook my head, finding the first thing in my sight—Poppy’s poster, still wrapped—and throwing it like an arrow. He dodged it, taking another step back.

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Oh, but I do.” I smiled, feeling lighter somehow, now that everything was out in the open.

  Sure, I’d always felt timid and embarrassed about asking for my father’s time. I didn’t want to bother him. But I never quite realized the extent of the anger I’d harbored toward him until now.

  I picked up another wrapped gift and aimed it at him. “I understand everything so perfectly clear. Vaughn is more important than me. Arabella is more important than me—”

  “They are not more important than you,” he cried desperately, flinging his arms in the air. “Vaughn got his internship because he deserved it.”

  “And Arabella?” I raised an eyebrow, cocking my head, waiting for his explanation. “The affair,” I enunciated meaningfully.

  “Arabella…” He drew a deep breath, his cheeks staining red. “I made a mistake. I cannot undo it right now.”

  Of course you can’t, Papa.

  But this was a full-blown confession. I’d said the word affair, and he hadn’t contradicted it.

  I closed my eyes, begging the tears not to fall. I didn’t want him to see what he did to me, what his despicable behavior stirred inside me.

  “Leave,” I whispered, for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  I didn’t have Vaughn. I didn’t have Papa. Apparently, I was officially at odds with the opposite sex. Well, there was Pope, but he was hardly male as far as I was concerned.

  “Lenny…”

  I threw the second gift at him, and this time, I hit his chest. Before he could gather his wits, I took one of my sculpting tools and boomeranged it at him, too. Knowing he was a living target, he turned around, stalked to the door, and slammed it behind him.

  I collapsed on the floor, the sobs ripping from my mouth.

  I didn’t stop until night fell.

  Vaughn didn’t come to see me that night, or the night after.

  But Pope did, just as he’d promised.

  We played board games and drank cheap, boxed wine and talked about philosophy and art and celebrities we’d like to shag (he said Rooney Mara was his dream girl, while I fancied Machine Gun Kelly). He told me about the progress he was making with his piece. He also admitted, albeit reluctantly, that he’d seen Arabella sneaking into my father’s office again.

  Funny, my father was perfectly content leaving me alone, but he was still seeing Arabella.

  Brilliant.

  On the sixth night of not talking to Vaughn and Papa, I showed Pope my sculpture and he, too, flashed me a weird look, like I’d done something wrong. Apparently, something about the statue threw people off, but both men kept mum about it.

  “Why the face?” I scowled. “If it’s bad, just tell me.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Oh, it’s the opposite of bad. I mean, in terms of skill and technique, it is absolutely spectacular, Lenny.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” I frowned.

  “Uh…” He rubbed at his cheek, his ears pinking. “I mean…do you really not see it?”

  “No!” I threw my hands in the air, exasperated.

  He gave me a pitying look. “Darling, it is Vaughn Spencer. It looks exactly like him. I mean, not really,” he amended, cocking his head to examine the piece more closely. “Your sculpture has more life in it than
Vaughn does. It is substantially more humane, and I’d probably trust it before Vaughn with babies and weapons of mass destruction. But other than that, spot-on.”

  I glanced at my statue, my eyes widening as I choked on my saliva.

  Motherforker.

  It was him. Of course it was. The sharp-as-razor cheekbones. Dead eyes. Permanent scowl. Heart pouring out of his chest like a fountain. I did this. I’d immortalized Vaughn Spencer with my own hands. The idea had come to me while I was still in Todos Santos, the day Arabella sucked him off, the day Poppy started sending me chocolate. He’d humiliated me, and I, in return, had somewhat worshipped him.

  My clammy palms choked the hem of my shirt. My fingers twitched. A part of my brain—the sane part, presumably—told me not to do it, that it didn’t matter, that the piece was beautiful and enthralling and could open many doors for me. But the rest of me didn’t listen.

  I pounced on the statue, ripping it with my fingernails on a roar. The stitched shoulders, the paper heart, the crown of thorns. The only thing I couldn’t smash and ruin was the face, for it was made out of bent metal. Resilient and patronizing, it stared at me coldly as I ripped everything else about it.

  He wasn’t even here, and he still watched my every step, ridiculed me, made fun of me.

  As I shredded his shoulders and ripped his heart from his chest, I felt arms wrapping around my waist, and before I knew what was happening, I was kicking the air, growling and screaming at the top of my lungs.

  I tried to escape the grasp, but Pope hurled me onto my bed like I was a sandbag, taking something out of his trousers pocket and jamming my wrists to my metal headboard. I growled like an animal, bucking in the air and trying to kick him.

  He handcuffed me to my own bed. Wanker!

  “Take it off. Immediately!” I demanded.

  To be honest, I was mad at myself, not Pope, who was just trying to make sure I didn’t ruin all my hard work in a moment of insanity. But still.

  I am insane, aren’t I? I thought rather grimly. All arrows point to the same conclusion. How shameful that white is my least favorite color to wear.

  “I don’t think I will,” he said evenly, straightening up and examining me with hands on his waist, like I was a wild coyote he watched through a secured cage. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a bit unhinged.”

  He said “a bit” for the sake of civility. Truth was, you couldn’t be a bit unhinged, just like you couldn’t be “a bit” dead. Being crazy demanded commitment, which I certainly showed.

  “I guess you like him,” he said mildly.

  I did not answer. I didn’t want to confirm Pope’s theory, but it would be stupid to deny it. Vaughn occupied my thoughts more than he ought to. Even subconsciously. I’d made him into a statue without meaning to.

  “You had a plan in motion. Why didn’t we execute it?” Rafferty asked.

  “Because he never showed up in my room.” I sulked. God, I was such a teenybopper, and it was all Spencer’s fault. He turned my mind to goo. I’d become someone Arabella would get along with nicely.

  “Remind him that you exist then,” Pope said, not backing down. “You’re making it easy for him to forget you. You stay in your room all day working. Both of you are such hermits, you lock yourselves in your corners of the castle. He couldn’t forget you when you were in high school, and I very much doubt he can here. Difference is, you’re not dangled in his face, forbidden fruit, a taunting reminder of everything he wants. Be that fruit,” Rafferty said, clapping his teeth together in a teasing bite. “Remind him he wants to eat you.”

  I swallowed. He was right. Vaughn kept away because he could. But he was also wrong.

  Because Vaughn was definitely coming back. This week, the next, or in a few years.

  Whether it was in a bloody bath or hovering over me one night, for some reason, his need to be next to me was stronger than he was.

  And I was going to wait. Bide my time.

  If he truly wanted me, he’d come here again.

  And I’d be waiting.

  Fully loaded and ready to fire back.

  He came to her room every night.

  Not that I was keeping tabs or anything.

  I was just in the neighborhood when it happened.

  And by in “the neighborhood,” I mean in her hallway, lurking.

  And by “in her hallway, lurking,” I mean clearly I needed professional help, an intervention, and a fucking life. I found myself standing behind a Louise Bourgeois statue for hours daily, waiting like some kind of a rabid Belieber.

  Sure, I had my reasons. She was the first thing that had resembled a crush for me, no matter how cringe-worthy I found the word (or the girl). It made sense that I would feel somewhat possessive of her, now that she’d opened her legs to Rafferty Pope, who, according to whispers at Carlisle Prep, was working on one hell of a painting.

  The pathetic part was that I wanted to visit her.

  Lenora didn’t want to see me. But I was notoriously uninterested in what people wanted. I’d have come to her earlier, but I held back because I wasn’t supposed to be at Carlisle Castle.

  Shortly after I paid a visit to my little friend Harry Fairhurst, I left a letter on Edgar Astalis’ desk informing him that I’d be gone for the rest of the week to find inspiration. This, of course, was bullshit with a capital B. I didn’t need inspiration. My piece was almost done, months ahead of schedule, and by far the closest thing to perfection I’d ever created.

  What I needed was to buy time until the money Jaime released from my trust fund had wrapped around the possessions I wanted to purchase like an octopus. I had a very clear idea of how I wanted to play this out, and it was important that Fairhurst thought I was untraceable during that time period.

  Plus, I needed to lay low in case the boys in blue paid a visit to Carlisle Castle after what I did to Fairhurst’s lover. No one had filed a complaint in the days that followed, but life had a way of surprising me, especially with a curveball from Fairhurst.

  Harry hadn’t reported any missing items from his house. He must have been waiting for our long-overdue conversation, or pulling his own tricks out of his sleeve.

  Now that I’d done what I had to do, I’d thought I’d torture him a little by letting him stew until Monday. But as it happened, I didn’t feel like keeping away from Lenora for that long, so Friday—today—would have to do.

  I pushed open the door to Fairhurst’s office without knocking first thing in the morning, striding straight to the chair in front of his desk and taking a seat. I had a cup of steaming coffee in my hand—the other one I left by Len’s room every morning, not that she deserved anything from my ass.

  Making myself comfortable, I took out a joint and tucked it into the side of my mouth. Technically, it was illegal in the UK, but I still didn’t give much of a crap. I could take a shit on Harry’s desk and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Fairhurst knew I had him by the balls.

  He was on the phone. When he noticed me, he apologized to the person on the other end, hung up, and tossed his phone across his desk. Making a point, I crossed my legs and rested my feet on said desk, leaning back and enjoying the view of a pale-ass Fairhurst waiting for the verdict.

  I glared at him with a shit-eating smirk.

  Finally, he knotted his fingers together, sloping forward and trying to look like the responsible, rational adult he wasn’t.

  “How?” His face twisted in disgust.

  If nothing else, I appreciated his desire for knowledge. I’d just taken away his leverage, destroyed his false evidence, pissed all over his house—not just metaphorically—and stolen his valuables. And he asked me how. Curiosity was vanity, though. We wanted to know things so we could control them. Destroy them.

  “Next question.”

  “What makes you think Mr. Maples won’t press charges? I’d be happy to confirm it was you behind that prank in my walk-in closet.”

  “And I’d be happy to confirm why I did it
. Which, coincidently, is how I know you’ll keep your lover’s mouth shut.”

  He snapped his own mouth shut, his jaw clenching. I tipped the ash from the joint onto his floor, looking around. It was a fine-looking office, with one of his paintings hanging in front of his desk.

  “No files. No laptop. No camera. No leverage.” I counted with my fingers. “Sucks to be you these days, Harry. A part of you probably wishes you’d executed your plot and fucked my mother over before I could ruin you. You know I never told her about your shitty scheme? Her heart doesn’t deserve to be broken. She actually likes you.”

  Goddammit, Mom.

  He looked away, probably recalculating his next step. My feet were in his fucking face, and behind them, I knew he could see the golden victory in my expression.

  “I guess you came here to lay out your demands. You know I’ll cooperate. I did get you into this program, didn’t I?”

  He’d accepted me because I blackmailed him.

  I shrugged. “Anything you have to give, I have no interest in.”

  “Is that so?” He quirked one eyebrow, standing up. “You’d be surprised. Money, sex, and power speak. I offer plenty of all three.”

  “There are no bargains between gods and mortals. You will kneel, and as we’re both well aware, you’re also going to fucking enjoy it.”

  It was my turn to stand up. He assessed my face, refraining from making a move. I remained calm, stony, and tranquil. He rounded his desk and stood in front of me, then began lowering himself to the ground, an act of goodwill.

  Before his knees touched the floor, I spun on my heel and gave him my back, walking over to the painting hanging on his wall—the one I couldn’t get—and put my joint off right in the eyes of the pretty Italian girl with the perfect tan in 1950s summer in Ischia.

  He stared at me from his place on the floor, silent.

  “How’s business, Harry?” I asked conversationally, staring at the girl.

  She had deep brown hair, a sad face, and now two cigarette burns for eyes. Harry Fairhurst’s technique of painting eyes was what had made him famous. They looked so real, you sometimes looked down to avoid eye contact. I knew that better than anyone, because I was well-versed in escaping the eyes he’d painted that stared at me in my own house.