Angry God Page 8

“You weren’t supposed to say that.”

  Dad gave up on taking any interest in the conversation and began openly answering emails on his phone.

  Harry tapped his finger on his knee and toyed with his tie. “Lenora is devastated she didn’t get the internship.”

  I smirked into my drink. I wondered how she hadn’t connected the dots yet—why she hadn’t gotten in, why I did. She didn’t strike me as completely stupid. Perhaps a little slow.

  And a lot annoying.

  “Heard from her father just before I came here. Positively crushed, that one. I do hope she’ll take the role as your assistant,” Harry continued.

  My eyes snapped up. “She’d be stupid not to,” I fired out, the first real words I’d spoken to him.

  His chest caved visibly under his crisp, powder-blue dress shirt. He looked relieved, as if he’d been waiting for some sort of participation from me to prove a point to my parents—that we were on good terms.

  “She is a proud girl.”

  “Pride is just a synonym for stupid. It leaves room for error,” I retorted.

  “We all make mistakes,” he said.

  I smiled politely. “Speak for yourself.”

  There was a beat of silence before he continued.

  “She thought she deserved the place. And in Alma’s opinion, she did.” Fairhurst sat back and glared at me.

  Was he trying to rile me up? Privately, and only to myself, I could admit that Lenora wasn’t, in fact, completely talentless. Her art was a little psychotic, which obviously spoke to my unbalanced self. Lots of skulls, monsters, dragons, babies crawling on spiders’ legs and dead horses were created by her small hands. Her mind was a fascinating place, if you didn’t consider one thing she kept there—a particular memory of me—that I wanted to erase.

  “Who the fuck cares? Edgar and you disagreed.” I yawned.

  Both Edgar and Harry had a reason to give me the internship. It had nothing to do with my prodigious talent.

  I pitied Lenora in a sense. She didn’t lack talent, skill, or discipline. What she lacked was balls, lies, and a cunning mind.

  “Correct.” Harry stroked his chin. He would have chosen her if he could.

  Edgar, too.

  “Discussing who didn’t get the internship, and revealing her reaction to her opponent, is a waste both of time and manners,” my father said pointedly, crossing his legs on his imperial recliner, putting his phone aside.

  “I’m sorry. That must’ve sounded inappropriate. Lenora is my niece, and I care about her dearly.” Harry looked over to my father.

  “Raw meat. Don’t dangle it in the boy’s direction and expect him not to feast on it.”

  “I’m not a boy,” I snapped.

  “Stop acting like one, then,” my father deadpanned.

  I knew what that was about. The parties. The blow jobs. The aftermath.

  The servants talked, and I didn’t think there was any doubt that I was a loose fucking cannon in a very dangerous, fully operating machine.

  “My life’s none of your business.” I felt my nostrils flaring, my fingernails clawing at my recliner.

  “What an incredibly mindless thing to say. You are my son. Your life is nothing but my business.” My father’s voice was neutral, factual, and dispassionate.

  Mom patted Dad’s hand. “Time to tone it down.”

  He took her hand and kissed the back of it, dropping the subject.

  We entertained Harry for another twenty minutes before he fucked off. I could tell he wanted me to escort him to the door, along with my mother, but I had other plans, like, I don’t know, digging my tonsils out of my throat with a kitchen knife. It was bad enough I’d have to suffer his existence up close for six months.

  A few minutes after the door shut behind Fairhurst, Mom appeared at my bedroom door, hugging its frame and looking at me in a certain way. Though I lived in an existential vacuum and viewed girls’ mouths as a free parking space for my dick, Mom sure knew how to butter me up with just a glance.

  I was glad no girl would ever measure up to her. It made life simpler.

  “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

  Fairhurst had put me in a crap-ass mood. I wasn’t sure if it was his sheer existence, the fact that he’d said Lenora might not take the assistant intern role, or both. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I’d stolen the vintage CDs I saw on her desk one night when she wasn’t home and Edgar was in the shower.

  Only I knew why. They were right there for the fucking taking.

  Blur. The Stone Roses. The Cure. Joy Division.

  My truck was older than the queen and had a CD player. It made sense. Plus, served Lenora right for being a weirdo who still used a Discman.

  I just didn’t find her taste appalling, and that bothered me. I’d also downloaded all the movies on her iPad—Shawn of the Dead, A Clockwork Orange, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and, unfortunately, Atonement, which turned out to be such a chick flick that even Kiera Knightley getting nailed against a bookshelf couldn’t save it for me.

  But just because her taste wasn’t awful didn’t mean the rest of her was bearable.

  “You were acting strange out there.” Mom pushed off the doorframe and walked inside, taking a seat at the edge of my bed. I toed my army boots off, grabbing a bottle of water from my nightstand and squeezing it into my mouth.

  “Newsflash, Mother, I am the strangest asshole alive.”

  “Top two.” She scrunched her nose on a smile, reminding me that Dad took first place. “So, what’s the deal? Do you not like Fairhurst? I thought you’d always gotten along.”

  I felt the muscle in my jaw twitching, but smiled to ease it away. The painting she’d hung in front of my room in record time—not even hours after she purchased it—made me want to burn down the motherfucking house.

  “What’s not to like about him? He’s a fine artist and a well-connected son of a bitch. I can’t wait to get his input on my piece.”

  “What’s your piece about?” she asked.

  I shook my head. She was pretty rad for a mom, but sharing was not in my nature. “Nice try.”

  “You’re too complicated for your own good.” She sighed.

  “Easy when you’re surrounded by teenyboppers and simpleton jocks.”

  She scanned my face, trying to read me, before nodding and adding something about how she’d arranged for my piece to be sent from Edgar’s house to England next month, so I could continue working on it.

  They deserved more than the ungrateful, moody bastard I’d turned out to be.

  Two things a man can’t choose that define him: family and height.

  Mom and I talked shop, mainly about her gallery, and it was only when she was completely sure I was happy (as much as an ass face like me could be) that she finally retired to her bedroom.

  “Close the door after you,” I demanded, unnecessarily snappy.

  She did, shaking her head and smiling at my antics. Nothing disarmed an asshole more than a person who didn’t take them seriously.

  “Sweet dreams, my love.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Love you.”

  I looked the other way. This shit again. “You, too.”

  I could hear her laughter carrying down the hallway laden with stupid paintings.

  Restless, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my text messages.

  Knight: I’m having THE talk with Luna today. Wish me luck.

  Good luck trying to get your man card back, you ball-less sack of emotions.

  Stacee: You awake? ;)

  Not for you, Stacee, you slut-shaming, gay-bullying, diet-personality Barbie, whose only unique characteristic is that your parents were illiterate enough to fuck up your generic name.

  Hunter: On a scale of one to ten, when one is yawn, why-are-we-even-discussing-this and ten is I-will-fucking-dip-you-in-cold-fire-then-feed-you-to-my-blind-cat, how angry would you be if I told you I namedropped you to fuck
the Lenke twins? (P.S. at the same time, if it makes a difference)

  Minus thirteen, and their name is Lemke. At least that’s what their matching lower-back tattoos said when they licked my balls at the same time. (P.S. it doesn’t)

  Arabella: You awake?

  No, idiot. I’m asleep at seven pm, the time you sent me this message. I’m eighty like that.

  Alice: Soooo, it’s official now. Jason and I broke up. Drinks at mine?

  Only if it’s cyanide, and you’re the one doing all the drinking.

  I had no idea what made me think I’d find a text from Lenora. We never exchanged numbers.

  Or words.

  Or fucking glances, for that matter.

  We weren’t exactly on good terms. Then again, it was unlike her not to fight back when I pushed her. And this time, I’d shoved her out of the fucking picture and into another time zone. Why was she keeping silent?

  Are you up to something bad, Good Girl?

  I tossed my phone across my nightstand and squeezed my eyes shut. My room was my kingdom. All black, not a drop of color except for the occasional white or gray, and yet I felt so trapped inside. I wondered if that was going to change when I moved to England.

  Negatory, ass face.

  I’d always felt trapped. Even in the wild.

  I’d traveled all across the globe, spending entire summers in France, Italy, Australia, the UK, and Spain. And my damn demons always tagged along, like they were chained to my ankle, their shackles noisy in my ears.

  I was going to slay them this summer, though.

  I even knew which weapon I would use to cut the link between us.

  A sword I’d be making from scratch.

  The following weekend, Poppy dragged me to one of Arabella’s pool parties.

  Showing up uninvited was my idea of hell. But Poppy used the cheapest trick in the book: the heartbreak excuse. True, Knight wasn’t going to be there—he had family matters to take care of—but she didn’t want to face Arabella, Alice, Stacee, and the rest by herself.

  So I tagged along, praying the entire drive there that Vaughn wasn’t going to show up and use his cock as a party trick. I was tired of fighting him, of shooting him mean comebacks, of standing my ground.

  Oh, and also, I’d sort of retaliated by pouring superglue into his locker. It was childish and silly, but in my defense:

  He started it, using actual garbage.

  Not many things in the world make me smile like watching the Vaughn Spencer trying to unglue his chem book from the bottom of his locker before putting a dent in the neighboring locker with a vicious kick.

  We walked into Arabella’s Spanish villa, located in the gated community of El Dorado, already wearing our swimsuits. Poppy had opted for a coral pink bikini under her white beach dress, while I had on a black, studded one-piece and ripped jean shorts.

  “You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday blasted from the sick surround system. People cannonballed into the Olympic-sized pool and did shots from bikini clad cleavage. Arabella, Alice, Stacee, and a guy named Soren were sitting in a circle outside, drinking pink champagne from colorful sand buckets.

  Arabella sneered as soon as she looked up and caught sight of me.

  “I thought your kind can only enter when invited?” She arched a microbladed eyebrow, comparing me to a vampire.

  “That’s just a rumor. We’re actually perfectly able to barge into your house unannounced and drink your blood like it’s happy hour.” I helped myself to one of the buckets, pretending to take a sip. I wasn’t so dumb as to actually drink their alcohol.

  “All we can hope is for you to burn under the sun, then. It’s not like anyone is going to miss you.” Arabella batted her lashes, unwrapping a Popsicle and sucking on it with the enthusiasm of a porn star.

  This earned her a chuckle from everyone around.

  I bit my tongue. I couldn’t exactly compliment her on her literary knowledge about vampires, which she’d probably learned from Twilight (the movie, not, God forbid, the book) and only because Robert Pattinson was, like, “super-freaking-hot.” It was her house.

  “Be nice.” Poppy sighed at Arabella, plopping on a lounger next to them.

  “Sorry, dude, but you don’t get to tell us what to do now that Knight Cole is no longer banging you.” Alice started braiding Poppy’s hair, while Soren checked out my sister’s generous rack.

  I made myself comfortable on the end of the lounger next to my sister, blocking out the gossip about the cheer squad and texting with Pope.

  Lenny: At a pool party with Poppy and I hate everything about this place. Only a couple more months till I’m back.

  Pope: You’re missed.

  Lenny: I’m going to be in a sour mood working for Vaughn Spencer. He put the twat in the word twat.

  Pope: So…basically, he is a twat?

  Lenny: Precisely. You get me on another level, Raff.

  Pope: I won’t let him be a twat to you while I’m there. Now please tell me there’s a token villain cheerleader and at least two nominal sidekicks at the party, plus a one-dimensional meathead who is their soldier.

  I looked up, catching a glimpse of Arabella yelling at Alice and Stacee for blocking the sun, while Soren stared at all of them, tongue lolling out of his horn-dog mouth.

  Lenny: Yup. And I’m the awkward girl they compare to a vampire.

  Pope: Can’t wait for Freddie Prinze Jr. to finally notice that underneath the glasses and the awkwardness, you’re all that.

  Pope: He’ll whisk you off to the sunset.

  Pope: Slap a close-mouthed, PG-13 kiss on your lips.

  Pope: Sometimes when you open up to people, you let the bad in with the good.

  I rolled my eyes, feeling a goofy grin stretching across my lips.

  Lenny: I feel like that was an actual quote from the movie.

  Pope: Don’t be so scandalized. Took me three seconds to Google that shit.

  Lenny: Turning Goth was a mistake. Should’ve practiced my cheer moves.

  Pope: You’re no dancing puppet, Lenora Astalis. You’re an innovative artist through and through, and fuck the fakers. <3

  A herd of guys swaggered by. They stopped and saluted Alice and Arabella, their fists curled around cans of Bud Light. “America without her soldiers would be like God without his angels. We salute you veterans for your invaluable contribution to our society.”

  The hell?

  The confusion must’ve showed on my face, because Arabella flicked her dark extensions over her shoulder and scowled.

  “Your sister doesn’t even know what’s up. Jesus, Poppy, can she be any lamer?”

  Poppy turned to me, hitching up a shoulder.

  “There’s a system. Every time a girl at All Saints High hooks up with seven guys or more from any of the sports teams, she gets veteran status. Veterans are saluted at parties. They also get free drinks and dibs on new guys.”

  “That is literally the stupidest thing in the world,” I said, trying to recover from the amount of inanity crammed into a one-paragraph explanation.

  “Ever looked in the mirror?” Soren deadpanned, tilting his Ray-Bans down and giving me a degrading once-over.

  “Vampires can’t be seen in the mirror, eejit.” I tapped the Kindle app on my phone, getting ready to read. “But before you spoil it for me, I know, I know. I look like a cross between Drusilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Edward Cullen, and a bottle of lube. Very funny.”

  The afternoon snailed by. No one paid attention to me, but that meant the girls weren’t actively in bully mode. I drank bottled beer I opened myself and read a book. In between, I provided Pope with a live feed of what was happening. I wished I could see him as boyfriend material, but after growing up with him, he felt more like a stepbrother. When the party began to die down, most people retired to Arabella’s living room. (Her parents were on a mysterious vacation in Europe, and her sister, according to the rumors, basically lived at her nanny’s house.)

&n
bsp; Arabella ordered pizza, and everyone napped on the couches and floors, sunburned and drunk. I stayed outside and enjoyed the breeze, watched the sun descending into the ocean like an elusive temptress teasing her lover.

  I was sitting on the edge of a swing, hidden by palm trees, away from the pool, when I heard low voices behind me.

  “…an outsider. You really thought you could date Knight Cole with little to no consequences? He never had a girlfriend. Then you showed up and just took him. You think people don’t talk? That they don’t hate you for it?” Alice accused in a nasal voice, slurring. The words dragged, twisting in her mouth. “Arabella almost had sex with him before senior year, you know. At Vaughn’s house party. You ruined her progress.”

  Progress? Christ. As a feminist, hearing that word in Alice’s mouth made me want to slap her with a lawsuit.

  “I…I…” my sister stuttered behind the palm trees.

  Poppy had also had a few drinks. I didn’t nag her about it, because I was here to look after her, and I understood she needed to unwind after the shitty few weeks she’d had.

  “I didn’t know there were codes and such. He was fit and single, so I went for him. I never imagined it’d offend anyone.” She sounded weak, apologetic.

  I felt my nostrils flaring, but I didn’t move from my hidden spot on the swing.

  Fight back, Poppy.

  “Well, you did. God, you’re almost as stupid as your freakshow of a sister.” Arabella chuckled. “Payback’s a bitch, girl.”

  “Payback?” Poppy mumbled, her voice sobering at once. “What are you talking about?”

  “We know your sister has something going on with Vaughn Spencer.”

  I could practically envision the disapproving glower on Arabella’s face.

  “Call her now and force her to tell us what’s up. Are they screwing, or what?”

  “What?” Poppy snorted. “Have you even met my sister? You can’t get her to do anything, much less talk about Spencer.”

  “Make her,” Soren said, the threat thick in his voice.

  “No! I will do no such thing. She’s her own person. And a bloody stubborn one at that.”

  “Oh, you will,” Arabella whispered with conviction. “Unless you want to be punished. See, there’s a hierarchy in this town. Anywhere, really. Even in your gray little kingdom, right? And here, Alice and I have birthright to Knight and Vaughn. We went to kindergarten with them. Now Knight is out of the race. Luna Rexroth has him, and honestly, he’s too far gone for her, so there isn’t much point in making an effort. But Vaughn is still fair game, and you and your sister are newbies. You screwed up, and now you’re going to pay up.”