Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
No matter how much she says she’s mad at her, she still cares for her.
But maybe her mom knows and she asked her to hide her whereabouts from me.
The ringing of my phone drags me from my chaotic thoughts. Mrs. Weaver flashes on the dashboard.
I inhale deeply as I answer in the cheerful tone she expects, “Grandma.”
“Sebastian!” she coos, her tone honeyed, which means she has company.
Sure enough, chatter reaches me from her end.
“I’ll be right back, darling,” she tells someone. “My grandson is on the phone…yes…the star.”
There are some gleeful remarks that I want to shut the fucking door on, but I can’t, because no one hangs up on Debra Weaver. It’s the other way around.
Soon after, the sounds disappear and she hisses, “Where the hell are you?”
“Huh?”
“We have a gathering this evening. You and your uncle were supposed to show up.”
Fuck. We do.
I completely forgot about it in my attempts to find Naomi.
My mind speeds in different directions, searching for a plausible solution. “I have a late class. I can’t make it.”
“Late class with the seamstress’s daughter?” Her tone is deadly, and if we were face-to-face, I’d see the twin flames in her eyes.
“How do you know about that?” There’s no use denying it, and if I do, she’ll just use it as an invitation to strike harder.
“You really thought we would let our only heir on the loose after you kissed the girl on TV?”
A miscalculation on my part. I should’ve known that Grandma would grab hold of that behavior like a magnet. She doesn’t focus on what’s normal, but more on what tries to be normal when it, in fact, isn’t.
“She has nothing to do with this,” I say in my most neutral tone.
“You just proved that she does by defending her to me.”
I tighten my hold on the steering wheel. My grandparents are like sharks to blood, the moment they smell weakness, they latch on to it until they bring you down by using it.
That’s what they did to Dad and have been trying to do to me and Nate.
We held on for so long.
Or at least, my uncle did. Looks like I allowed them to smell my blood after all.
“You have two options, Sebastian. Drop the seamstress's daughter as gently or as cruelly as you prefer, or watch as she breaks her neck. Be here in fifteen.”
Beep.
I slam the breaks so hard, the car nearly topples over. My fist drives into the steering wheel and I’m surprised it doesn’t come off.
Pain reverberates in my knuckles, but it doesn’t compare to the warring state in my chest.
When my parents died in that car accident and my grandparents adopted me, I learned something.
In order to survive, I needed to play their sadistic games. I needed to act a certain way, speak a certain way, and even smile a certain way.
It’s all part of the social play the Weavers have excelled at for generations. To be able to carry on with the legacy, I had to be strong-minded enough to lead the family, but I wasn’t allowed to step out of the norm.
Up to this point, I’ve been the perfect Weaver neither Dad nor Nate could be.
But the image I’ve spent years perfecting is slowly crumbling in front of me. And that brings on one urge.
The only urge I have.
The need for violence.
I kick the car in gear, driving at a crazy speed until I’m back at Naomi’s house. Fuck Grandma’s gathering. If she’s holding a guillotine over my head, I might as well indulge.
I fully expect Naomi’s mom to tell me she still hasn’t come home, but I pause when I find her car in the driveway.
A small space in my heart lights up as I step out of the vehicle the fastest I ever have.
My feet come to a halt as soon as I cross the distance to the porch. A lone yellow light shines on a small figure sitting on the outside steps.
Naomi.
Her head is in her hands as she stares out at the distance. A quick sweep of the driveway shows only her car, so her mom must be at work late, as usual.
There’s always some shipment going wrong or a design that didn’t meet her standards. Naomi often grumbles about how much of an unhealthy workaholic her mom is.
She doesn’t notice me as I slowly approach her. It’s not until I’m a small distance away that I notice the shaking in her shoulders and the defeat bowing her usually upright posture. Goosebumps cover her bare arms from the slight chill and I want to hurt an invisible being for causing her discomfort.
My Naomi looks so breakable, so fragile, almost like she could be ruined with a mere touch.
I came here charged with anger and the need for violence, but as I observe her state, all those thoughts vanish from my system.