Fake It 'Til You Break It(22)

“No, it’s fine. I was just practicing.” I take another deep breath. “What’s up?”

“I got an alert from the bank,” he says with a short pause. “There was an overdraft on your account.”

I tense.

She did not.

I quickly walk into the house, tearing my wallet from my bag by the door.

“Demi.”

I pull back the side pocket and sure enough, my card is gone.

Damn it!

My hand falls and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t have a chance to... check the balance. I’m going out of town for Krista’s birthday tomorrow and...” I ramble off a lie, trying to cover when I wasn’t prepared.

“You’ve been spending more than normal,” he hedges, but I can’t bite.

I have to live with the woman, deal with her more often, which means if I’m lying to someone it unfortunately has to be him.

“I know, there’s just been so much happening around here lately. I can drive into the city next weekend, and work it off?” I offer.

My dad’s law firm is in downtown San Jose, a solid hour or more in traffic from where I am in Santa Cruz. He commuted back and forth for a long time but ended up buying a place closer a couple years ago.

He’s quiet for a moment, and I almost think he’s going to call me out on what he must know is a lie. He sees the statements and where the card is being used.

“No, honey,” he says quietly, the disappointment, maybe a little guilt, too, easily heard. “You don’t have to do that, but thank you for offering. Maybe be a little more conscious of your spending is all, you know, if you can.”

He totally knows it’s her.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry again, Dad.”

“It’s all right. Will you check in with me over the weekend while you’re gone?”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you,” I tell him. “Bye.”

I hang up and drop my head back, sighing at the ceiling before glaring at my wallet.

She said she came home to drop off her car.

Bullshit.

I can’t wait until I’m away at college and she’s forced to reevaluate or fall flat on her ass.

Tossing my wallet back in my bag, I grab a blue Gatorade from the fridge, a blanket off the back of the couch, and go outside to lay on the large lounger. I pull the soft fleece over my legs, slip my hoodie on, and allow the music to play quietly beside me while I stare at the stars.

It’s well past midnight, my mind having only begun to clear of my own family issues, when the hushed argument of another’s floats over the fence.

“I’m not gonna allow this shit from you anymore,” Nico hisses.

Cold words from someone else follows. “And how does a punk kid like you plan to stop it?”

Mr. Sykes?

I haven’t seen him in years.

“I’m not a fuckin’ kid anymore, and I won’t stand here and watch you or your new wife destroy her all over again.”

Oh shit, the rumors are true. He did leave them and remarry.

“You think you could stop me if you tried?” A loud, clearly intoxicated laugh echoes. “Your mom will never let me go. She begs to see my face. When was the last time your ma’s even looked at you?”

“You wouldn’t know.” Nico’s voice is a deep rumble that has the hairs on my neck standing. “You keep her so doped up on pills she doesn’t even know what day it is half the time.”

Shit.

I reach for my earbuds, knowing I’ve already heard more than I should have.

“Get the fuck—”

Music fills my ears, cutting Nico’s words off.

It takes a few songs for my muscles to ease, and I close my eyes, letting the chilled September night’s air waft over my face.

Minutes later, my music stops.

I blindly reach for my phone, but when my hand finds an empty space, my eyes pop open.

I jump.

Nico stands tall, his shadow wide and looming, my phone locked tight in his grip.

He glares, jaw clenched, beads of sweat covering his forehead. “You record that?”

My brows jump. “No.” I point to my phone and he tears his gaze from mine, forcing them to the screen. “Just music. I plugged in as soon as—”

“As soon as what?” he snaps. “Soon as it got too heavy for your textbook world?”

I prepare to argue, but the longer I look at him, I decide against it.

He’s stressed. Tense.

Tired?

My eyes fall to his shirt – torn at the sleeve and stretched at the collar – before moving right back to his.

His face hardens and he cuts his glare to the fence.

“Wanna talk?” I ask when maybe I shouldn’t.

He scoffs, shaking his head, still not looking back at me. “I give you one ride home, so you don’t have to walk in the fucking dark, and suddenly you assume I want to talk to you.”

I eye him and his nostrils flare.

He said after his games he doesn’t like talking. Maybe it’s the same with all intense situations for him?

“Good, I’m glad you’re not up for it.” I lift a shoulder and his gaze slowly slides sideways, back to mine as I scoot over on the double lounger, then lay back, gazing up at the sky once again. “You’re an asshole, and I don’t want to talk to you, either.”