Secret Heir (Dynasty #1)(3)

“I’ll have a whisky, no ice.” The man’s voice is gentle, kind. Not something I’m used to.

“Coming right up,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, despite my growing discomfort. I open my mouth to say something else, although I have no idea what. But thinking better of it, I walk away instead, feeling the man’s eyes on me the whole time.

I get through the rest of the shift feeling like I was two seconds from running out of the diner. The man at table six stayed until an hour before closing, watching the whole time. Again, not in that perverted way that I’m used to, but watching all the same, and I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my entire life. I could feel something like shame prickling down my spine as I batted my lashes and flashed the usual smile to the customers under that watchful gaze.

I’d gotten rid of that shame a long time ago, but for some reason, in the presence of this total stranger, I suddenly wanted to cover up and get the hell out of there.

The shiver of premonition returns. Those eyes see things, know things that I’m sure I never want to find out.





2





As I walk through the derelict neighborhoods that make up Brockton, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I tell myself to stop being so paranoid—it’s been a strange day, and my nerves are fried, but it’s no excuse to start imagining things. Still, I can’t shake the feeling.

My eyes dart around the decrepit houses, peering into the darkened woods surrounding the low-rise buildings, but I see nothing. There are no lights on in any of the houses, which is not unusual given the time of night, and also the fact that most houses in this part of town sit abandoned. I almost jump out of my skin when a dog barks loudly in the distance somewhere. I reprimand myself and force my breath to calm.

I round the corner and head towards the trailer that is foster home number ten. I feel the usual pang of bitterness whenever I lay eyes on what’s meant to be my home.

I hate this place. Not that I’d particularly liked any of the other foster homes. They had each been different—some with normal families, nice houses, well-intentioned foster parents, and others not so nice or well-intentioned. After the third foster home, the quality started to steadily decline—nobody wanted to take in a rebellious teenager who had a history of getting kicked out of multiple foster homes, other than the less well-intentioned people who just wanted me around so that they could collect a monthly check. Foster home number ten is definitely that kind of home, or trailer, to be precise.

I’m reminded once again of my lonely existence. It’s not that I set out to be a loner, but I just don’t see the point of forming any attachments, when I know that I’ll inevitably be packing up and moving again once my current foster family gets fed up with my bad attitude. Because they always do—no one has ever cared enough to put up with me for more than a year, no one has ever wanted to keep me, and I can’t blame them.

In truth, I know it’s more than just that, though. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt … different. Like, even if I did try, I could never really fit in. Maybe it’s because my mom’s death ripped away my childhood or because having to worry about how to provide for my own future makes my life very different from that of a normal teenager. Or maybe it’s something else, something that I can’t quite put my finger on that makes me feel like I just don’t belong anywhere—not here in this shit hole of a town, not in any of the other towns that I’ve lived in, nowhere, and something inside me knows that I could travel the entire earth and still never find somewhere to belong.

There are times when I’m standing in a room full of people and still feel alone, like if I scream at the top of my lungs, no one would even hear me. The thought is a depressing one and maybe a tad melodramatic, but it's true.

Feeling something like defeat wash over me, I fling open the flimsy trailer door and step inside. Thankfully, my latest foster mother, Janice, is out. Probably getting trashed as usual, using the money that she’s meant to be spending on food and supplies for me, no doubt. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter—I’ll be out of here in less than a year, then I’ll be on my own. The thought is a scary one, but not scary enough to want to stick around here for longer than I have to.

The trailer is a mess, as usual. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink and the place reeks like alcohol and tobacco. Normally, I’d get to tidying up, I’m the only one who ever does. But tonight, I’m exhausted. The eight hour round trip to Rockford Cape and the five hour shift at Rodeo Ricky’s, has left me shattered.

Flopping down on my cramped bed, I don’t even bother to change out of my jeans and sweater, as I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to shut out my surroundings. It’s the first day of my senior year tomorrow, and it’s nearly midnight, so I need to get some sleep. But despite feeling tired, sleep seems out of reach tonight. Sighing, I get up and pull out a small metal tin from the drawer beside the bed.

The trailer is dark, the only light coming from the silvery light of the moon streaming in through the single window. Looking up at the lone silhouette against the sky, I feel drawn to it somehow.

Feeling the invisible tug, I step back out into the night, walking aimlessly until I find myself at the abandoned playground that separates the trailer park from the nearby woods. I sit down on one of the rusted swings and it creaks in response. I open the battered metal tin that I’m clutching. I have very few personal belongings, everything in my life is disposable. Everything apart from the contents of this tin.