Hooked: A Dark, Contemporary Romance (Never After #1)(8)

Sliding into my Audi, I pull onto the busy street to follow close behind and make sure she gets home safe. I have no interest in owning something damaged, even temporarily.

And until I decide otherwise, Wendy Michaels is mine.





5





Wendy





“What do you mean ‘homeschooling?’” I ask my brother, Jon.

He shrugs, his dark hair bobbing with the motion, arm waving to the papers strewn out in front of him. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. I asked Dad if I could do it this way and he said okay.”

My brows scrunch. Why wouldn’t he tell me about this?

“Cool. So, you and Dad had a good talk then?” I plop next to him at the dining room table.

His lips curl slightly. “Wendy, be real. When’s the last time Dad actually talked to me?”

My insides clamp down and I sigh, the excuses for our father rolling off my tongue; so practiced I can barely taste the lies. “He’s just busy, Jon, that’s all. You know he loves you and wishes he could be here.”

Jon scoffs, gripping his pencil so tight his knuckles turn white. “Yeah, sure.”

“Besides,” I continue. “You have me, and we both know I’m all you need.”

He smirks, rolling his eyes behind his large square-framed glasses. “You’re right. Who needs parents when they’ve got you? You mother me enough for the whole damn town.”

I force a scowl, amusement weaving through my chest. “Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Proving my point.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “It is cool, though… about homeschooling. I’m happier this way.”

He’s not wrong. I suppose I do mother him more than a normal sibling would, but I’m all he has. Our mother died when Jon was barely one; a fatal car accident from a drunk driver. And although I’ll never admit it out loud, my dad definitely doesn’t give Jon the time or attention he deserves. It’s a sore spot in our relationship, one I don’t like to focus on for too long.

“Well, I’m glad he’s letting you stay home if it’s what you want. You think you’ll miss the interaction?”

He huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes again. “No. Kids are assholes.”

My heart pangs. Maybe homeschooling will be the better option. Hope flares in the middle of my sternum, wondering if my father actually listened all of the times I’ve begged him to intervene with Jon’s bullying.

I smile. “Okay, well, I gotta go to work. You want to watch a movie tonight?”

“Why do you work when you don’t need the money?” he asks.

I shrug, chewing on my lower lip. “So I don’t die of boredom, I guess.”

“You could always go to college.” He smirks, glancing at me.

“And leave you here? What would you do without me?”

He grins, leaning over his paperwork and effectively dismissing me.

Sighing, I stand up, leaving him to it. I love to be around him, but I miss the days when he would attach himself to my legs or put his sticky toddler hands on my cheeks and tell me I was his favorite person in the world.

As he got older, he shuttered himself, the cruelties of being bullied making him hide behind walls he was forced to build. An ache spreads across my chest, and it stays with me the entire drive to The Vanilla Bean.

It’s two hours later—after I’ve messed up two macchiatos and spilled an entire gallon of caramel on the ground—that I realize today is not going to be my day. The other barista called off, so it’s just me, and for some reason I can’t do a single task without messing something up.

“Can someone give me some service around here?” A man’s voice hollers from the main area.

I stand up from where I’m cleaning the remnants of caramel and brush my hair from my eyes, peering around the corner. I hadn’t even heard anyone come in. “Hi! So sorry, give me just a sec.”

The man scowls, crossing his arms, a large watch blinging on his wrist. “Some of us have things to do. I’ve been standing here for five minutes.”

Irritation stabs my gut. I drop the rag on the counter, the water dripping from the fabric and onto the ground, and walk to the front. “So sorry about the wait, sir.”

He huffs, his hand tapping the counter in a jittery rhythm. I’m no stranger to rude customers—unfortunately in the service industry they happen more often than not—but today, my nerves are shot, and I can feel the ball of fire brewing in the center of my stomach, spinning and growing, the flames licking up my insides.

I paste a smile on my face. “What can I get you?”

“Large hot coffee, black.”

I nod, blowing out a relieved breath that his drink is something simple. He pays and I spin around, side-eyeing the small puddle that’s collected on the floor from where the rag has been steadily dripping. I pour his coffee just as the bell above the front door dings, the sound making me jerk. Before I can turn my head, my foot slips on the water, causing me to tip backward, the burn from the sloshing coffee scalding my skin. My tailbone throbs with a sharp ache as I lay on the cold ground, eyes closed, trying to collect myself enough through the humiliation to stand up and just finish this guy’s order.

“Jesus Christ, is there anyone here who’s competent enough to get me a drink?”