Hooked (Never After, #1)(44)

“Rest easy, friend.”

Pain splinters through my stomach as I toss the lighter onto fallen leaves, watching as they catch fire and spread, Ru’s body slowly being engulfed in the flames.





25





Wendy





There’s a single, sad cupcake in the center of my kitchen island, with gloppy white icing and sprinkles that look out of place; so colorful in a gray and empty house. It’s been three days since Jon has gone, leaving me entirely alone, and quite frankly, depressed.

I’ve always spent my time focused on family, not willing to let our brittle roots break after the death of my mother.

But now I don’t really see the point.

“Happy birthday to me.” I sigh, blowing out the flame.

Glancing at my phone, my chest pinches tight. It’s almost seven in the evening, and other than a quick birthday text from Angie, no one has called all day.

Not my father.

Not Jon.

Not James.

Although, in James’s defense, I’ve never told him when my birthday was. But he’s been MIA since Monday, when he helped me take Jon to Rockford Prep.

I took the day off from The Vanilla Bean, but now I’m regretting the decision, the hollow ring of loneliness echoing through the high ceilings and marble floors of my house.

Suddenly, my phone rings, and anticipation lights up my insides. But when I look at the ID and see it’s my dad, disappointment casts a shadow like a storm cloud.

I was wanting it to be James.

And that revelation in itself sends a shock wave through me, because somewhere along the line, in these past few weeks, my dad has slipped off his pedestal, the ache of missing him muted and dulled.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Little Shadow, Happy birthday.”

My stomach twists. “Thank you. Wish you were here to celebrate.”

“Me too.”

My stomach drops, and I feel stupid once again for hoping that maybe he was calling to say he was on his way.

“Listen,” he continues. “I’m sending out some new security for the house tomorrow.”

My nose scrunches. “What? Why?”

My father has always had security for himself, but we’ve always kept our private home private.

“I’ve had some idiots trying to blackmail me, and I need to make sure you’re safe. That the house is safe.”

I chew my lip. Blackmail? “What? No, Dad… I… I don’t need a freaking bodyguard. That’s ridiculous,” I laugh. “I’ll be fine.”

“This is not up for discussion, Wendy.” His voice is stern, and it cuts through me, making my lungs cramp in my chest. He speaks as though I’m a child, unable to care for myself. As if I’m not intelligent enough to handle the truth of whatever’s going on.

Blackmail. Give me a break.

“Dad, I’m not a kid anymore, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

He chuckles. “Wendy, you can’t help. You just need to listen and do as I say.”

Anger swims through my veins and my jaw tenses. Maybe a few weeks ago I would have just listened, but after being with James—after being treated as a woman whose voice is heard and whose opinions are valid—crawling back into the role my father expects me to play feels like steel bars clamping down on my soul.

And I won’t do it.

But fighting with my father is as good as talking in circles, so I stay silent on the line, thinking about how I can handle things once I hang up.

Maybe James can help.

“Okay, Dad. I hear you.”

“Good,” he responds. “I’ll be home in the next few weeks, and we can have dinner. A night for just the two of us, okay?”

My throat burns. “Mmhm,” I force out.

A female voice cuts through the phone. “Pete, where are you taking me tonight? I want to know if I should look fancy or if we’re ordering in.”

My lungs cramp, realizing that he isn’t working, he’s just choosing to take Tina out on my birthday instead of making sure he’s home to spend it with me. And that’s fine. It’s absolutely fine.

I hang up the phone without saying goodbye, not sure I’ll be able to stop the cutting words from flying off my tongue, and I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.

There’s a throbbing ache in the middle of my stomach, a sickly, green feeling that weighs me down and makes me want to crack.

But I don’t.

Heading up the stairs and to my room, I decide to pack a bag and leave. I have a few thousand dollars in my bank account, and while I’m sure my father won’t be happy, there’s really nothing he can do. He can’t make me stay, after all.

My bedroom is pitch black, the sun having set while I was staring at my cupcake, and I flick on the lamp by my bedside, my eyes snagging on the picture of my mother and me from when I was young.

I wonder if she’s somewhere looking down on us, feeling sad over the fact that she couldn’t stick around. Maybe if she were still here, my dad would be too.

Shaking my head, I ignore the burn radiating from the middle of my chest as I walk to my full-length mirror. My hands run over my pale green dress, smoothing out the wrinkles as I gaze into the glass.

I pick up my hairbrush from the vanity next to me and point to my reflection. “You aren’t a child, Wendy. You are a bad bitch.” Giggling at the phrase, I run the bristles over my hair, repeating the affirmation in my mind.