Wild War Page 4

  I should have been angry, and I was. But more than that, I felt trapped. Trapped like I’d never felt before, and not just trapped between two options, but trapped in this life—his life. In his school. In his house. In his family.

  He said he wanted me to make a choice, but he was actually pointing out that I didn’t have a choice. Not really. He’d win, and I’d lose. There was nothing I could choose to make that end another way.

  My hand shaking, I picked up the lighter. I wouldn’t withstand fourteen lashes. And if I was going to lose, at least I’d make him waste a good portion of his afternoon on it.

  It took almost two hours to smoke the rest of the pack.

  I tried to take longer, dragging out each puff, delaying longer before I brought it to my lips again, but Stark watched me carefully and waved the whip threateningly every time I slowed down or didn’t take a real inhalation.

  I threw up after the eighth cigarette. He kicked his wastebasket toward me as soon as he realized I was going to heave. I threw up again after the twelfth, and still he made me finish the last one as well as the other half of the one I’d abandoned.

  And through it all, he watched me with fascination. I’d never had someone’s focus for so long. Never felt so intensely scrutinized. Never understood the real meaning of helplessness.

  Finally, when all sixteen of the cigarettes were butts in the glass bowl, my punishment was finished. Without a word, Stark dumped the ashes in the wastebasket along with the empty pack and pocketed the lighter.

  “Empty the trash on your way out,” he said, pulling a file off a stack and opening it up, his attention now fully on work. He didn’t spare me another glance. He was done with me. He’d moved on.

  I stared at him, my head pounding, my body shaking, my stomach threatening to retch again, even though I’d emptied it completely.

  Then, because he’d proven his point—that he was the one in control, and I had no say—I pulled the trash bag from the can and took it with me when I left.

  Five

  Cade

  There was still one more class on my schedule, but I skipped it. I wouldn’t have made it through the lesson, even if I’d wanted to. Just crossing the half mile to get to our house had felt like an achievement. I’d had to stop several times, my head pounding so hard I thought it would explode, my stomach churning like there was still something in it left to expel.

  When the walking path made its final curve leading to our yard, I almost collapsed in relief. I’d never thought I’d be so thankful to see that damn front porch.

  Even more reason to be thankful was the sight of my mother on her knees, weeding the flowerbeds in front of the house. We’d remained at odds since my arrival, but like the little boy I’d once been who sought her out to kiss away my boo-boos, she was exactly the person I needed now.

  She stood when she saw me, bringing a glove-clad hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Cade? School’s not over. Why are you home early?”

  Then I was close enough for her to see me better, or the sun moved, because her hand fell, and her eyes grew wide. “What’s wrong?” she asked, closing the distance between us. “You look terrible. Did something happen?”

  I responded by bending over, my hands on my thighs, and retched in her petunias. They were pretty much dead, anyway.

  “Oh, honey, are you sick?”

  I felt too awful to give her a snide response—obviously, I was sick—and too grateful for the garden apron she handed me to wipe my mouth.

  When I was upright again, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around me while she pressed her lips to my forehead. “You’re not warm. What’s that smell?” Her nose wrinkled as she got a good inhale.

  Immediately, she stepped away, her brief demonstration of compassion already over. “God, you smell like a smoking lounge on a Friday night. Was it just tobacco, or were you messing with marijuana? That stuff can be laced, you know. You have no idea if you’re getting straight plant or if it’s got some PCP, and if you’re getting drugs from someone on campus, you need to let Langdon—”

  I cut her off. “Langdon is the reason I smell like this.” It was the first time I’d spoken since I’d left his office, and damn did I need a glass of water. My throat was on fire.

  I crossed to the spout on the front of the house and turned it on, then cupped my hands to bring water to my mouth.

  “Don’t be cryptic, Cade. What are you talking about?” Annoyance was heavy in her tone.

  I drank a little more, careful not to drink too much in fear of another bout of nausea, then turned the spout off and turned to her. “I’m talking about your husband. He’s a monster. He made me sit in his office and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. That’s why I look like shit. That’s why I’m puking in your flowers.”

  She visibly rolled her eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for whatever this—”

  Angrily, I cut her off. “You’re not in the mood? Do you think I’m in the mood to feel like this?”

  “If you’re messing around with cigarettes, then I’m sorry, but you get what you deserve.”

  “This wasn’t me, Mom. Would you listen to me for half a second? Really listen?” I waited until she gave me her full attention. “Your husband—my headmaster—sat me down in his office for two hours with a pack of cigarettes and then made me smoke every single one of them.” I spoke slowly, spelling it out to her like she was a child.

  Finally, she seemed to process what I was saying.

  Or at least tried to process. “What do you mean made you? You can’t force someone to—”

  “You can if you threaten them. Look.” I’d almost forgotten about the stripe on my palms, too distracted by the effects of chain smoking. I showed her now. “This is from a whip he keeps in his office.” I only now thought to question why he had it. What he used it for. Who he used it on. “He threatened to give me more lashes if I didn’t smoke them all.”

  She took off her garden gloves and tossed them to the ground before reaching for my right hand. Then my left. Concern marked her features as she examined the marks, though I could sense she was still wary. “You didn’t do this to yourself?”

  “How could I do this to myself?”

  “You didn’t have a friend do this?”

  “Why would I have a friend do this to me?”

  “Because you want to make your stepfather into the bad guy. You wanted to frame him or something.”

  I was growing impatient. I’d come home intent on telling my mother right away what had happened. I didn’t think I’d have to convince her it was true.

  Still, I knew screaming at her wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “I’m not trying to frame him, Mom, or make him a bad guy. I’m trying to tell you that he is a bad guy. I swear on my life, this was him.”

  She dropped my hands and hugged herself, as though she was the one who needed the comfort. As though finding out her new husband wasn’t the knight in shining armor she wanted him to be would completely alter her world.

  I supposed she wasn’t wrong about that.

  “Why? Why would he do something like this?” It no longer sounded like skepticism but an attempt to grapple with what I was telling her.

  I’d spent the whole time in his office asking myself the same thing. “I don’t know. He’s cruel, I think. I think he liked punishing me.”

  I couldn’t get the image of the gleeful way he’d looked at me while I suffered out of my head. He’d definitely enjoyed it. Thinking about it made me feel sick again. And small. And embarrassed for some reason that I couldn’t explain.

  “Why was he punishing you? Did you do something?”

  “Well, I mean.” I considered lying, then thought better of it. “Yes. I did something. He caught me smoking—”

  “You said he made you smoke.”

  “He did! Not the first one, though. I was out with some of the guys, okay? It was just one cigarette. I bummed it from another kid. S
tark caught us, and even though the cigarettes weren’t mine, I’m the only one he took to his office. And then he spent the next two hours forcing me to smoke the rest of the pack. Sixteen cigarettes, Mom. One after another. No break.”

  “Oh, Cade.” She let out another sigh, her head shaking as she dropped her arms to her side. “He was teaching you a lesson.”

  My heartbeat felt heavy. I was losing her. “That wasn’t what that was.”

  “He was. He was teaching you a lesson about smoking.”

  “He was torturing a minor.”

  “You’re so dramatic. It was a punishment with a moral. And, yes, punishments are uncomfortable. That’s the whole point of them.” She bent to pick up the apron I’d dropped and her discarded gloves, clearly having made her assessment of the situation and ready to move on.

  I followed after her as she cleaned up. “This goes beyond uncomfortable, Mom. I’m pretty sure it’s not even legal.”

  “It’s extreme, yes. But sometimes extremism is called for. He’s trying to teach you why smoking is bad. You haven’t had a father in your life, so I can see why this sort of parental guidance could come as a shock, but honestly, you need this. This is exactly the kind of discipline you’ve been lacking.”

  I might not have ever had a father, but after a year observing Mr. Goodie with his children, I’d seen what responsible parenting looked like, and this was not it.

  But that wasn’t the part of her lecture that struck a nerve. “How do you even know what the fuck I need?” Her head snapped back toward me, her expression disapproving, but I wasn’t going to apologize for my language or my outburst. “You abandoned me. For a year. How could you possibly have any idea that I need discipline?”

  “I know by your own admission that you were caught smoking, so don’t even try to play innocent with me.”

  “Fine! I was smoking, and I’m evil, and I deserve harsh and unusual punishments to put me in line. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “What I want is a little gratitude.”

  “Gratitude.” I repeated the word, as if I’d be less shocked hearing it from my own lips. “Unbelievable.”

  “Oh my God, Cade, please. Stop.” She turned toward me, her body sagging with a weariness that was almost disturbing. “You’ve only been here three weeks, and I’m exhausted. And you can’t even give this place a chance.” Her voice dropped, low and convicted. “This is the best we’ve had it; do you realize that? You have one year to get through. One year, and this is the best chance you have for a future. This home is the best opportunity I’ve ever given you. Ever given us. So fine. Go ahead and ruin it for yourself, but you’re on your own with that. You aren’t going to ruin it for me.”

  I took a step backward, stunned by her words. Feeling them as what they were—another abandonment. Another betrayal.

  Another step back, and this time I bumped into a body.

  I turned in time to catch Julianna before she fell. “Sorry,” she said, as if she’d been the one to bump into me. “I was trying to slip by without interrupting.”

  Her eyes stuck on mine, and I could feel my skin heat. Had she heard what we’d been talking about? I hoped she hadn’t. Not because I cared if I’d destroyed her thoughts about her dear old dad, but because of that odd embarrassed element. There was something humiliating about being punished. About being weak enough to be punishable.

  As little as I thought about my stepsister, I didn’t like the idea of her finding me weak.

  I definitely didn’t like the weird, warm way it felt to touch her. As soon as I was sure she was upright on her own, I let her go, shoving my wounded hands in my pockets.

  “You’re fine, honey,” my mother said, stepping around me, her voice full of cheer that hadn’t been there a moment before. “We were just... Oh, look at this mess in your way.” She bent to pick up the trowel she’d left on the ground and her gardening pillow. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I should be cleaning up and starting dinner.”

  She was terrible at a subject change, but Julianna followed her with it. “Um, about that… It’s Dad’s night in Hartford.”

  “Oh, that’s right. The Council for Northeast Private Educators.” Her expression eased with the reminder, and the cheer in her voice now sounded much more authentic. “Well, that changes things. Should we order pizza, or I could do grilled cheese?”

  Julianna bit her lip, and I tried not to stare. “Actually, I was hoping I could go to my study group again. It was really helpful last time. I can grab dinner with them.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” my mother said, and I could practically hear the wink-wink in her tone. “You’ll be back before…?”

  “He won’t even know I was gone,” Julianna said, then scampered into the house, closing the screen door softly behind her.

  Under other circumstances, I would have tried to analyze it more—the conspiratorial interaction, the relief my mother had at a night off from her spouse, the knowledge that little-miss-perfect Juliana took advantage of her father’s absence.

  But I was too consumed with my own feelings. The words my mother had uttered before Julianna had shown up echoed in my mind. You’re on your own. You’re on your own.

  “Do you have a dinner preference?” my mother asked when we were alone again, as though everything between us was fine and dandy.

  Like hell was I playing that game. “I’m on my own, remember? Looks like you are too.” I followed Julianna into the house, but when I went in, I let the screen door slam.

  Six

  Cade

  I slept the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. When I woke up around nine, there was a plate with two cold grilled cheese sandwiches on my nightstand and a can of Coke. Sugary drinks weren’t allowed in Stark’s household, so I had a feeling it was meant to be an offering, but I was still too pissed to accept it.

  The sandwich, though, I appreciated.

  I still had the headache from earlier, but my stomach had calmed enough to want food, even cold. After inhaling the first one, I slowed down on the second, taking a bite of it then crossing to look out at the front yard as I continued to nibble.

  As much time as I’d spent in my room over the last month—mostly trying to catch up from my late start to the school year—I hadn’t explored the window. There was no screen, I noticed now, and the roof over the porch extended seven or eight inches underneath.

  Holding the sandwich between my teeth, I opened the window. It was only about a three-foot drop to the roof. Four at most. I could easily get out, and it wouldn’t be that hard to get back in.

  As badly as I wanted an escape from my life, this small discovery felt enormous.

  After grabbing a hoodie from my dresser, I sat down on the sill, swung my legs out over the extension, and dropped. Easy.

  Instantly, I had my own hideout. Fuckin’ A.

  I crawled more to the center of the roof then sat down, brought my knees to my chest, and finished my sandwich. It was chilly, and I was glad I’d donned the extra layer, but beyond that the night was clear and peaceful. The stars were out. The moon, bright behind the treetops. The only sounds were of the crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl and the rustle of a breeze through the trees.

  Then something that sounded husky. A tortured moan.

  What?

  I listened. Waited to hear it again. Less than a minute later, I did.

  No, that wasn’t a tortured moan. It was an aroused moan.

  I crept toward the edge of the porch roof and looked for the source, finding it quickly—two figures sitting on the metal garden bench my mother had placed two weekends ago at the side of the drive near the bird bath.

  Well, one figure sitting, the other kneeling with its head over the other’s lap, the shadows of the night making it impossible to make out either person’s identity.

  Who the fuck…?

  The moon peeked up over the canopy then, shining light on the yard. Antoine Birch was the figure sitting, hi
s head thrown back in pleasure.

  And even though I couldn’t see her face, the figure bobbing up and down over Birch’s exposed cock seemed to have the shape of Julianna.

  Then he wasn’t talking horseshit earlier about her reputation.

  It was startling. But I felt more than surprised. I felt…

  I didn’t know what I felt, exactly. My chest burned and my breath felt shallow, and I didn’t want to be watching, but I couldn’t force myself to look away.

  If I had to put a name to the emotion, it was anger.

  Except I wasn’t quite sure whom I was angry with. Or why. Or what to do about it.

  So I just kept watching, finishing my sandwich in angry bites despite having lost my appetite. And a few minutes later, when Birch’s body got rigid and his moan elongated, I kept watching as she sat back on her knees and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, apparently having swallowed.

  Lucky Birch.

  No, not lucky Birch. This was my stepsister. A girl I barely knew, but my stepsister nonetheless. There was no fucking way I was going to think about her like that.

  But I was definitely thinking about her. More than I had before. Wondering how I’d been so wrong about who she was. Curious about what other surprises she might have in store, and if there was anything to learn that might be useful. Or illuminating.

  I continued to watch as they chatted afterward, their voices too low to make out. There was no cuddling or kissing or anything to suggest the act had been romantic, and Birch didn’t make any move to reciprocate. Prick. Eventually, he pulled out a pack of smokes and lit a cigarette which he ended up sharing with her.

  Strangely, that seemed even more intimate than the blow job.

  Also strange was how I was suddenly jonesing for a smoke myself despite how terrible I’d felt all day. Great lesson, Langdon. All you got me was hooked, asshole.

  When the cigarette was burned down to a butt, the two stood up, and I crept back away from the edge, returning to my seclusion and my thoughts. Thoughts now centered less on my mother and the man she’d married and more on the other member of our household.