2. Taylor

Taylor

I think Fuckslee cracked a rib.

And the real kicker is that it wasn't even during the fight. His shoulder slammed into me when I caught him before our bikes splattered his ass all over the track.

Fucker. Should have let the bikes smash him. But then, who would I mess with every day?

A haggard breath leaves my lungs as I ride into Arbitrary Hills trailer park, my head tipping back to watch the metal arch pass over me.

Man, fuck this place. Not just Arbitrary Hills but the whole ass town in general. Only good things here are the biking trails and Rhonda at the smoke shop on Vine Street, who never IDs me because I smile and wink at her.

That's it.

Well, and Christian. And Salem. Maybe Matty and Xed. But that's really it .

Revving my engine, I hiss beneath my helmet at the burning in my chest as I floor it past Old Man Jones's place. I know I woke him up, and the reaming he'll give me for it tomorrow puts a grin on my lips. I hate that old fucker, but I love to watch him scream. His face turns purple, and his eyes pop out. Shit's hilarious.

As soon as I get a lane over from where the trailer sits, I bring the bike to a halt in someone's front yard, snickering at the way my wheel tears up their small patch of grass. The list of people I'm pissing off tonight keeps growing—including Christian, which really irks me.

"You took it too far, dumbass. Huckslee's dad is a nice guy."

My teeth grind as I walk my bike between fences, recalling my best friend's words. Yeah, well, if the good Bishop Aaron Davis was a nice guy, he wouldn't be marrying my piece-of-shit mother. Or forcing me to live with them. With him .

The thought of Huckslee has my chest wrenching, like always, but it has nothing to do with the cracked rib. Fuck, I wish I could leave him alone sometimes. He makes it so easy to rile him up, though, and honestly, I really don't want to stop.

His dark, glittering eyes and blonde curls flash in my mind, those full lips of his red from where I punched them, and a sick rush of satisfaction almost steals my breath at the memory.

I did that. I made those lips swell. I made those dark eyes water. I left my mark on him.

Me .

The backyard of my father's single-wide enters my vision, and I stop to take a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. Pulling one out, I flick my BIC and light it, inhaling deep, even as sharp pain shoots through me. My head falls back against a fence, and I take in the bright stars dotting the sky, breathing out smoke.

Tomorrow's going to suck major ass. Whether it'll suck more than my current living situation remains to be seen. Sure, being closer to Fuckslee has some irritating form of anticipation coursing through me—I'd get to make his life hell from the comfort of my own room now—but the thought of being near my mother makes my skin itch worse than being near the asshole currently passed out drunk on the couch inside the trailer.

I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my mother over the last ten years, but suddenly, now she wants to be a parent? Yeah, fuck off with that shit.

I finish my smoke, putting the butt out on the side of the trailer before rolling my bike over to the padlocked shed. After slipping it inside, I cross to the front where I left my bedroom window slightly cracked. Gripping the ledge with my hands, I grimace as I pull myself onto the windowsill, biting my tongue to quiet a whimper. Fuck, everything hurts. Other than the cracked rib, my nose is clogged with blood, and I'm pretty sure my left eye is starting to swell shut. Seems Huck left his mark on me, too.

Ignoring the weird flip that thought does to my stomach, I swing my legs into the room, intending to drop down silently, when the twisting motion of my torso has my rib twinging so painfully that my muscles give out. I fall from the window, landing on the floor beside my bed and, unfortunately, the cat. She yowls at the top of her little lungs and launches into the shelf above .

"Shhh, quiet," I hiss, breathing hard through the pain. "Lasagna, you asshole."

The little orange ball of fur knocks over everything in sight, junk clattering to the ground before she runs from the room, shoving my door on her way out so that it swings and hits the wall behind it.

With a flinch, I hold my breath and wait. Maybe he didn't hear it. Maybe he's so plastered that nothing short of a bomb going off would wake him. Maybe pigs will fly because five seconds later, I hear his shout from the living room as the springs in the couch squeak.

"What are you doing, boy?"

Goddammit .

Rising from my crouch, body shaking, I yank a duffel out of my closet and start pulling every shirt I own off the hooks, stuffing them into the bag.

"Packing." My voice is slightly weak against the throbbing that's radiating through my ribs. It's too hot in here, too muggy, so I unzip my motocross jacket and leave it dangling at my waist as I cross to my dresser, where I snicker at the punching bag in the corner that has Huckslee's picture taped on it. So what if I like to imagine it's his face that I'm punching the days between school and motocross? Does that seem obsessive? Maybe. Don't give two fucks, though.

I stuff every pair of boxers and socks I have into the bag, along with several baggies of weed I've yet to sell, when the pungent odor of whiskey stings my nostrils. My nose automatically wrinkles as I take in my father leaning against the doorway, a bottle of Jack in one hand while his other scratches at the gut hanging over his dirty sweatpants. A dangerous, glassy gleam glints in his eyes.

Fucking great. Drunk and high. Always a winning combination.

"Who fucked up your face?" he grunts, swigging from his bottle, and I turn back around to continue gathering my shit.

"Fight at the track."

He grunts again. "Who was it?"

I pause, weighing my words before shrugging with a wince. "Huckslee Davis."

"Did you kick his ass?"

There's a lethal undertone to his words that has me seeing red, and I brush past him down the small hall toward the bathroom. "What the fuck do you think?"

While I may get violent with Huckslee because I'm forced to, the thought of anyone else touching him pisses me off. He's mine to torment. No one else's.

Before I can enter the bathroom, a hand wraps around my arm with so much force I swear I feel something crack, and I'm whipped around to face my father. He steps into my space, close enough for me to gag at his whiskey breath. "Watch how you talk to me, boy."

Tears prick my eyes from the way his fingers tighten around my bicep, and I blink them away rapidly. This isn't the first time he's grabbed me like this or even laid hands on me, but I know that whatever I say right now will either escalate or defuse the situation.

"Okay, sorry. Jesus."

His grip tightens so hard that my knees nearly buckle, but finally, he lets me go with a hard shove into the bathroom door, a whimper bubbling out of my throat when the knob hits my sore rib.

I hate him. I fucking hate him.

With my back to him, I mask a sniffle, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste from the mirror before stuffing them into my bag, along with deodorant and the electric razor I shave my balls with.

"What time is the wedding?" Another swig off that bottle has my jaw ticking, and I move on to get my things from the shower, ignoring the soap scum that lines the tub.

"Noon tomorrow."

He scoffs loudly and turns away, finally leaving me alone in peace. Once he's gone, I study myself in the mirror for a minute.

God, I look like shit. My black hair is sticking up with grease and sweat; one eye is bloodshot, and the other is beginning to blacken. Blood crusts my upper lip from where Huck bashed my nose, which is definitely starting to bruise.

Dropping my gaze to my arm, I scowl at the ring of bruises already forming from my father's fingerprints. At least with the other marks covering my body, I won't have to hide myself in the locker room after football practice. I can blame my appearance on fighting with Huckslee, just like I always do.

After I've gathered everything I need from the bathroom, I tip-toe back to my room, glancing at the state of the living room and kitchen. Empty beer bottles line the stained carpet, and a mountain of dishes are in the sink. The whole place reeks, but I stay away as much as possible. My father is a fucking slob .

In all honesty, I can see why my mother would get sick of this life and want to leave it. What I've never understood, though, is why she couldn't take her seven-year-old son with her.

Entering my room, which I always keep clean and organized, I freeze when I find my dad staring at my punching bag in the corner, at the picture of Huck taped to it. Dread prickles my skin, and I swallow hard when he turns around with a sneer.

"Is that why you're in such a rush to leave?"

No, I'm trying to get away from you .

"Huck's an asshole," I scoff, going to my bed where Lasagna knocked over my books, quickly stuffing my copies of Ender's Game and I, Robot into the bag. "We're enemies."

He takes a long pull off his bottle. "But you didn't always feel that way, did ya?"

Memories invade my brain, images and feelings from a day three years ago that I've done my damndest to bury deep, and I bite down on my tongue so hard it bleeds.

"Let's sneak under the bleachers, Tay."

"Hell, no. I heard they found a cougar under there last week."

"Aw, are you scared? Need me to hold your hand?"

Suddenly, my father is in my face again, snarling with contempt. "Remember who owns your bike, boy. Don't forget."

How the fuck can I when the name of his mechanic shop is plastered all over the side of my helmet? When he constantly reminds me every day that his shop sponsors me, which I desperately need in order to enter the amateur races hosted by the motorsports park? When the ticket to my fucking freedom—a two-year scholarship to the University of Utah—rests in the hands of me winning those damn races with that damned bike?

"You wouldn't have racing if it weren't for me, you little shit stain."

"I know." Zipping up my duffle, I shake out of his grasp and approach the door, feeling him follow close behind. The bag is too light, but it's everything I own.

"I don't like the idea of you living under the same roof as that faggot."

I stop in my tracks, rage licking up my spine at his slur. I hate that fucking word. No matter how much shit I sling at Huckslee, I'd never call him that.

"Huck's not a faggot."

It's a lie. I know it is. But something in me feels the need to protect his secret despite the way I constantly call him out on it. As I've stated, he's mine to fuck with.

Shouldering the duffle, I cross the living room toward the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm staying at Salem's," I bite out, even though I have no intention of going to my girlfriend's house. We're on a break because she's dating Brad Hanagin. I'm really going to knock on Christian's window and ask to crash on his floor, but I'd rather my father not know that. He'd just make more nasty comments about shit that isn't true. Shit about me.

"Take the fucking cat with you," is all he says before he disappears into his room, slamming the door .

Searching through the mess, I find the orange ball of fluff chewing on what looks like a chicken bone near the back door and scoop her up.

"Let's go, Lasagna." Kissing her soft head, I stuff her inside my duffle bag. "Don't piss on my shit."

She immediately starts purring, and I sigh heavily with a wince as I make my way toward my bike around the back of the house. Christian's allergic, but maybe Salem's family can care for her or something. Not like my father will do it once I'm gone.

Just one more year , I think desperately as I start my bike, waking the whole trailer park but not giving a fuck. The Bluetooth from my helmet connects to my phone, and ‘Romance is Dead' by Parkway Drive blasts in my ears.

One more year, and I can pay off my bike and leave this hellhole for good.