Page 21 of Severed Heart (The Ravenhood Legacy #2)

Chapter Fifteen

T YLER

“T YLER!” DAD BARKS from the front door, the jingle of the merry little bundle of bells Mom has hanging on the knob distorted in delivery as he slams it.

In the weeks since both our confrontations, my parents have been avoiding me more and more. Probably because when they do meet my eyes, I never let them forget what they’re doing to each other and to me, refusing to live their lie.

It’s their decision to live with and my punishment to bear witness to the slow, painful desecration of their ideas of one another.

“Tyler!” the man I once knew as my father hollers as he smacks into the wall next to my door before his heavy footfalls resume on the hardwoods. His mud-covered boots come into view before he stumbles inside my bedroom, tripping on nothing but alcoholism and bitterness.

As feared, Dad’s DUI had him discharged from the Corps—though honorably, in consideration of his decades of service.

Now seen as a liability, they cut him loose.

I wasn’t given any more details than that because I didn’t ask.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s no conversation to have.

Unapologetically back to his old habits mere weeks after his latest and most detrimental fuckup, he’s more unbearable than ever.

Closing my book, I passively stare up at him, feigning confusion while knowing he’s spoiling for the fight he couldn’t find at the bar. Chances are Brian threw him out after I failed to retrieve him—a call I purposefully ignored.

“Why the fuck didn’t you pick me up?”

“Mom spent half the morning cleaning the floors,” I divert as he charges in further, failing to get the flinch he so desperately wants from me.

“Yeah? Good on her. And what the fuck did you do today that was productive?” His delivery is a mix of spit and slur as he sizes me up.

“I attended school, which is age appropriate considering I’m a senior in high school, and worked my shift at the garage after. You ?”

Tension and fury radiate from him as he leers at me from only a foot away.

“Maybe I’ll take the fucking truck away,” he threatens.

“That would be pointless because it’s not running yet, and you can’t take what you don’t own.”

“Yeah? Well, I own the fucking roof currently over your head!”

I don’t mince words. “Are you kicking me out?”

“Did I fucking say I was?”

Mom predictably comes to my aid, appearing in the doorframe, shoulders slumped when she sees the state of her floor before her eyes frantically dart between us.

I firmly shake my head at her just as she opens her mouth to speak.

It’s a cliché situation, and sadly, the solution for me lies in enlisting the second I turn eighteen.

A large part of me wishes I could leave now, but it would only shift his focus and wrath on her.

With his rapid spiral, I refuse to do it—not even to spare myself.

Though, she hasn’t extended the same courtesy.

Swallowing the litany of insults I want to hurl at him, and in seeing Mom’s state, I go diplomatic.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll pick you up next time. I grilled tonight and left a plate for you on the counter.”

Dad’s lips peel back as he glares at my books. “You won’t be no fancy college boy. We can’t afford it.”

“I have no plans of attending Harvard.”

I just have to test well enough to enlist. A subject I’ll no longer broach with him, nor any other, since he endangered my mother’s life.

“If you do go, you’re going state because Uncle Sam is gonna pay. He fucking owes me.”

Annoyed that his belligerent ass isn’t understanding that I’m not arguing with him, I nod. “Hungry? Let’s get you fed.”

Grabbing my new cell phone from my dresser—another early Christmas present from Tobias—Dad tosses it on the book in my lap, failing, yet again, to get his wanted flinch.

One which would require a modicum of respect and fear I no longer have when it comes to him.

Instead, I lift my chin in defiance as he does his worst to best me while making sure he fucking fails.

“The next time I fucking call you, you answer. Do you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better,” I utter in a lifeless, rehearsed tone.

“Don’t fucking patronize me ,” he snaps, lifting a finger less than an inch from my nose.

Fury begins to build inside me as I take a few cleansing breaths.

The only upside to his nightly tirades, in which he now targets me, is the practice of controlling my rage with Delphine’s breathing techniques.

“I’ll do better, be better ,” I recite. “I’ll be a man you can be proud of, sir. ”

He weighs my words, knowing I no longer mean them. Glancing over his shoulder at Mom, he turns his back to me.

“Look at what you raised, Regina. Arrogant, disrespectful, and smug. Aren’t you fucking proud?”

Tears brim in Mom’s eyes as he crashes past her before they focus on mine, shining with an unspoken apology for subjecting us both to his slow, toxic implosion.

The minute Dad passes out, I text Dom, push into my sneakers, and grab the bag from my dresser on my way out.

Stalking through the house, I’m stopped short by the sight of Mom putting the last of the glittering decorations on the tree.

Her attempt in resurrecting the familiar décor tonight an obvious Hail Mary.

Her underlying hope to spark some nostalgia while knowing she has no semblance of family left to host.

Trying to slip out undetected, I fail when Mom spots me sneaking through the kitchen toward the garage, calling my name in summons. As I approach, she reaches into a shoe box before thrusting a familiar decoration toward me.

“First grade,” she boasts, as I eye the ancient artwork I constructed with craft paper and cotton balls. “Come on,” she drawls, nudging me, “you always put it on the tree.”

“That was then,” I say, refusing to buy into the charade as I turn and stalk toward the front door.

“Tyler,” she calls after me.

“I’ll be home before curfew,” I utter before shutting the door, hoping I’ll catch Delphine before she hits her own wall. The irony not lost on me that I’m seeking comfort in exchanging one alcoholic’s company for another’s.

These last weeks have passed by in a blur.

Delphine’s company being the one I crave most. Between Dom’s brooding about Tobias’s extended absences, working his share of shifts at the garage, and holing up in his room on the net, he’s been scarcer.

Sean’s been tied up as well, working between the Pitt stop and King’s, finishing the football season, and building his little black book.

As always, we still band together, inseparable and on each other’s heels in the halls at school, even if we split after the last bell to do our own thing.

Me, I’ve been running every morning and night like my ass is on fire to reach a timed three -mile mark with easy strides.

Also working my share of shifts at the garage while spending almost every night with a French fireball who keeps me on my toes.

Most of those nights are spent becoming overtly attuned to her.

Eyeing the gift bag as I walk up the drive, I second-guess my decision to deliver it tonight, but it’s her companionship that’s saving me from dwelling on the war zone in my house.

Knocking lightly on the storm door before I can reconsider, I peer through the frosted glass only to lock eyes with Delphine, who’s standing on the other side of the counter. Cracking the door open to gauge my welcome and her mood, she gives me an easy nod, and I walk over to greet her.

Tonight, she’s dressed in a thinner robe than her typical blue.

Unable to ignore the knot holding it together is coming loose, I manage to glimpse a side view and curve of one of her perfect breasts.

The rest of the groan-inducing view is obstructed by the silky dark braid resting atop it as she unfolds a packet of powdered painkillers.

Pouring it on her tongue, she follows it with a sip of water before finally addressing me.

Her constant indication that I’m no one of importance only further encourages me to stop the ridiculous fucking fixation that began months ago. One I’m fueling with every look I steal.

“No game tonight,” she states, her temperament hard to gauge with her delivery as I allow my eyes to sweep the perfection of her profile. Her features alone are utterly fucking surreal, having no less effect on me than they did yesterday or the day before.

No chance in hell, Jennings.

These last weeks have been a mix of heaven and hell.

In giving me the education I practically begged her for, I’ve become completely cognizant of just how much of her beauty I was formerly blind to.

Every day, I resign and align myself to the fact that my attraction for her is not only dangerous but utterly idiotic.

That logic thwarted the instant I again catch sight of her.

At this point, I can’t even lie to myself that it’s training alone that keeps me coming back.

Day by day, she consumes me a little more with her mystery while giving me bits and pieces of herself—her intelligence, her humor.

She even has a warmth anyone who respects her enough and treats her well enough can easily draw upon.

A warmth that’s smothered by the hostility and resentment that surrounds her—namely Dom’s.

“Evening, and I’m not here to play,” I say, my tone threatening to betray me in how my seconds-long assessment of her affects me.

She’d probably find my lingering gaze endearing and childish if she noticed at all.

But she never lets on for a second that she’s aware of my growing fixation because I don’t, at all, let her see it.

I do my best to make sure she can’t feel it, either.

Looks can be felt, and I know this from playing the game myself with my hookups, so I don’t go there with her. Ever.

I would chalk it up to nothing more than a crush, but ironically, her lack of acknowledgment is the only thing currently crushing me.