Royal Prick (A Stepbrother Romance)(4)By: J.L. Beck
I ignored her as if she wasn’t even in the room as I pulled the dark gray hoodie on, having already slipped into the shorts. Then I grabbed my phone off the dresser and shoved it into the front pocket of my sweatshirt along with my keys and wallet.
“I am. It’s either this or something far worse that I know we will both end up regretting.” I raised an eyebrow up at her, challenging her to disagree or try and stop me. I needed out. I was a caged, rabid animal on the verge of biting, and I didn’t have a rabies shot.
“Royal,” she said my name in the most defeated way I had ever heard. I wanted to run to her and wrap my arms around her. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay—that I would be okay, but even I didn’t know the truth in that. Okay wasn’t something that I even understood; to be okay you had to understand what was going on inside of yourself. I was a lost cause. Despite her best effort at raising me, somehow I still turned out fucked up.
“I love you, Mom,” I choked out the words as I opened my bedroom door. I stood there for a moment, hearing her soft cries resonate behind me. I wasn’t any better than my father. I wasn’t any better than anyone. I let that sink in as I headed down the stairs and out to my car a piece of shit Honda Civic. Not all of us had the luxury of nice things.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and called my friend Simon; he picked up on the second ring, a hello sounding on the other end of the line.
“I need a fight,” I growled the words as I started the car and put it in reverse, slamming on the gas pedal as I pulled out of the driveway. It backfired and then roared to life as soon as I put it in drive. I started down the road, heading toward the industrial park.
“Are you sure, dude? You just fought last night, and I’m pretty sure you have some type of concussion.” Simon tried to act like he was concerned for my health, but I knew the truth. He wasn’t, if he could put money on my fight and go home with some cash, he would.
I always won. It was the only thing I was good at. Throwing a fist and busting someone’s face open. I had to find a better hobby, but for now this one would do.
“Of course I’m fucking sure; why else would I call you? Therefore I’ll be at the warehouse in ten minutes and there better be a fighting waiting for me.” I hung up the phone, letting the warning hang in the air. I was overcome with guilt. The guilt of what I was about to do. The guilt that I brought on my mom as she worried and wondered if it was her fault for me being this way.
No one understood the anger that was sparked deep inside of me. I smirked, realizing my father would soon understand the damage he caused by abandoning me and so would his perfect little family. I clenched the steering wheel in my hands. Oh they would all understand the kind of hell I could bring down on them.
That I would bring down on them.
I was Royal Black, and I was better at being an asshole than anything else.
My mother warned me, or at the very least she tried to. She did so by showing me the most recent pictures of Royal, which just happened to be from the juvenile detention center that he was placed in for illegal underground fighting. The entire reason he was being sent to live with us in the first damn place.
“I want you to understand how dangerous he is, Noelle. He’s fighting kids for money. Clearly his mother isn’t taking very good care of him and that’s why he’s being sent here.” My mother’s words sent a shudder of fear down my spine. If she was taking this seriously then I should be too, right? It wasn’t everyday she talked to me about shit like this or even cared much for my well-being. As long as I played along in her perfect little life, maintaining good grades and making her look good in front of her and Dad's rich friends, she all but left me alone.
“I understand, Mom, I’ll stay away from him,” I mumbled, lying through my teeth. I couldn’t take my eyes off the photo of him no matter how hard I tried. All I could see was a misunderstood boy, with the potential for so much more.
His eyes were dark and bleak. The contours of his face in the lighting made him look darker, more sinister than he really was, I was sure. He had dark brown hair that was spiked in a million different directions, the kind of hair that said he did nothing in the morning to tame it. God to be those hands, those fingers. I could feel my cheeks growing pink and a heat creeping up my neck.