Page 82 of Dangle

Reaching down, I picked up one of the couch cushions we had half wallowed into the floor. Trey’s phone dropped to the floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket while we wrestled. The screen lit up when I picked it up. I couldn’t have missed what the texts said if I tried. Trey had them set to show on the lock screen, and Donnie Malachek either didn’t know you could use the enter button in a text or always sent texts a sentence at a time.

Dad

I’m over dealing with you and your stupid shit.

Get your ass home.

You have two fucking days, or I’m cutting you off.

And your trust fund? You won’t have access to that either.

It’s under my control.

Until you’re twenty-five.

And you only get it if you sign with a team.

See how well you fare without the Malachek bank account funding your stupid ass.

Legacy only takes you so fucking far.

And clearly it’s doing you no good since you’re still riding a fucking bench in the NCAA.

You are such a fucking disappointment.

A fucking failure.

“My dad texted again?”

Turning, I gathered him in my arms, crushing him against my chest while trying not to crush the phone I still held in my now clenched fist.

“Slone?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t talk right now. If I did, I’d fucking lose my shit, and he didn’t need or deserve that. He had to deal with a raging, out-of-control bastard already. Adding my meltdown to it would only cause him more pain. And I would burn this world to the ground to keep him from experiencing another moment of his dad’s unhinged bullshit.

TWENTY-TWO

TREY

Ipushed myself from his embrace as rage—uncontrollable, suffocating, scary as hell rage—ran through me like lightning. Tremors followed the lightning, pushing me further into the violent abyss. I normally drank and fucked and sucked and fought my way through. Those were my coping mechanisms when my skin shrunk and became so tight I couldn’t?—

“Fuuuuck!” I stormed off. The sound of my footsteps echoed through the loft as I paced. I wanted,neededan outlet. I needed to punch something or get fucked so hard I felt it for days.

I stomped. Yes, stomped. Up the stairs and threw myself onto the bed. My fists pressed into my eye sockets, blocking out the light. Slone followed. I knew it because I could feel his presence trailing behind me, but he said nothing.

“Fucking hate my life. I hate being part of my family. And I hate that this place doesn’t fucking have doors.” I used the words and the tone of a five-year-old. I knew it, and I would feel embarrassed about it later.

“I’m sorry there are no doors for you to slam, but you’ve got the stomping brat thing down pat,” Slone said as he dropped onto the bed over me, his elbows next to my head and his knees bracketing my hips.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m aware, baby boy. I feel like punching something too, but that’s not a very good outlet for emotions. Sometimes we have to sit with them, you know?

“Yeah, that fucking sucks big, hairy, donkey balls.”

He laughed. The full-throated, head thrown back, belly roll laugh I loved. Brown eyes sparkling, molars showing, and happiness bouncing off the walls as he reveled in…shit. Me?

Had anyone ever paid a fraction of the attention to me or found a smidgen of pleasure in me? And not sexual, just the everyday kind of pleasure in me that Slone does?