“Get up,” a deep voice commanded. “Get up,” he continued, kicking my shoe.
“Dad,” I rasped. “I’m hungover and feel like shit.”
He was silent for a moment so I pulled the cover down just enough to see his face. He was not amused.
“Ethan, watch your language, get your butt up, and find a job.” I didn’t answer him. I had nothing to say that would please him. “And while you’re at it, stop this ridiculous drinkin’, son.”
I sat up, ran my hands through my long black hair, and wrapped the length around my fist. I sat back against the wall, reveling in how cool it was, and tried not to vomit.
“Did you see them today?” I asked him, unable to help myself.
My dad removed his hat and leaned against the jamb, scrubbing his face with his free hand. “You like to torture yourself,” he said, shaking his head and sighing. “You remind me so much of your mama.”
The mere mention of my mother sent me spiraling down once more in depression. We’d lost her a few years before and I was still in agony. That, coupled with the fact that Spencer Blackwell stole my girl right out from underneath my nose, was enough for me to drink to excess every night. I hate him.
“Are they,” I swallowed, afraid of his answer, “are they together now?”
My father sighed again. “Ethan, get dressed.”
“Are they?” I asked again, letting my hand drop to my side. My hair slid with it and cascaded down my back.
“You are a stubborn boy. Yes, okay? Yes, they’re together. All the more reason to move on, son.”
My body suddenly weighed a thousand pounds and I felt my head reeling. So it was true. They were together and they would probably get married and I was going to have to sit there in that godforsaken small town and watch it all happen. I was going to get a front-row seat to my own misery.
I nodded once, rested my hands on my knees for a brief moment, then ran past my dad, shouldering him as I did so and nearly knocking him over before making it to the small bathroom across the hall and retching everything in my stomach into the toilet.
My dad stood in the bathroom doorway shaking his head in disappointment. When I was done, I fell back into the wall. That look shamed me to my core. Any time my dad felt let down, I felt the weight of my disgrace so heavy the only thing I could think to dull the ache was to drink myself into a stupor. It was a vicious cycle.
I let my hair cascade over my face. I heard the old wood floor creak beneath his feet as he left without another word and jumped when the front door slammed. My eyes closed as my head pounded.
The claw foot tub sat to my left so I leaned up and turned on the water, removing my clothing one piece at time. Each movement felt like a hammer slamming into my head.
“God,” I groaned. “I am an idiot.”
I stepped underneath the warm water and stood in silence, letting the water absorb into my hair and seep into my skin. I breathed in the steam. I was miserable. Not just physically, but my heart was the heaviest it’d felt since my mom passed, and I had no one to blame but Spencer Blackwell for that.
The asshole who rode into my life under the guise of helping his sister only to yank what I thought was a stable foundation right out from underneath me. He stole from me, a bona fide thief, and I wanted to make him pay. No, I needed to make him pay.
But how?
I finished showering and threw a towel around my waist, stepping from the tub and toppling onto my bed when I reached my room and fell to sleep, not even bothering to dress myself. I fell quickly, fantasizing about my revenge.
I must have slept for hours because when I woke, it was pitch black outside. I rolled onto my side and checked my alarm clock. Eleven o’clock. Perfect timing, I thought.
I sat up and tucked my towel around my waist a little tighter, stood, and went straight for my dresser. I grabbed a pair of boxers and socks and put those on before heading for my closet and tossing on an old, worn pair of jeans, a thermal, and an old tee. I brushed my teeth, grabbed my wallet and keys, threw on my boots, and headed toward my piece-of-shit truck.
I knew exactly where I was going because it was where I planned on going every night until I forgot about Caroline Hunt.
CHAPTER THREE
My truck started, but barely, and I tore out of our driveway not bothering with my seatbelt, kicking up dust and rocks as my tires spun against the loose gravel. I’d replaced my stereo because I couldn’t stand radio, at least not Kalispell radio, and plugged my phone into the audio cable. Bastille’s “Dreams” remake blasted and I turned it up, letting the painful lyrics wash over me, fueling my desire to get plastered as quickly as possible.
I entertained myself with thoughts of strangling Spencer Blackwell with both hands then beating the shit out of him with my fists. Fucking bastard. I pulled into the local pub and put my piece into park before tucking my left foot onto the emergency brake.
I disconnected my phone and the stereo went silent, reminding me of how alone I really was. I turned the engine off and absolute silence surrounded me. I couldn’t take it. My door creaked with age as it swung open and I slammed it shut, unable not to. The fury raging in my blood was more than I could contain.
Before heading inside, my hand went to the empty space between the cab and the bed and searched for the bottle of whiskey I always had wedged in between. I took a large swig, not wanting to spend too much of my savings on the liquor inside the crap establishment. After all, I was going to need it. Revenge was a costly business.