Angry God by L.J. Shen

Ientertained the idea of letting Len know I was going out of town, before remembering there wasn’t a point, because she didn’t want to hear from me.

She hadn’t left room for interpretation—our hookups were over.

She couldn’t have been clearer if she’d tattooed her forehead with Property of Pope (whom I was still going to kill, because fuck him).

Just as well. If she was dumb enough to say I never gave her a birthday present, I really had no goddamn interest in tapping her ass, anyway.

And still.

And still.

I was going to send another motherfucking basket to her room this morning, as I had every single day since Arabella sucked me off on the last day of school. At first, I’d sent chocolate, because I didn’t want it to be too obvious, but I figured she’d know where they came from on her birthday when I sent brownies. They were handmade and in different shapes, for her entertainment. Clouds, unicorns, stars, animals, letters. Anything but a heart—that was my careful instruction to the chocolatier. Each was individually wrapped in fantasy-book wrappers: Lord of the Rings, A Song of Ice and Fire, Harry Potter, Northern Lights.

Cost a little extra to pull off, but half-assing shit wasn’t in my nature.

It wasn’t about wanting to fuck her, or trying to make her feel better, God forbid. I didn’t even leave a note. I just knew she liked sweet things since that day behind the fountain, and I pitied her ass because she was an orphan and friendless and fucked up.

That’s all it was. Pity.

I called the chocolaterie, and the lady there recognized me by my accent and the fact that I’d used them for a few weeks now. Also, I was probably the only bastard who called before their opening hours, when they’d just started their day baking.

“Another one? You’re persistent, lad.” She giggled.

I rolled my eyes, watching the English countryside zip by on the first train into Hertfordshire. It was a quarter to six. Even the birds were still asleep.

“Maybe you should personalize it this time? She obviously needs a bit of thawing. You’ve been sending them for quite a long time now.”

A note was a bad idea. She’d think I cared, and fuck, did I not give a damn about her. It was cruel to pretend otherwise. Especially now, when we were done.

“Blank note is fine,” I clipped.

“Righto,” she sing-songed. So fucking cheerful in the morning. “Would that be all?”

“Yes.”

“Loads of noise in the background. Are you traveling anywhere special?” She tried to lighten the mood.

Could I deduct the tip for the time she wasted trying to mingle with me? Because pretending to give a damn seemed way above her pay grade.

“Hertfordshire,” I said. “St. Albans.”

“You must visit London, if you haven’t. It’s quite close.”

“Great idea.”

I’ve been to London more times than you’ve taken shits, lady.

I killed the call, leaned back in my seat, and tapped my knee. Harry Fairhurst did exactly what I thought he’d do once I sent him a picture of his lover buck naked, with graffiti over his back and ass that read HARRY FAIRHURST IS A CHILD MOLESTER.

He grabbed his keys and dashed back to Carlisle Prep, where Dominic was still locked in his closet, because—c’mon, give me brownie points for the irony—his gay lover was locked in a closet.

In his bid to save his ass (and maybe Dominic’s, though I wasn’t holding my breath), he’d forgotten his laptop at his house. I knew because I’d planted a little tracer on that bitch when I sneaked into his office one day and could see its location at any given moment.

And whaddaya know? Someone just happened to block the highway he was driving on his way to Carlisle, in case he figured out I wasn’t there and decided to dash back home.

That someone was paid nice and well by yours truly—more than enough to replace the crappy Alfa Romeo 2001 he’d smashed right into a Sainsbury’s truck to stop traffic.

God bless hedge funds.

As for Harry’s house keys? What can I say? I was saddled with sticky fingers…and very slippery morals. Making copies the day I put a tracer on Fairhurst’s laptop was like taking candy from a baby.

The train stopped at St. Albans, and I got off, feeling fresh as a daisy, other than the dull headache Good Girl gave me yesterday. But that was probably nothing compared to the hell she was going through this morning after outdrinking every fish in the Atlantic Ocean.

I texted the chocolaterie woman and added two bottles of water to my order. Might as well. Len still thought the chocolate came from someone else.

I looked down, and there were three missed calls from my dad.

He can wait,I thought, proceeding without caution.

I didn’t have to hack into the laptop.

But once I sifted through the files he had on Mom—all the lies, all the pictures, all the testimonies, edited recordings of her, emails she’d never written, orders she had no idea were going to arrive with cocaine bags stashed inside the frames of the paintings—I considered it my little, final, burn-in-hell parting gift.

Once I’d deleted everything from Fairhurst’s cloud and destroyed all the evidence on his camera, I smashed my boot into the laptop and tucked it into Harry’s neatly made bed.

I finished off by pissing all over said bed and laptop, in case he was bad at taking hints.

That still left me a few hours to burn before my next train to Berkshire. Dad called a couple more times. Mom, too, but I didn’t feel like talking to them from Fairhurst’s house. I was too on edge whenever he was concerned.

I settled for giving myself a tour of Harry’s house. I’d never been there before. I took it upon myself to unplug his fridge and open the freezer, letting the meat thaw. Then I opened the back door in case any wild animals found themselves itching for a treat. I finished by helping myself to some of his pricey status watches, to make it look like common burglary.

Of course I made sure to deposit the Rolex and Cartier watches at the train station, in the hands of a homeless person sitting outside, begging for pennies, charitable piece of shit that I was.

By the time I got back to Carlisle Castle, I had two emails waiting.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Vaughn,

I checked the clouds of his other account. All clear. Your father said he’ll foot the bill for this job. Good luck and let me know if you need any further help concerning the matter.

• T.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Son,

Either you pick up your damn phone and answer me or I’ll make my way over there. Spoiler alert: you won’t like it if I do.

• Your father

Had Jaime told him about the trust-fund money? Or had Mom found out what I did with it through her arty-fartsy friends? I clenched both my teeth and my phone, knowing I wasn’t quite finished with my multi-million-dollar task.

Dad could wait.

He had to.

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