Angry God by L.J. Shen

The quietest man in the room is also the deadliest.

I learned that from a young age, observing my father. People milled around him like homeless puppies, tongues flapping, eager to please. I became a man of few words as well. Not a fucking challenge, if I may say so myself. Words meant nothing to me. They had no shape or weight or price. You couldn’t mold them in your hands, measure them on a scale, put a chisel to them, carve them to perfection. On my list of ways to express myself, sculpting was number one, fucking someone’s mouth was number two, and talking sat comfortably somewhere at the bottom between smoke signals and dancing for rain.

My dad wasn’t big on words, no, but his actions spoke volumes. He crushed his business opponents with an iron fist, without a blink or a worry.

He’d showed my mother he loved her a million times—by planting a pink, cherry-blossom garden in the backyard.

By tattooing her name on his heart.

By fixing her with a look that said, I’m yours.

The less you said, the more you were feared. The simplest trick in the book, yet for some reason, men were hell-bent on running their mouths to prove something.

I had nothing to prove.

I’d showed Edgar Astalis a piece that was maybe twenty-percent done, submitted it to the board of Carlisle Prep, and bagged the internship without breaking a sweat.

It was embarrassingly easy. Pathetically so. Yes, I manipulated the board. Especially Edgar, who had a dog in this fight, and Harry, who owed me a solid. And yes, if Lenora was ever to find out, she’d kill me, her father, and her uncle.

Then again, I would beat her to it, just as I had with the internship.

Everyone on the board had agreed I needed the full six months of the internship to complete something as complex as this sculpture.

I had time.

I had a plan.

I was ready to put things in motion and finally savor the sweet, poignant taste of fresh blood.

And it looked like I was also going to have a stubborn, feisty assistant to put up with my shit—one I could keep an eye on, to make sure my secret was intact.

Taunting her with a pile of garbage was not my finest moment, but the message had hit home.

Mercy was not on the menu.

She would fight for her place next to me. Always.

After Edgar broke the news to his baby daughter, I drove around her block, playing the CDs I’d shamelessly taken from her room when she wasn’t there one day—Kinky Machine, The Stone Roses.

A couple hours later, I parked my banged-up truck next to my motorcycle—both purchased with my own money after summers of hard work in galleries—and noticed the orange glow of the fireplace in our living room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I ran my hand over my dusty hair and cursed under my breath.

We had company.

I hated company.

Striding toward the entrance, I saw a shadow loitering in the rosebushes. The leaves danced above the sunbaked ground. I crouched down and whistled low.

Empedolces emerged from the rosebushes, strutting his ass like a Kardashian in my direction. I’d named my blind black cat after the Greek philosopher who discovered the world was a sphere. This cat, like the philosopher, thought himself to be God. He had a fierce sense of entitlement and demanded to be stroked at least an hour a day—a wish that, for a reason beyond my grasp, my sorry ass granted him.

It was by far the most human thing I ever did, being pussy-whipped by a literal pussy. Emp brushed past my dirty boot. I picked him up, rubbing the spot behind his ear. He purred like a tractor.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for your blind ass to roam outside? These hills are full of coyotes.” I walked into the house with him in my arms. Kicking the door open, I heard the sweet laughter of my mother, my father’s deep chuckle, and a gruff, male voice with an English accent I instantly recognized.

A toxic smile spread on my lips.

Time to rock n’ roll, motherfucker.

Glasses clanked, utensils cluttered, and soft classical music seeped from the dining room. I put Emp down in the kitchen, dumped a sachet full of wet food into his bowl, and advanced into the dining area, my boots thudding against the marbled floor. When I appeared at the doorway, everyone stopped eating. Harry was the first to dab the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

He stood, opening his arms with a shit-eating smirk. “I believe congratulations are in order for my favorite prodigy.” He gave me a little bow.

Expressionless, I walked into the room, eating the distance between us. He went in for a hug, but I slid my palm into his and squeezed hard enough to hear his delicate painter bones cracking.

He extracted his palm from mine and massaged it lightly.

Mom and Dad stood up. I kissed Mom’s forehead. Dad clapped my back.

“Harry was in town visiting Edgar and his nieces,” Mom explained. “I thought it’d be nice to invite him for dinner. I just bought another piece from him. I’m planning to put it right in front of your room. Isn’t it exciting?” She turned to grin at him.

“I can hardly fucking contain myself,” I said dryly.

Considered the most critically acclaimed expressionist painter in modern art today, Harry Fairhurst usually sold his paintings for $1.2 million a pop. Not a bad gig, considering his half-assed day job as a board member and professor at Carlisle Prep. Mom, of course, would hang anything he made, including his turds, for everyone to view and admire. His paintings were all over our house: the foyer, my parents’ bedroom, the dining area, the two living rooms, and even the basement. She’d gifted some of his paintings, too.

I couldn’t escape the fucker, no matter my continent. His art chased me like a rotten fart.

“It’s a breathtaking piece, Vaughn. I can’t wait for you to see it.” Harry exhibited the modesty and humility of a newly moneyed rapper. If he could have physically sucked his own cock, his mouth would always be full.

“That’s exactly what this house needs. More Harry Fairhurst paintings—oh, and rooms.” I yawned, checking the time on my phone. We had eighteen rooms. Less than half were occupied. Emp loitered at my feet, giving Harry the stink eye. I picked him up again, scratching his neck.

“I’m off to the shower.”

“Have you eaten? I thought you’d at least like to join us in the drawing room for some port?” Mom cocked her head and smiled, every nerve in her face full of hope. “Just the one, you know.”

I loved my mother and father.

They were good parents. Involved, on top of their shit, supporting me ruthlessly with everything I did or pursued. My mother didn’t even mind that I wasn’t normal. She took it in a stride, probably because she was used to my father, Lord McCuntson himself.

Me and Dad, we had a lot in common.

We both hated the world.

We both watched life through death-tinted glasses.

But sometimes we pretended to be different, for her sake. Like, right now, I knew my dad would have preferred to stab his own crotch with training scissors than entertain the flamboyant, self-centered Fairhurst. Love made you do fucked-up shit.

I was glad I’d never catch it.

“One port,” I stressed.

Dad slapped my back again, his form of saying thank you, and we all settled by the fire, pretending it wasn’t fucking California and downright stupid to put fire to anything that wasn’t a joint or Alice and Arabella’s retina-insulting wardrobes. Harry sat back and pressed the tips of his fingers to one another, staring at me, the orange glow of the flame casting his face like a crescent.

Half angel, half devil.

Mostly devil, like the rest of the world.

With his sandy hair slicked back, tall frame, and greyhound-lean physique, he looked like an asshole salesman—the kind of man you wouldn’t trust with a toilet paper roll. I eyed the fire, ignoring Graham, our servant, who came in with a silver tray and gave each of us port.

“Thank you, Graham. Please take the rest of the night off. I’ll do the dishes.” Mom squeezed his arm with a warm smile.

Always such a softie for the help, this one.

Awkward silence stretched among us. I put the port to my lips, but didn’t drink.

“How’s the single life treating you, Harry?” Mom broke the tension with small talk.

He’d married a Croatian male model three years ago, but the marriage went down the shitters after he cheated on Harry, took half his shit, and ran off with a backup dancer for a pop star.

Harry’s head snapped in Mom’s direction.

“Oh, you know. Playing the field.”

“Hopefully with a pre-nup intact this time,” I muttered.

Dad snorted. We shared smirks under our breaths.

“Vaughn.” Mom scoffed.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“You weren’t supposed to say that.”

Dad gave up on taking any interest in the conversation and began openly answering emails on his phone.

Harry tapped his finger on his knee and toyed with his tie. “Lenora is devastated she didn’t get the internship.”

I smirked into my drink. I wondered how she hadn’t connected the dots yet—why she hadn’t gotten in, why I did. She didn’t strike me as completely stupid. Perhaps a little slow.

And a lot annoying.

“Heard from her father just before I came here. Positively crushed, that one. I do hope she’ll take the role as your assistant,” Harry continued.

My eyes snapped up. “She’d be stupid not to,” I fired out, the first real words I’d spoken to him.

His chest caved visibly under his crisp, powder-blue dress shirt. He looked relieved, as if he’d been waiting for some sort of participation from me to prove a point to my parents—that we were on good terms.

“She is a proud girl.”

“Pride is just a synonym for stupid. It leaves room for error,” I retorted.

“We all make mistakes,” he said.

I smiled politely. “Speak for yourself.”

There was a beat of silence before he continued.

“She thought she deserved the place. And in Alma’s opinion, she did.” Fairhurst sat back and glared at me.

Was he trying to rile me up? Privately, and only to myself, I could admit that Lenora wasn’t, in fact, completely talentless. Her art was a little psychotic, which obviously spoke to my unbalanced self. Lots of skulls, monsters, dragons, babies crawling on spiders’ legs and dead horses were created by her small hands. Her mind was a fascinating place, if you didn’t consider one thing she kept there—a particular memory of me—that I wanted to erase.

“Who the fuck cares? Edgar and you disagreed.” I yawned.

Both Edgar and Harry had a reason to give me the internship. It had nothing to do with my prodigious talent.

I pitied Lenora in a sense. She didn’t lack talent, skill, or discipline. What she lacked was balls, lies, and a cunning mind.

“Correct.” Harry stroked his chin. He would have chosen her if he could.

Edgar, too.

“Discussing who didn’t get the internship, and revealing her reaction to her opponent, is a waste both of time and manners,” my father said pointedly, crossing his legs on his imperial recliner, putting his phone aside.

“I’m sorry. That must’ve sounded inappropriate. Lenora is my niece, and I care about her dearly.” Harry looked over to my father.

“Raw meat. Don’t dangle it in the boy’s direction and expect him not to feast on it.”

“I’m not a boy,” I snapped.

“Stop acting like one, then,” my father deadpanned.

I knew what that was about. The parties. The blow jobs. The aftermath.

The servants talked, and I didn’t think there was any doubt that I was a loose fucking cannon in a very dangerous, fully operating machine.

“My life’s none of your business.” I felt my nostrils flaring, my fingernails clawing at my recliner.

“What an incredibly mindless thing to say. You are my son. Your life is nothing but my business.” My father’s voice was neutral, factual, and dispassionate.

Mom patted Dad’s hand. “Time to tone it down.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, dropping the subject.

We entertained Harry for another twenty minutes before he fucked off. I could tell he wanted me to escort him to the door, along with my mother, but I had other plans, like, I don’t know, digging my tonsils out of my throat with a kitchen knife. It was bad enough I’d have to suffer his existence up close for six months.

A few minutes after the door shut behind Fairhurst, Mom appeared at my bedroom door, hugging its frame and looking at me in a certain way. Though I lived in an existential vacuum and viewed girls’ mouths as a free parking space for my dick, Mom sure knew how to butter me up with just a glance.

I was glad no girl would ever measure up to her. It made life simpler.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Fairhurst had put me in a crap-ass mood. I wasn’t sure if it was his sheer existence, the fact that he’d said Lenora might not take the assistant intern role, or both. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I’d stolen the vintage CDs I saw on her desk one night when she wasn’t home and Edgar was in the shower.

Only I knew why. They were right there for the fucking taking.

Blur. The Stone Roses. The Cure. Joy Division.

My truck was older than the queen and had a CD player. It made sense. Plus, served Lenora right for being a weirdo who still used a Discman.

I just didn’t find her taste appalling, and that bothered me. I’d also downloaded all the movies on her iPad—Shawn of the Dead, A Clockwork Orange, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and, unfortunately, Atonement, which turned out to be such a chick flick that even Kiera Knightley getting nailed against a bookshelf couldn’t save it for me.

But just because her taste wasn’t awful didn’t mean the rest of her was bearable.

“You were acting strange out there.” Mom pushed off the doorframe and walked inside, taking a seat at the edge of my bed. I toed my army boots off, grabbing a bottle of water from my nightstand and squeezing it into my mouth.

“Newsflash, Mother, I am the strangest asshole alive.”

“Top two.” She scrunched her nose on a smile, reminding me that Dad took first place. “So, what’s the deal? Do you not like Fairhurst? I thought you’d always gotten along.”

I felt the muscle in my jaw twitching, but smiled to ease it away. The painting she’d hung in front of my room in record time—not even hours after she purchased it—made me want to burn down the motherfucking house.

“What’s not to like about him? He’s a fine artist and a well-connected son of a bitch. I can’t wait to get his input on my piece.”

“What’s your piece about?” she asked.

I shook my head. She was pretty rad for a mom, but sharing was not in my nature. “Nice try.”

“You’re too complicated for your own good.” She sighed.

“Easy when you’re surrounded by teenyboppers and simpleton jocks.”

She scanned my face, trying to read me, before nodding and adding something about how she’d arranged for my piece to be sent from Edgar’s house to England next month, so I could continue working on it.

They deserved more than the ungrateful, moody bastard I’d turned out to be.

Two things a man can’t choose that define him: family and height.

Mom and I talked shop, mainly about her gallery, and it was only when she was completely sure I was happy (as much as an ass face like me could be) that she finally retired to her bedroom.

“Close the door after you,” I demanded, unnecessarily snappy.

She did, shaking her head and smiling at my antics. Nothing disarmed an asshole more than a person who didn’t take them seriously.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

“Whatever.”

“Love you.”

I looked the other way. This shit again. “You, too.”

I could hear her laughter carrying down the hallway laden with stupid paintings.

Restless, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my text messages.

Knight: I’m having THE talk with Luna today. Wish me luck.

Good luck trying to get your man card back, you ball-less sack of emotions.

Stacee: You awake? ;)

Not for you, Stacee, you slut-shaming, gay-bullying, diet-personality Barbie, whose only unique characteristic is that your parents were illiterate enough to fuck up your generic name.

Hunter: On a scale of one to ten, when one is yawn, why-are-we-even-discussing-this and ten is I-will-fucking-dip-you-in-cold-fire-then-feed-you-to-my-blind-cat, how angry would you be if I told you I namedropped you to fuck the Lenke twins? (P.S. at the same time, if it makes a difference)

Minus thirteen, and their name is Lemke. At least that’s what their matching lower-back tattoos said when they licked my balls at the same time. (P.S. it doesn’t)

Arabella: You awake?

No, idiot. I’m asleep at seven pm, the time you sent me this message. I’m eighty like that.

Alice: Soooo, it’s official now. Jason and I broke up. Drinks at mine?

Only if it’s cyanide, and you’re the one doing all the drinking.

I had no idea what made me think I’d find a text from Lenora. We never exchanged numbers.

Or words.

Or fucking glances, for that matter.

We weren’t exactly on good terms. Then again, it was unlike her not to fight back when I pushed her. And this time, I’d shoved her out of the fucking picture and into another time zone. Why was she keeping silent?

Are you up to something bad, Good Girl?

I tossed my phone across my nightstand and squeezed my eyes shut. My room was my kingdom. All black, not a drop of color except for the occasional white or gray, and yet I felt so trapped inside. I wondered if that was going to change when I moved to England.

Negatory, ass face.

I’d always felt trapped. Even in the wild.

I’d traveled all across the globe, spending entire summers in France, Italy, Australia, the UK, and Spain. And my damn demons always tagged along, like they were chained to my ankle, their shackles noisy in my ears.

I was going to slay them this summer, though.

I even knew which weapon I would use to cut the link between us.

A sword I’d be making from scratch.