Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
8
Payton
The trekback to Long Island is long and tedious.
One: Without a car, I must take the train.
Two: My cash is limited, so I couldn’t even spend money on a cab to get to Penn Station since I’ll need all my money to get back to campus once I’m off the train.
The worst part . . . my cell is temperamental as hell. One minute it’s on, the next minute it’s off. It’s like someone is manipulating the phone line just to mess with me. Which is ridiculous because there is no way Trent has the power to do that. Right?
My plan, which isn’t a very good one, is to break into my house and sleep there. It can’t be legal to kick me out without notice. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the lawyer, but tonight, I just need to crash.
Yep, add criminal to my list of problems.
And lord, are the problems piling up.
It feels like the world is spinning out of control, and I’m going to topple over.
Deep breath in.
Exhale out.
A coping mechanism I learned long ago but haven’t used in years.
Deep breath in.
Exhale out.
I’m fine.
Everything will be fine.
And at least I’m in sneakers and not impractical heels.
When the cab from the train station finally drops me off, I pull out my cell and turn on the flashlight.
It’s dark outside, but at least my cell is charged.
Something tells me once inside, I’ll need it. The bastard probably didn’t pay the electric bill either.
It’s pitch-black other than light coming from my phone.
What the hell am I going to do?
Where will I sleep?
And my things. I need clothes, a toothbrush, my schoolwork.
Wait.
The back window in the family room isn’t locked.
Holy crap! I almost forgot. It’s broken. I have a way in.
My body shakes, and tears prick my eyes.
Finally, something is going my way. It might have no electricity, but at least I’ll have a bed and my things. At least I’ll be safe.
As I jimmy it open and hoist myself through the window, I realize my assessment of the situation is spot-on.
It’s pitch-black inside. All the lights are off. Even the one I have set on timers, so it always appears that someone is home.
My feet hit the floor, and they echo. It sounds like an angry stampede of elephants. It’s not.
It’s just me.
There is nothing.
I want to fall over and sob.
One lone tear escapes my eye, but I wipe it away fast and stand up straight. There is no time to allow myself to fall apart. Instead, I take another step. Again, it echoes.
Without furniture, nothing absorbs the sound.
Goose bumps break out across my skin as I move through the room. It feels like someone is here.
Watching. Staring.
I chalk it up to my paranoia this time.
Trent has me wound up and seeing things.
No one is here, obviously. It’s all in my head, but I have that feeling. The feeling you have watching a scary movie. When you know something terrifying is lurking behind the door.
I start to pace the room. I love this house. It was the start of something amazing.
Something solely mine.
And now it’s gone.
No. Not true. Tomorrow, I will regroup. I will find Mr. Baker and figure a way out of this mess.
He’ll probably tell me to move back home with my sister, but I won’t do that. Not ever. Last I spoke to her, she was living with that creep.
That’s what she does.
She latches on to a man. Well, that was how it was before Ronald. He was our second chance. Also, my sister’s longest relationship.
He loved us and took care of us, and when he was around, I thought anything was possible.
As a little girl, I envisioned him as a prince. He rescued us. The fact that it was all a lie doesn’t sit well with me.
I’m having a hard time reconciling the two stories.
The one that Trent Aldridge yelled about and the man I knew. The man I knew would never have abandoned his family.
But at the same time, the man I knew would never have had a secret family, so I guess what do I know?
Nothing, obviously.
I start to walk around the house, looking to see if he left anything behind.
A blanket?
Clothes.
Anything that can help make tonight more comfortable.
I don’t have a bed. Maybe I should just go to Heather’s apartment. It’s not that far of a walk. Plus, she would take me. She would kill me if she knew I was planning to sleep on the floor with no blanket.
The problem is, I can’t ask for help. A level of pride has been ingrained inside me since I was a small girl.
Since back in the day when we lived in my sister’s car rather than ask for help.
That was before . . . but I can be that strong girl again.
The hard times don’t kill us. They teach us how to adapt. How to grow thick skin. How to become resilient. And even now, after all these years of wanting for nothing, the feeling of asking for help is still hard.
I shake my head.
No.
Every once in a while, you have to table your emotions and lay yourself bare. I can ask for help. It’s not the end of the world. It won’t undermine my growth as a person. I allowed Ronald to help me. I didn’t ask for help, but he gave it.
My stomach drops. He always helped me, yet it seems he only caused his own family pain. Reconciling the man I knew from Trent’s father is hard enough but doing it while standing in a house cloaked in darkness due to his son is impossible.
I continue to search the house for anything I can use. With my phone’s flashlight, I go from room to room. Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Garbage can: Gone.
Toilet paper: Gone.
Hell, even the light cans in the ceiling are stripped of the bulbs.
Gotta hand it to the jerk. He left nothing. Even the bag of recyclables I left by the back door is gone. On the off-chance I managed to convince the electric company to turn the lights back on the bastard stole the light bulbs like he was the Grinch.
He was thorough. A complete ass, too. Can’t forget that part.
There should be a rule that jerks come with a warning label on their forehead. That way, people know to stay clear of them. It should be mandatory the same way it is with food labels.
Someone with a peanut allergy knows not to eat a Snickers bar.
The outside should match the inside. However, I know that is not to be the case. My sister is the perfect example of this. It isn’t fair for the façade to hide the truth. Someone should come up with a device to remedy this. Like beer goggles but for character.
I shake my head at my ridiculous thought. There are bigger problems right now than this dumb invention.
Like which floor I should sleep on.
In the bedroom? Living room? Definitely not on the kitchen tiles or the bathroom floors.
It’s still warm out for the next few hours. With the central air off, the heat will rise to the bedroom.
Downstairs it is. Lucky me.
Tomorrow I’ll ask for help. But tonight, I’ll suck it up on the floor.
I explore the place for the coolest room, crossing into the family room.
I sit so my back leans against the wall and close my eyes. There is no way I can stay like this. I’ll never fall asleep. I have no pillow.
Nothing to sleep on.
I look down at the sweatshirt that I’m still wearing from school. It’s way too hot to be wearing it, but it gets so cold in class. And by the time I knock out, the temperature will drop, then I’ll need a triple layer.
But for now, I succumb to the fluff and decide to use it as a pillow.
Once the cotton is off my skin, I feel much better.
My skin cools.
I ball it up and prop it beneath my head, resting on my makeshift bed. I bring my knees into the fetal position.
The level of power Trent Aldridge yields is unmeasured.
He could use this power to better people. To build them up. To be safe and kind. He could use this strength to protect, not crush.
I won’t allow him to crush me, though. Nor will I shed a tear over him. I haven’t allowed myself to cry since I was little. Since my parents died. Since we lost everything.
Now is no different.
I refuse to let myself fall to pieces.
My eyes close, and I take a deep breath.
Nothing can be worse than that.
A creak wakes me up.
I’m not sure how much time has passed or how long I’ve been sleeping, but I’m groggy, and my eyes struggle to adjust to the darkroom.
There is no light, and I can’t risk the sound of searching for my phone, but a small sliver of the moon reflects into the home. Not enough to see anything. I gamble, reaching out to find my phone to use as a flashlight.
Not fast enough.
“Isn’t this cozy?” a familiar voice says.
Well, maybe something can be worse.