A Bad Boy in my life

Twenty one

Sleep eluded me, frustratingly so.

I scolded myself for being unable to find rest, and my frustration only deepened knowing that it was all because of Maxon. Images of his injured form haunted my mind, and questions of how he acquired that bullet scar on his stomach plagued my thoughts. What if I had gone with him? What if I hadn't distanced myself from him in the kitchen? The possibilities consumed me, preventing any hope of finding solace on my pillow.

In an attempt to salvage what remained of the night, I resorted to reading a book about a threesome that Ashley had given me months ago. It had sat untouched on my shelf, gathering dust until this moment when I mustered the courage to explore its contents. Unexpectedly, the story gripped me, compelling me to continue reading until the first rays of dawn illuminated the pages.

When I awoke at eight o'clock, a sense of unease accompanied my grogginess. The dark circles beneath my eyes revealed the restless night to my mother, who offered a piece of advice.

"You should cover those circles. People might think you got beaten up, and it's not safe," she said with concern.

"Thanks for the confidence boost," I replied sarcastically, taking a bite of toast.

Glancing at my reflection in a spoon, I contemplated the events of the previous night, my mind swirling with thoughts. My mother's next words interrupted my reverie.

"One of the employees mentioned seeing you talking to Mr. Stirling's son in the kitchen last night."

My brain froze, panic coursing through my veins. I knew my mother's opinion of Maxon, vividly expressed on the day she mistakenly believed he had harmed me in the living room. I couldn't bear the thought of she discovering my growing connection with Maxon, fearing she might banish me from the house.

"People love to gossip. I was just getting some water. I didn't even greet Maxon," I lied, knowing that it scored a resounding -9 on the believability scale.

Suspicion lingered in my mother's gaze as she scrutinized my response.

"Have you been avoiding talking to your father?" she suddenly changed the subject.

"Why do you ask?"

"He called me last night, asking me to tell you that he wants to talk to you."

My relationship with my father was complex. He would readily attribute my departure from his house to his unemployment, citing his inability to provide me with a good quality of life. But it went deeper than that. After the incident at school last year, he never looked at me the same way. His disappointment and stress found a target in me, and I couldn't help but harbor some resentment.

"I'll see if I can give him a call after school," I replied, knowing deep down that I had no intention of doing so.

She shrugged, a gesture that had become familiar when our conversations veered toward my father. Lost in thought, I fixated on a random spot, allowing my mind to drift aimlessly.

"Where are you going?" I inquired, noticing my mother heading upstairs.

"To let Alex know she can take the day off. Why?"

"Let me do it," I offered, seizing the opportunity to visit the second floor where Alex worked in the laundry room.

My mother regarded me with surprise, but ultimately acquiesced, and I swiftly ascended the stairs, anticipation coursing through my veins. As I passed Maxon's room, I caught snippets of conversation seeping through the partially open door. Intrigued, I approached cautiously, catching sight of Mrs. Stirling standing beside Maxon's bed, her arms wrapped around herself. Maxon sat against the headboard, weariness etched on his face.