The Rules of Survival (Mercer #1)

RoS Chapter Eleven

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Hi guys, just feel the need to stress again how the story might not add up seamlessly as I've been editing bits and pieces.  So consider this a first draft riddled with whoopsies and LOTS of grammar errors.  Otherwise, hope you enjoy :)

Chapter Eleven

All I wanted to do when I got home was fall into a blissful sleep and never wake up.

What I ended up doing was ushering the kids inside with strict instructions to do their homework. I checked that the house was still secure and that Teresa hadn't somehow dragged herself back home and managed to Houdini her way inside. No such luck; her room was empty, the lingering stench of stale alcohol and day old vomit making my nose sting and my gag reflex kick in.

"I'm going out to look for Teresa," I told Mycha after I peeked through the living room windows and confirmed there was no Jeep Cherokee parked anywhere on the street. I hadn't noticed any dark, ominous cars following me around today either.

"What?" Mycha asked, standing at the kitchen counter. He was making snacks for the kids.

"Teresa. Your mother," I clarified, grabbing my denim jacket to throw on over my hoodie. I didn't know how long I'd be out and the temperature was already dropping. "She's still MIA."

"So, what? You want me to get them all ready?" he asked with more than a hint of snark in his voice.

"No, I want you to stay here and look after them," I said, choosing not to respond to his bad attitude.

"Oh, so you're just going to leave us here and what, hope the bad guys don't bust in the door while you're gone? Nice, real nice, Ioney," he said, attacking a Twinkie packet rather aggressively in his attempt to get the thing open.

"And what good would I do if I was here, huh?" I exploded, my simmering anger at him finally erupting. "In case it's escaped your attention Mycha, I'm no super hero. I don't have some hidden talent where I can blast assholes to smithereens. I'm an eighteen year old girl with a busted hand and a sore hip. If someone comes through that door, me being here or not won't make the slightest difference unless our offensive tactics involve a lot of girly screaming."

"You weren't singing that tune last night when you had your God damn butcher knife at the ready, were you? No, you had everything well under control," he retorted.

"Really? Because I thought I'd dropped the ball there with the way you went crying to Ray and Montoya. Anyone would think I had no fucking idea what I was doing."

Which I didn't, but that was beside the point. My brother was supposed to trust me implicitly, not rat me out to people who would just as likely kick me as aid me. Mycha cringed at my bad language; I'd never actually sworn at him before.

"I just thought they might've been able to help," he said, recovering and finding his own spark of anger to fire at me. He threw the unopened Twinkie onto the kitchen floor. "And they probably would help us if you'd just let them. It doesn't have to be you against the world all the damn time, Een."

"No, it doesn't," I agreed, starting to pace the length of the small living room. "But when my sole option for help is from someone who only ever looks out for his best interests, is it any wonder I want to pass? Montoya is not who you think he is."

Mycha opened his mouth to interrupt but I made a violent slashing motion with my hand.

"He's bad news. You have no idea what it cost me to take money from him, Mycha. He'll not only want it back, but he'll want something else as way of interest. I've seen it happen. Hell, he probably does it to people he holds in much higher regard than you or me. He's dangerous and unpredictable, and every move he makes is calculated. So to ask him to step in and solve all of our problems will be the same as signing our own death warrants."