Cursed Hadley (Lengthened Version) (Cursed Hadley #1) Page 3

I lift my brow. “What’s the catch?” There’s no way in hell this guy is going to give me anything for free. Plus, I’m never lucky enough to get free stuff.

  “There isn’t one.” He hands me a receipt, his fingers intentionally bushing mine. So gross. “I just want that thing gone. It freaks me the hell out, especially at night. Plus, you just broke it, so I can’t sell it now unless I fix it.” He gives me a dirty look, then glances worriedly at the mirror before turning back toward the counter.

  I look over at the mirror again. I don’t have much use for it, but I’d be insane to turn down the free offer. Besides, I’m sort of curious to see what the storeowner gets freaked out by at night.

  Ten minutes later, I’m putting the mirror into the trunk then climbing into the Chevelle with Bailey’s guitar in my hand. I’m feeling pretty shitty about the whole necklace exchange, even if I did get a free mirror, but then Bailey’s eyes light up for the first time in months and I feel a bit better.

  “Thank you, Hadley.” Bailey leans over the seat and gives me a hug. “You’re the best big sister ever.”

  I hug her back, ignoring Londyn’s accusing gaze boring into me. “You’re welcome. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am right now. I promise.” She gives me one final hug before sitting back in the seat and plucking the strings.

  “Your necklace is missing,” Londyn mutters under her breath as I start up the engine.

  “I packed it up. Didn’t want to risk losing it while we were hauling out boxes. You know how I’m always losing things.” I shift the car into drive.

  She rolls her eyes. “Sure you did.”

  I just shrug and steer out onto the road. She may be upset with me now, but she’ll get over it. She always does.

  Silence stretches between us as I drive toward the gas station, hoping Dad is waiting for us there. Since he hasn’t texted me back yet, I’m feeling pretty doubtful.

  “That guy was a real asshole, wasn’t he?” Londyn absentmindedly twists a ring on her finger.

  “Yes, he was,” I agree, cracking my window. “I seriously about punched that smirk right off his face.”

  “You should’ve.” She slips off her sneakers and props her feet on the dashboard.

  “Since when do you encourage fighting?” I question.

  She shrugs. “You’re my sister and he was trying to take advantage of you. He needed a good punch in the face.”

  I can’t help smiling as I slip on my sunglasses. Londyn rarely encourages drama, so that storeowner must have really gotten under her skin. I could tell her about the mirror, how the storeowner gave it to me, but I doubt it’ll do anything to help alleviate her irritation.

  “If it makes you guys feel any better, I totally jacked an art set from him,” Payton announces from the back seat.

  Londyn and I trade a confused look before glancing back at her.

  She smiles wickedly and holds up a flat, wooden box in her hand. “It hasn’t even been opened yet.”

  So that’s why she hauled ass out of the store.

  I really should reprimand her for stealing. She’s already a borderline klepto. But, since I just paid for a guitar that was stolen from us, I think I’ll let this one slide. Plus, it’s not like none of us steal. We’ve all done it before in desperate times.

  “What’s in it?” I ask as I turn into the gas station parking lot.

  Shit, I don’t see our dad’s truck anywhere.

  “It says it’s got pencils and paints,” Payton tells me. “Which I’m in desperate need of.”

  I nod distractedly as I make a loop around the gas station.

  “Why are we here?” Londyn asks, rolling her window down all the way.

  “I texted Dad when we stopped at the pawn shop and told him to wait for us here.” I frown as I realize his truck isn’t here. “I guess he didn’t get the message.”

  “Or ignored it,” Londyn gripes in frustration. “Why does he have to make everything such a pain in the ass?”

  Because he misses Mom. Because he’s depressed. Because he’s heartbroken.

  Those are the excuses I usually make for him, but I’m getting tired of it. I understand that he misses Mom, that he loved her more than he loved himself. She made him happy, and he thrived on making her happy.

  Watching the two of them together was like witnessing magic. I don’t even care how cheesy that makes me sound. I’ve never seen any other couple have such love glowing in their eyes as when Mom and Dad looked at each other adoringly. I used to want that for myself, that magic and the glowing. After watching the absence of it smother my dad in darkness, though, I’ve changed my mind. It’s part of why I don’t do the whole dating thing. Why I’ve kissed a total of two guys and one was on a dare. The other was a drunken mistake. And I have no plans of upping that number anytime soon.

  Life is easier that way. Relationships are complicated. And complications are distracting. Which brings me to the other part of the reason I don’t date.

  I don’t want anything distracting me from my goals of escaping this life. I’m going to college the moment I’m handed my diploma, and I don’t need anything or anyone holding me back. It’s already going to be hard enough saying goodbye to my sisters.

  “Should we go look for him?” Londyn suggests right as my phone vibrates from inside my pocket.

  “Hold that thought.” I fish out my phone, crossing my fingers the message is from our dad, telling me he’s parked somewhere in town, waiting for us.

  But he can never make things that easy, can he?

  Dad: Just got your message. I’m about to pull into that bar just outside of town on the highway. Meet me there when you’re ready.

  “Oh, hell no.” I strap my seatbelt on and tell my sisters to do the same, knowing if he steps foot in that bar, he won’t be coming out anytime soon, unless I drag his drunk-ass out.

  None of my sisters even bother asking me what’s wrong—our dad is super predictable these days. They simply put on their seatbelts then hold on, knowing they’re going to need to. Because, if there’s one thing I’m good at in this life, it’s driving fast.

  Moments later, I’m peeling out with the gas pedal floored. My heart is pumping as the speed increases. I feel more alive than I have in weeks.

  My mom used to say the same thing, that racing made her breathe freer and her heartbeat swifter. She enjoyed every moment she spent behind the wheel. I’ve been the same way from the moment I started learning how to drive, back when I was ten. Mom let me sit on her lap and steer down our driveway. It was such a rush, and I couldn’t wait until I got my learner’s permit. Although, by the time I did, she was gone, but the magic I experienced the first time sparkled just brightly.

  Driving has always given me a rush, and when I’m racing, all the shit going on in my life sort of blurs away. Unfortunately, I don’t get to race very often since I have to be sneaky about it. Because, while my dad is a mess and barely pays attention to us anymore, he did set one firm rule.

  Absolutely no drag racing.

  I understand why he thinks we need the rule, since Mom died racing when her car skidded off the road and into a lake. At least that’s what we were told, but they never did find her body.

  I saw the accident, I was at the race, and I swear I saw her jump out of the car at the very last second before it skidded off the road. I also thought I saw four cloaked figures surround her. She looked at me and told me everything was going to be okay, that she was ready for this, and that one day, I would be, too.

  Yeah, that part of my story is why ended up seeing a shrink for quite a while. It didn’t help that everyone else at the scene claimed to have seen nothing out of the ordinary.

  So, that was that. We had a funeral, said our goodbyes, and tried to move on with our lives. Sometimes, in my dreams, I find out she didn’t die, that she did jump out at the very last second, and those cloaked figures have ahold of her. The moment I wake up, though, I ditch the theory and am left feeling as though
my heart is breaking.

  The only time my heart doesn’t feel broken is when I’m racing. That’s what my dad doesn’t understand—that I need to race to keep floating in this shitty pool of muddy, scummy pond water that I’m struggling to keep afloat in. Racing is my only breath of fresh air, my passion, and I’m damn good at it, something I more than prove when I skid into the parking lot of the bar right as my dad is about to walk inside.

  A cloud of dirt kicks up and gusts into the rolled down windows of my car and around my dad as I brake hard. He gapes at us in shock. Then the moment the surprise wears off, sheer lividness flashes across his face as he strides toward the car. I know what’s coming next. He’s going to yell at me, make a scene, threaten to take away my car keys. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  It’s crazy to think about and might sound farfetched, but up until my mom died, I can’t remember him ever yelling at us. Now he does it all the time. And drinks. And yells. And drinks. And yells some more. And also does who the hell knows what when he wanders off for days on end.

  “Give me your fucking car keys. Now!” he seethes as he reaches my door.

  “I’m sorry, but—” I start to apologize, but he reaches in, shuts off the engine, and steals my keys. “Hey.” I move to snatch them from him, but he stuffs them into his pocket and strides away toward the bar door.

  I dive out of the car and rush after him. “Dad, we don’t have time for this shit. It’s already going to be dark by the time we get to Honeyton.”

  “Well, you should’ve thought about that before you drove like a goddamn lunatic.” He jerks the door to the bar open. “Seriously, what were you thinking? Especially with your sisters in the car.”

  “I was thinking that I needed to get here before you went inside,” I snap. “Because, I knew, if you did, you’d be in there all night and we’d be stuck out in the car, waiting for your drunk-ass to stumble out.” This isn’t the first time I’ve lost my cool with him, and it won’t be the last.

  His face reddens. “I think you’re forgetting who the parent is.”

  “What parent?” I’m fuming mad. Mad at him for being a drunk. For being such a shitty father. For pretending he has the right to scold me now when he doesn’t give a shit about anything we do. Mad because I had to pawn my necklace. Mad, mad, mad. I’m so mad all the time that I can barely stand it. “Because all I see is a drunk deadbeat who can’t even take care of his kids.”

  “And it’s all your fault, you cursed little shit!” He smacks me across the face, shocking both him and myself. With all the terrible things my father has done over the years, he has never hit me until now. “I’m sorry,” he sputters as I place my palm to my throbbing cheek, my eyes wide. Then he bails into the bar.

  Shaking my head, I spin around and storm back to the car. All my fault? It’s all my fault he’s a drunk? Now he’s blaming me for his bad life choices?

  What a fucking asshole.

  “Holy shit, I can’t believe he hit you,” Bailey whispers with wide eyes.

  Payton’s eyes are equally as large, but Londyn appears shockingly pissed off.

  “We should leave his ass here.” She shakes her head. “Take the truck and ditch him.”

  The idea does sound enticing, but he’s our legal guardian and none of us are eighteen. Even though I hate it, we need him around.

  I roll my window down all the way. “We’ll give him an hour to cool off, and then I’ll go in and get him.”

  Londyn shakes her head while staring at my cheek. “I can’t believe he hit you.”

  Me neither. And I’m not sure what hurts worse—my face, my pride, or my heart.

  I peer into the mirror to see the damage. My cheek is already turning bright red and swelling. Grimacing, I start to look away when my skin suddenly faintly glows iridescent green. When I blink, though, everything is back to normal.

  I look away, thinking of the mirror in the trunk.

  The storeowner said that, if my reflection rippled and glowed, I was cursed. Not that I actually believe a mirror can do such a thing, but he may have been correct about being cursed. And maybe my dad is right for calling me cursed all the time.

  My whole entire life is one giant curse.

  Chapter 3

  After sitting outside the bar for almost an hour, our dad stumbles out, drunk off his ass. When I refuse to hotwire his car again, he finally lets Londyn drive. I feel bad for her being stuck in the car with his smelly ass and offer to drive with him instead, but Londyn refuses to allow it. Since my cheek currently has a bright red handprint on it, I don’t put up much of an argument.

  Five hours into the drive and after Dad sobers up, we pull over and Londyn climbs back into the Chevelle. Everything is going decently until we enter the town of Honeyton, our new, temporary place of residence.

  Somewhere along the main street and the turn off to our neighborhood, Dad pulls over. Since we don’t notice right away, we’re unsure where he went. My bet is the first bar he spotted.

  Luckily, I have the new address entered into the GPS on my phone. Unfortunately, I have no clue how the hell we’re supposed to get the keys from the landlord, or if Dad’s even signed the lease yet. He found this place online, that much I know. Other than that, he hasn’t given me any more info. Not that I haven’t tried. He always just dismisses me or gives some vague answer, probably because he’s either doing something or has done something I won’t approve of.

  That’s my dad for you.

  Yeah, did I forget to mention that he does some pretty shady stuff, pulling off scams and screwing people over? Not that he ever tells me about it. I just hear stuff through gossip or read about it on his police report when I bail him out of jail.

  I wonder how long we’ll be here before he gets arrested?

  I hate that I have those thoughts.

  Sighing, I pull up into the gravel driveway of the address currently typed into the GPS. The sun is starting to set, the sky greying. Even if Dad arrives in the next five minutes, we’re going to be trying to move stuff in while it’s dark.

  “Well, I think this one is the winner.” Sarcasm drips from Bailey’s tone as she takes in the narrow, two-story home in front of us.

  The wraparound porch is starting to collapse, the front door is cracked, and one of the windows is boarded up. It does have a garage at the end of the driveway. Or, well, more like a shack with a garage door.

  “The winner of what exactly?” Payton slants forward in the back seat to get a better look. “The shittiest house in the neighborhood?”

  “Actually, I was going to go with the shittiest house we’ve ever lived in,” Bailey clarifies. “The house next door is much shittier.”

  Payton’s gaze drifts to the two-story home beside ours. It shares similarities to ours, only with more boarded up windows and a shit ton of rusted cars decorating the backyard. Some of the cars don’t look half bad, if they had some work done to them.

  “Doesn’t really matter how shitty it is anyway,” Bailey adds as she gathers her guitar and bag. “We’ll probably live here for like, what? Maybe six months tops?”

  “How did Dad even find this town?” Payton leans back and scribbles something in a notebook. “It’s out in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. Seriously, did you guys see the population sign?”

  “We’ve lived in small towns before,” I remind them as I check my phone for missed messages.

  Fuck. He hasn’t replied to my texts yet.

  Frustrated, I send him another, asking how I’m supposed to get into this place and if he needs to be here to sign a lease. After a couple minutes tick by and he doesn’t reply, I shove open the door.

  “I’m going to take a look around,” I tell my sisters as I hop out of the car.

  I hike up the gravel driveway, hoping I can find either a letter from the landlord or an old rental sign that hopefully has a phone number.

  The more I move around, the more my face throbs. I took some painkillers early and pressed a cold bottle o
f soda to my cheek for a while, but it still hurts like a motherfucker and looks just as bad. In a couple days, I’ll probably have a bruise.

  “Goddamn, stupid, dickless asshole,” I chew my dad out as I trot up the steps to the side door.

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  The voice comes from out of nowhere and startles the crap out of me, causing me to spin around and nearly trip over my untied laces. I grab the wooden railing for support and end up getting slivers in my palms, but at least I manage to stop myself from falling on my ass.

  Sweeping my hair out of my face, I glance around to see who the culprit is who almost made me fall on my face. The instant I spot him, I know I’m about to have trouble on my hands.

  He’s standing on the other side of the fence that divides the yard between the house next door and ours. He looks around my age, is tall, lean, with blond hair, and one of the prettiest faces I’ve ever seen. Like, so pretty it almost looks otherworldly, which yes, is cliché and makes me sound stupidly girly, but it’s the truth. He’s also sporting an I-think-I’m-the-shit smirk, or a smirk I like to refer to as a douchebag stamp.

  He rests his arms on top of the fence. “Are you lost, baby?”

  God, I hate it when guys call me baby.

  Please don’t let him be my actual next-door neighbor.

  I cock my brow. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yeah, I am, baby.” He deliberately lets his gaze scroll over me. “You know what? Forget the baby remark. I’m thinking you’re more of a sweetheart sort of girl.”

  “Oh, my God.” I hold up my hands. I can’t even right now. “Does that shit seriously ever work for you?”

  His smile fumbles for the briefest of seconds before he plasters the smirk right back on. “Don’t worry; it’s okay to be flattered.”

  “I’m not flattered.” I trot down the steps and stop a short distance from him. “But don’t worry, sweetheart; I’m sure there’s some girl somewhere stupid enough to find your disgusting little obsession with vomit-inducing nicknames swoon-worthy. You should probably go find her, baby. And I’m thinking the best place to start is on go-fuck-yourself lane. And don’t ever call me sweetheart or baby again or I’ll kick you in the dick drive.”