Prologue
Canon
18 years old
“Look Bro! Carcy’s giving out lap dances!” Ian bumps my arm as I try to fill my cup with another shot of tequila.
It’s my eighteenth birthday -- which should put me in the mood for celebrating -- but all I can think about is getting fucked up. That way, I won’t have to think about the mental laps my brain has been doing all day.
Going back and forth between feelings of regret and anger.
“I’m good,” I snort out as I realize Ian is waiting for me to get up.
“C’mon man. You’ve been sulking all night, and you know what the cure for sulking is? Getting your dick wet.”
“I’m sure Carcy has enough diseases to put the free clinic out of business. I’m going to have to start looking for a cure for that too.” I down my shot in one go, suppressing the effect the tequila had on me. The sharp burn at the back of my throat a welcome intrusion to my internal struggle.
“Suit yourself,” he finally gives up, practically running to where Carcy is bending over in front of Lucky, another senior from our school.
This party was supposed to be for me. Celebrating my newfound freedom. Me being eighteen means I no longer have to stay at my rundown foster home. It’s nothing like The House, a foster home for other lost souls like me, run by Corporate Cares. That’s the one that Rylee Donovan, wife to famous race car driver Colton Donovan, worked at. They were always on the news and the main topic of conversation throughout my foster home. Mine was only talked about because of how shitty it was. The house parents tried their best, but I need out.
Out of this town.
Out of this shit life.
I pull myself from the couch, bracing my hand on the armrest so I can catch my footing. I lost count on the number of shots I took, and my body is starting to feel the side effects. I grab the bottle of tequila, tucking it under my arm to make sure it doesn’t drop. Stumbling down the hall of Carcy’s parent’s house, I open the first door I see to my right.
Walking in, I shut the door and lock it behind me, the sound of the party now a muffled hum.
The bedroom is sparse of any personality, just a huge king bed propped up against the middle of the wall with identical bedside tables on either side. The walls are painted a light brown, reflecting how I feel which makes this room perfect.
I stride over to the bed, placing the bottle on the floor, then plopping down with my hands resting behind my head. After a few beats, I pull out the folded picture from my pocket, raising it up so I can look.
The lower left corner is broken off, singe marks outlining the ragged edges. The picture itself is faded from years of wear and tear. I flip it over to read the writing on the back.
Veronica, 1991.
I sit up, propping the picture against the bedside table lamp and fish out the small glass container from my other pocket wrapped in paper. I neatly line up the fine white powder in two equally sized lines. One for me, and one forVeronica.
I roll up the paper that was wrapped around the container, snorting the first line loudly. This burn is nothing like the one from the tequila. It shoots up my nose, hitting my brain before everything goes numb.
Gone is the feeling of pain, regret, and anger. Now I feel the gentleness of euphoria, causing me to close my eyes and a small smirk to form on my lips.
“Now I see why you do it,” I say to Veronica.
I snort the last line then grab the bottle from the floor, raising it up to the picture in a toast.
“Happy birthday, Mom.”
Chapter 1
Canon
Present Day
“Who doesn’t celebrate turning 21?” Ian jerks back like he’s been slapped.
Him trying to force me to have a good time is nothing new, but for some reason that particular statement reminds me of the night I turned eighteen.