novelxo Twisted Collide: Chapter 11
If it weren’t bad enough that this has been a shitty week, starting with the impromptu meeting on Monday where I found out I fucked the coach’s daughter, now today, Sunday, it’s raining.
Of course, it is.
Why wouldn’t it be?
Today is the day I get the Cup.
It also means I have the damn Cup ambassador tailing. I’m not in a pleasant mood, let alone prepared to be social. Oh well, sucks to be him because where we are going, he’s going to get ignored and soaked.
Not my problem.
I’ve been drinking since seven o’clock. I can’t care less if I’m a drowned rat. I’m so goddamn numb; maybe a chill will do me good.
I have refused to consider what has me more prickly than normal because I know, and quite frankly, I prefer to just stick to ignoring everything.
When we arrive at the location, the car stops, and I don’t wait for the driver to open the door for me. Instead, I throw it open and hop out. Right before exiting the car, I grab the Cup.
The driver I hired to chauffeur my ass around is most likely not impressed by me, but I can’t find it in me to care. He made money off me, so how I act is not his concern. Nothing is wrong with his car, and I don’t pay him to like me.
My foot slips a little from the rain, not the booze, although I doubt the Cup ambassador or my driver probably agree with that assessment.
Nonetheless, I trudge through the mud. With each step I take, my clothes cling to my skin, and my hair sticks to my forehead.
How cliché can I be?
I’m the lead actor in a made-for-TV film, where the drunk hero visits the grave of his dad.
But I’ll have a great epiphany in the movie version, something I’m sure won’t happen here today.
The grass is muddy, and my shoes have taken a beating by the time I finally make it to the bastard’s grave.
From my back pocket, I grab the flask, and then I pour the contents directly into Stanley.
We’re on a first-name basis now that my team won.
“Bet you never thought this is how I’d spend my day, huh, Dad? Actually, I bet you never thought this day would come at all.”
I lift the Cup and take a swig. The whiskey burns as it travels down my throat, but I welcome the feeling right now. It reminds me I’m here.
“Cheers, Dad,” I slur as I wave the cup in the air. “This is the moment you’ve waited for. Sooo . . . did it live up to the hype? Oh, wait, you’re dead. How could it?” I laugh bitterly. “Not much of a talker, are you? Funny how things change. You always were back then. Always endless lectures about goals. Funny how you never took your own advice.”
I plop down on the ground, my wobbly legs no longer willing to hold my weight.
Now, sitting, I can feel the mud seeping into my jeans. Fuck it. Fuck it all.
Anger swells inside me. Of course, this is how it would be. “What a fucking joke this all is. But you know what? I have no one to blame but myself. It was my fault, after all. I’m a fuckup. Isn’t that what you said that night on the phone? But look at me now with a championship under my belt.”
My arm collapses by my side, the Cup almost tipping from my grasp. I catch it at the last moment.
I’m not worried about the Cup; it’s been through worse. Stories of the Cup’s escapades are legendary. A little mud won’t hurt it. Nope, I’m worried about the contents. That’s some pretty good whiskey.
“You know the worst part . . .” I run my hand through my soaked hair, grabbing at the strands and pulling to the point of pain. “You killed her. She trusted you, and you killed her.”
My mother was the glue of our family. The day she died, our family died too.
“And Molly. Don’t get me started with Molly. The fact that she’s so amazing has nothing to do with you. The fact that I’m here, Cup in hand, has nothing to do with you. It’s all because of Molly. She’s the reason I’m here. How does that make you feel?” I hiss as I lift the Cup and take another swig. “The funny thing is, here I am, not so much unlike you. How’s that for irony? You killed me that day too. Killed the fun-loving guy I could have been and left this—” Another swig, another burn. “I guess this is the Sinclair legacy. Angry drunks.”
“So here’s to you, Dad.” I laugh, but it’s a hollow, empty sound. “Here’s to the bastard who only wanted one thing—a famous son. Whelp, you got it. Even if you had to kill everyone to achieve your goal.”
I look at his headstone. Jonathan Sinclair.
The words dance in front of me because my vision is blurry. Is it the rain or my tears that blind me?
Maybe my hate.
With one final swig, I finish the whiskey and push myself back to standing.
“I hope you rot in hell, old man. It seems I’m right behind you, so you might as well save me a seat.”