Page 27 of Their Broken Tears
Chapter Nine
Jace
While I wait for Marisol by her locker, nerves radiate to the tips of each finger. My hands have a mind of their own, fluttering around like a little bitch, and my damn hair keeps falling in my face. The only thing that eases the building tension is when Marisol appears, she’s just as affected.
“N?Nowhere. What are you doing?” She’s a dream. Even though she’s shorter than me, she has legs that go on for days, and the skinny jeans she’s wearing put them and her perfect perky round ass on display.
“I was hoping to catch you and see if you wanted to?”
“Hey! What are you two doing?” Alex yells out. “Aren’t you supposed to be at basketball practice?”
“Yeah, heading there now. I ran into Marisol on the way.” The first thing I think of is what spews, which doesn’t sound convincing even by my own ears. Alex’s glare says he agrees. “See you later.” The message is clear, we’re not finished. Not by a long shot.
After pushing through the heavy metal doors, my fingers glide through my hair, preparing for the coach’s ass-chewing for being late again. But regret is not in the realm of emotions bombarding my libido. Marisol’s overrun my every thought since she spent the night in my arms a handful of days ago. How could we see each other every day for years and then one day recognize the connection we seem to have had all along? There’s no excuse. I’ve been blind.
~~~~~
Practice completely blew. The coach was beyond pissed that I was late, giving me the speech, “Just because you’re the best player on the team, doesn’t give you the right to mess around whenever you choose,” when in actuality, it gives me a pass to everything. I enjoy that privilege. Getting all the girls I want is a big perk, but now I’m not interested. I can’t think about anyone other than Marisol. Even the entourage that usually follows me around is working on my last nerve.
When I finally make it home, Jasmine’s pulling a roast from the oven. The buzzer notifying the entire downstairs that dinner’s ready. The smell infuses my sinuses, causing my mouth to water. If there’s one thing Jasmine can do, it’s cook. The girl has a gift. Not just dinner, but desserts too. Each year, she makes us these little cakes for our birthday; they’re to die for. She cooks them the night before and brings them back to her room to decorate. Last year, she made the mistake of leaving them out to cool in the kitchen, only to find that Margret had stuck her fingers in them and filled the holes with vodka. Jasmine cried for half the night, telling me she was so sorry that they would have been perfect.
A nostalgic smile stretches my lips, thinking about her big heart, and the softness she offers those she loves. My life is simple compared to the things she endures.
When I hold my bag up, signaling to Jaz that I’ll be right back after dropping it off, I take the stairs two at a time to get to my room. There’s an urgency in my steps, wanting to get back downstairs, so I can harass her and ask, ‘When is dinner going to be done?’ repeatedly until she slowly goes insane, and lets me eat just a little while she finishes the rest.
As I round the corner to our rooms, my mind on the food in the air, I pause mid-stride. There are clothes strung throughout the hallway. Confused, I step closer, and see that most are cut into strips. My head tilts at the clothing as if they’ll tell me what happened, but as I approach Jasmine’s door the note scrawled in Margret’s handwriting does it for them.
Filthy Slob,
The clothes you wear are hideous. I took it upon myself to liberate you. You’re welcome.
~M
I rip the note down and crush it in my fist. What. The. Fuck? Rage boils inside of me. How in the hell can she treat her daughter like this?
Instead of going to my room to shower, I storm towards Margret’s door, and kick the damn thing open. She’s lying in the middle of the bed, passed out, a glass of red wine spilled all over the white sheet.
I stomp over to the bed and strike the mattress, but she doesn’t budge. “Margret,” the growl in my voice extenuates my anger.
She stirs at my voice. “Hey, bebeeey boy. I’ve missssd you.”
I lean down directly in her face. “What the fuck did you do to Jasmine’s clothes?” I’ve never been more furious in my life.
Her eyes change from being filled with joy to holding nothing but malice while cackling. “Me? I jussst increasssed her socthial status,” she snickers and slurs on her words, not giving two shits that she destroyed everything Jasmine owns.
“You disgust me.”
She pouts. “Don’t be like that, Jacey.”
“Don’t call me that. I can’t stand you.” I scream in her face. I’ve spoken those words to her more times than I can count, but she doesn’t even acknowledge them, carrying on as if I were her poster child.
“Love you, Jacey.” She mumbles as she passes out again.
I exit, slamming her door. Margret and my dad stopped sharing a room several years ago. I have no idea why he lets her continue to live with us. We fight all the time about her treatment of Jasmine. He knows. He knows everything. Jasmine thinks we’re keeping everything between us, but that’s bullshit. Our dad should be the one to take care of this, but I guess he figures if it isn’t bad enough for Jasmine to say anything, it can’t be that bad. It’s not like Margret hits her.
I fly down the stairs, heading straight for the kitchen, understanding now why Jasmine’s cooking up a storm. This is her main outlet when things get rough; it helps keep her mind clear.
Her back is to me when I enter the kitchen, but she stiffens, knowing I’ve seen the evidence of Margaret’s rampage upstairs. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whisper. “Jaz?” My voice breaks on her name.