Page 21 of Striking Range

A bottle of orange juice is placed next to it, and I pour some into my glass, doing my best not to draw too much attention to myself.

“How are classes?” Ash asks, ignoring his wife as she sits, preparing his plate.

“Fine,” I reply. “I have midterms soon; I’ll let you know how they go.”

“You’ll pass.”

I say nothing. I have nothing I can say. If Ash Carmichael says I will do something, I will, or risk meeting the back of his hand.

I was adopted at a very young age. They received me from the orphanage at six years old, and Ash began to discipline me at nine. I’m unsure if that’s how his father raised him, or if he’s just a cruel man, but it has always been my reality.

Felicita was no help—she’s a mean girl at heart. She gets off on the violence and has always thought that I am worth less than the two of them. I could see it from the very first day, from the moment they picked me up and eyed my ragged shirt and overgrown hair.

The abuse was always easy to hide. I could either blame bullies from school, or, since middle school, I could use baseball as an excuse; I think that’s the only reason Ash has supported my love for the sport all the way through college.

But I know—I know that as soon as I graduate at the end of the year, I will be cut off and out of their hair, just as they desire. They will do everything in their power to make sure I do not embarrass them when they push me from the nest, but will not care to see if I survive the fall.

But at least I’ll be free. I’ll get away from his hands and her cruel gaze.

“Look here, Felicita. They’re reporting about that march from June.” Ash turns the paper toward his wife just as she slides his plate toward him.

She sounds a humph of acknowledgement. “Those gay marches?”

I squirm in my seat, willing the conversation to turn in a different direction. But just as it always has been, my mental superpowers do not manifest, and Ash begins to speak again.

“Yes. Those homos are trying to make waves again. Did they not get enough when we gave them marriage rights? Jesus. They’ll ruin this country.”

It’s silent for a moment before Felicita speaks, and I take a bite of my breakfast. “What about you, Everett?”

I choke, grabbing for my juice to swallow around the food I’ve inhaled wrong. I can suddenly feel Skylar’s hips pressed to mine, his hot breath on my face. My head pounds aggressively, and I fear I’ll throw up the little bit I’ve managed to eat.

“Me?” I force out.

She raises a brow. “Yes. Do you have a girlfriend yet? It’s about time you stop sleeping around and get serious. You’re 22 years old.”

“Listen to your mother when she speaks,” Ash commands, placing his paper on the table next to him before picking up his cutlery with proper posture.

“Oh, yes, sorry.” I clear my throat. “No, I do not have a girlfriend.”

Ash narrows his eyes as Felicita makes a disappointed noise, so I add, “But I, uh, I am seeing someone. Could be serious soon.”

Lie. I’m not even sleeping with someone right now—unless you count Skylar rubbing himself all over me and shoving his tongue in my mouth.

I seriously doubt they would.

But Ash nods his head in approval, going back to ignoring me with no more need to acknowledge his son.

The rest of breakfast is quiet and tense, a great homage to what it was like to grow up within these four walls; the way living here still feels. And after, just as we always do on Sundays, we sit in the living room as Ash turns on Wheel of Fortune for background noise.

“How is Skylar?” he asks, watching Felicita through the window that shows a large section of her rose bushes out front where she’s tending to them.

“He’s good; just won a game.”

Ash nods, hands clasped together as he leans forward, his elbows on his thighs from where he sits on the couch.

I sit in my place on the recliner, watching the colors flash across the TV.

“Good for him. He chose a good career path.” There is a beat or two of silence before he speaks again. “He’s a good influence on you, Everett. Unlike that Kelly girl.”