Page 68 of Striking Range

“Excuse me?” Ash is all panting breaths and barely restrained anger. I resist the urge to run like a child. “You’re going to do what? Deliberately disobey me?”

I shake my head quickly. “No! I just—nothing’s working out, you know? And I—”

His fist slams into my cheek so fast that I don’t see it coming. He’s also so quick, which I guess is better than watching the wind-up.

I cringe. “Dad—”

“Do you not care about everything I’ve done? You’re complaining about getting a girlfriend? Are you fucking serious, Everett?”

“I can’t make someone like me!” I insist.

“Don’t give me that bullshit! You’re young, successful, and handsome. Someone likes you. What is this really?”

I say nothing. I should have known he’d sniff me out—he’s very smart, after all.

“I just haven’t had any luck, Dad,” I finally whisper.

He sneers. “Luck? Bull-fucking-shit. I’m starting to think this has nothing to do with being liked and everything to do with you.”

We stare at each other. Maybe it’s a test of endurance or strength, this staring contest, but probably just him intimidating me.

“I’m sorry.” I have nothing left to say, so I set my glass down and stand to leave.

“Are you gay, Everett?”

I freeze.

“What?” My voice is a quiet, startled thing. All fear and nausea.

“You better not be a queer,” he adds. “I swear to you that I’ll beat it straight out of you. You can’t bring that shame onto your family.”

Mixing Tequila and Brandy might have been a bad idea. This ache where the love that comes from a family is supposed to sit is so hot and bright, so all-encompassing and raw, that it angers me. It brings out something primal and animalistic from somewhere buried deep inside.

I want to scream. I want to bottle up this hatred and use it to remind myself in the future, every time I doubt myself, that this isn’t right and it isn’t normal and I need to get away.

And instead, because that is not something I can do, I turn to look down at my adoptive father and say, “Family? Do families hit each other? Are fathers supposed to terrify their sons? Are mothers supposed to look down on their children in disgust? Am I supposed to wonder if my parents even like me? I don’t think so.”

Ash’s eyes widen in surprise. “Everett—”

“And so what? Even if I was gay, so what? No one cares. No one but you. It’s sad—I succeed at everything you ask of me. Everything. Not wanting a girlfriend is the last thing a parent should be so angry about, yet here we are. I’d rather be gay than be anything like you, Ash Carmichael.”

It feels good to say. I think Ashley would be proud of me—I’m proud of me.

But pride and fear and pain can all live side by side, and I know this for a fact as Ash’s fists slam into me, over and over again. I’m not sure where one punch ends and the next begins, but he has me by my collar, and I’m guarding my head for the life of me.

“Ungrateful brat!” he screams, and as he tires, he lets me fall to the ground. “You will do as I say. And if I hear any more of this family bullshit, or this nonsense about you being gay, you will pay for it.”

He turns, stomping toward his bedroom with all peace wiped away. I see Felicita in the doorway, glaring straight at me. A moment later, she follows him out.

I’m too drunk to drive, so after I clean myself up—taking in the scattered bruises and my busted cheek—I Uber toward Skylar’s apartment.

I need to breathe. I need him.

As I load into the rented car, I dial his number.

He picks up on the fourth ring, saying, “Hello?”

“Are you home?” I can hear the music in the background, so I know he’s not. Someone’s laughing.