Wonderland | H.S.

Chapter Twelve

don't say I never did anything for you.

you're welcome.

~

Cade's POV | Violet Delight's Motel, but before Harry receives the Epilogue

~

Here's the problem with metaphors:

Leviticus Pierce Smith uses them like my deadbeat birth-mother used black-tar heroin—waiting to get his next fix of weird, ridiculous words that now make me want to vomit my entire stomach onto the ground. Fuckin' asshole, freaky author-boy's life revolved around metaphors.

Well, guess what?

Not anymore. The dude's dead. Bye-Bye.

I should feel bad about killing my best friend. Well, I haven't done it yet, alright? Can't call the coppers if the coppers got nothing to use against me. Nothing but the ginormous shovel in the back that I've since named Cousin Shovel.

Sat alongside his other cousin—Baby Bat—I've never felt more elated for a family reunion in my life, which technically is what's 'bout to go down. Levi and I are foster brothers—excuse me—Levi and I were foster brothers, as in past-tense, baby, because in the next twenty-four hours, Levi Big-Boy-Pants will be six feet in the ground—

"Yo, Blondie!"

A hand that smells of a cherry blossom tree and an Autumn afternoon in November—the leaves a delicate shade of brown, of reds that rival Pantsie's hair—snaps in my face. I, however, have decided that I hate Autumn and cherry blossom trees.

But not nearly as much as I hate Leviticus Pierce Smith. I hate that little hangnail lots and lots. I mean, the dude's a fuckin' wizard or something. There's not another explanation for the total bizarro shit he's somehow managed to pull off. Resetting clocks? Sounds a bunch like Nanny McPhee or the Poppins lady.

I hate Nanny McPhee.

I didn't use to, but I do now since motherfuckin' Leviticus Pierce Smith reminds me of Nanny McPhee, and that's the saddest part of all this. My favorite childhood movies have all been ruined by the dude's constant need to control everything.

Fuck Alice in Wonderland.

And to think, he made me the Mad Hatter? Fuck's sake. I know I asked for the role, but I didn't think anyone thought I was crazy. Harry did. Harry does, but Harry is currently under the spell of a purple pussy-boy with a thick Philly accent, a strangely nice-smelling cologne, and -pathic tendencies.

"Mia, I'm not dealing with his shit."

"Then don't."

"Then don't," the voice mocks. "If I slap him again, he'll cry like a child. We've already got one child inside, and this one's blonde—"

"Oh, that's right," the other voice interrupts; the case for catastrophe eerily sprouted. "Forgot about your weird disdain of blondes."

"Forget that we're family next."

I roll my eyes at the pearly voice. Despite my longing to bathe in the voice, wrap the silkiness around my shoulders and sleep forever, I ignore it and listen to the rain instead.

Stupid rain. Stupid, foolish rain that was most likely created by a silly fucking boy named Leviticus Pierce Smith—

A hand slaps my cheek.

Coiling into the side of my car, my body jerks from the skin-on-skin contact. I was slapped silly. Who in their right fuckin' head would silly slap someone like a piece of meat when they have an extended family of weapons in the back of their truck?