Book IV of UNC Series
Carter Blake hates the world, but most importantly, the people that occupy it. He wants to insulate himself and only focus on getting through school and basketball. After suffering at the hands of his alcoholic mother, he wants...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
three years later
Fuck you!
That's my first thought of the day, thanks to the glare peeking through the sliver of the curtains. They aren't even straight, slightly askew, each panel failing to do its job. There's one spot in particular that lines up perfectly with my face, no matter how many times I adjust the gap.
Pinching my eyelids tightly, I roll my eyes behind them, cursing my landlord, who has done nothing to fix or repair the damages in my dingy apartment but won't permit me to make changes myself.
What fucking landlord charges me a maintenance fee to make the place more livable yet doesn't do anything to help?
I hate this place, and I want to move, but unfortunately, it's the only place I can afford at the moment, and with only a few more months left on the lease, there's no point in moving yet.
No one takes too kindly to a 20-year-old runaway girl with a foul mouth and a penchant for lying. Not that I make it a habit of lying, but no one seems to trust me, hence the need to lie.
At least I've made a habit of paying my rent on time. Busting my ass at the tattoo studio—though I'm not an artist yet, I spend my time scheduling appointments for other artists and cleaning up the place—I barely make enough to cover rent.
I'm grateful that I got a scholarship to attend Weston Cardill University—or Weston for short. Not because of my grades—due to my lack of attendance in high school, I barely got enough marks to scrape by—but because I'm an underfunded high school graduate with no parents or guardian to help me.
I say guardian in the barest of ways because the one I had did little to help me and did more to torture me.
Moral of this story: I'm piss poor even on my best days.
Just the thought of how I'll be able to afford meals and necessities the next day makes me clench my fists, my chest aching from the unknown of tomorrow.
A growl, followed by a yelp, resounds next to me before I feel a weight press down on my chest. It's almost like my golden retriever is aware of when my anxiety peaks. She's aware of every emotion and thought I have.
For all I know, my best friend could have gotten me a support dog, but in actuality, she was just eight weeks old when she was gifted to me by the one person I refuse to think about. I got her vaccine and rabies shots and sat in the waiting room while she got spayed. She isn't a support dog, but she might as well have been.
She truly is what she was meant to be as part of my life.
"It's so you're never alone again. You will always have a Liv with you."
My eyes sting, and tears burn the back of my eyes at the reminder. I muffle a sob, pinching my lips together when I feel Olive—adequately named—press down onto my chest, allowing the pressure to overwhelm the anxiety pitting in my chest.
