The Emptiness She Holds

yes, im bad

Chapter 6: Yes, I'm Bad

Nah nah nah, wake up, estupidaaa!

Ryan's alarm—the most annoying damn present anyone's ever given me—blared across my room.

I lifted my head from the pillow and, with one full-force smack, sent that shit flying across the floor, where it hit the bathroom door with a loud thud.

Nah nah nah, wake up, estupidaaa!

Ryan's voice kept repeating.

"Oh, you son of a bitch," I muttered, stalking over like I was about to murder it.

I thought about using my gun to silence it permanently, but that'd raise too many questions.

Instead, I grabbed the alarm clock and chucked it out the window—smashing it hard against a tree.

I slammed the window shut and crawled back into bed—only to have my phone start ringing.

"UGHHHHH," I screamed into my pillow.

"Someone's about to fucking die!"

I sat up and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.

Birth giver.

She's lucky she's my mother.

I dragged out a long, sarcastic "Yesssss, mamiiiiii," and slumped back down.

"Sweetheart! I just got the most exciting news ever! Come to my bedroom!"

Before I could protest, she hung up.

I rolled my eyes and muttered incoherent curses as I dragged myself to the bathroom.

"Fuc... sleep... hate... people... alarm... gonna kill... Ryan and his bic... ass... I wanna... die..."

I brushed my teeth, then hit the closet.

Sweatpants. Black sweatshirt with "L.A." in white letters.

I grabbed a hair clip, brushed my curls, and folded my hair back.

Slipped on black socks and my slippers, grabbed my phone, and wandered down the hall.

Wait—where the fuck is her room again?

Seriously?

Whatever. She can come find me. I didn't ask for this mansion, this stepfather, or stepbrothers, or to get lost in a house with a million damn floors!

Kitchen, then.

I walked downstairs, avoiding the elevator—I'm an overthinker, okay?

The kitchen buzzed with chatter. Three of my stepbrothers were already there, perched on tall chairs.

Elias sipped coffee, eyes glued to his laptop. Daniel and Zander shoved pancakes into their mouths.

I acted like they didn't exist—they probably felt the same.

I walked in with my trademark stone-cold bitch face so they'd know I wasn't here to make friends.

Opened the fridge, grabbed coffee creamer and half-and-half.

Fumbled around for cups but luckily found some.

The whole time, I could feel their eyes boring into my back.

Ignored it, poured cream into the coffee machine, plugged in my AirPods, and blasted some Spotify to drown the tension.

Pressed the start button, poured the steaming coffee into my white mug, then stirred cream and milk with my finger—no silverware for me.