The Tutor (BOOK 2: OMEN KING SERIES)

|𝟷𝟻|

Romeo Benjamin

"You're scowling!" Mam chides, her dark eyes narrowed at me as she stirs the pot, the scent of homemade arroz con gandules and pork tickling my senses. "Stop it."

I try to rearrange my face into a smile, but she isn't buying it. She can see right through me, just like she always did when I was a kid. It's infuriating. I mean, why wouldn't I be scowling? He's in the fucking dining room, sitting at our table like he belongs there, while Mam makes him dinner.

"You're angry," she observes, her lips pursed in a frown. "What is it?"

I can't tell her the truth. Not now. Not when I can practically hear him laughing, smug and satisfied, just beyond the kitchen door. Instead, I shrug, attempting to play it cool. "If I don't get a decent grade on my English paper, Coach won't let me play Friday."

"And you're angry about that?" She gives me a knowing look, those brows arched like a challenge.

I know she knows. She just wants to hear me say it.

"Yes." The word escapes me like a growl, my jaw clenching in frustration. "It's my last fucking year at Willowbrook. I have to play my first-last game."

The air in the kitchen feels heavy, suffocating. I can almost hear the ticking clock on the wall, counting down the moments until I'm forced back into this house of horrors.

Mam gives me a stern look, the kind that makes me feel small, even though I tower over her. "Don't use that word, mijo."

For Christ's sake, I'm twenty-two, not twelve. It's not like she hasn't used it herself.

I love my Mam, I really do, but every time she lets that monster back into my life, I wonder what the hell she's thinking. He's not a bad guy towards her, or so he claims, but to me? He's a parasite, feeding off her good graces just to get to me and my football career.

"You have to learn how to study," Mam says, turning the flame down. The sizzling of the pork becomes a faint whisper, mocking me, reminding me of what I'm losing. "You need to start taking responsibility for your grades."

She's so small, with her dark black hair in a neat bun, but the way she's looking at me? She might as well be seven feet tall. Dressed in her red blouse and comfortable white pants, she looks like the chef she is, both in the kitchen and at work. But right now, she seems like the world's greatest referee, calling me out for every foul I've committed.

"You think I haven't been trying? It's not that easy," I snap, the frustration boiling over.

I've always been good at sports. Football, baseball, soccer-name it, I excelled, except ice hockey. Everyone always expected me to be the star athlete, the one with the natural talent. Teachers were satisfied with whatever Cs and Ds I scraped by with, and if I struggled, they'd just give me an extension. No one bothered to check if the work was done or if it was just a load of rubbish because I was Romeo, the golden boy.

But now, with Stanley breathing down my neck, it was all changing. That's what I've always wanted-fair treatment-but now, here I am, drowning in a sea of expectations.

Mam sighs, running a hand over her tired face. Her brown eyes, usually so full of warmth, are clouded with exhaustion. "I know, mijo. But that's not why you're upset. Tell me the real reason."

There it is, the probing question. She knows damn well what's eating at me, yet she's forcing me to acknowledge it, to face that fucker's presence in my childhood home. Fine. If that's what she wants, that's what she'll get.

"You told me to come home for dinner, and like the loving son I am, I did." I lean against the counter, my voice dangerously low, almost a whisper, but the fury is still there, simmering just beneath. "But don't invite me into the snake's den."