The Perfect Puck

3

Chapter Three

Cal

In a dusty, cramped basement, I squint my eyes into the light shining from the door at the top of the stairs. The Westons own an impressive home, the biggest one I've ever seen, but being a foster kid, I don't exactly get to enjoy the benefits. I'm sequestered to a cot down here with boxes of their Christmas decorations and countless other useless objects that they've deemed unacceptable to be showcased on the main floor.

Story of my life.

As long as I'm fed and clothed, that's all that matters. They get their check and I get the bare minimum so long as I'm alive and healthy. It shouldn't bother me when I've been here time and time again. Fourteen years in the foster care system should have ingrained in my head that I'm worthless and no one wants me, yet here I am, staring up into the light with the hope that I'll get moved from this hell of a fucking place.

Denise's heels clatter down the steps. After a glance at the clock on the end table beside my cot, it's too early for lunch, which can only mean she's here for something else entirely. My stomach rolls with nausea at the thought.

But another set of steps echo behind her. A pair of tiny feet come into view before they round the corner, a girl in dirty clothes clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. Her eyes frantically search around the room before they land on me, and I can almost smell the fear rolling off of her. I briefly close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. This girl can't be older than six. She doesn't deserve this.

She shouldn't be here.

"This is Monique," Denise says coolly. "She'll be staying with us for the time being." For all the fucked up torture Denise bestows, you'd never guess it by looking at her. With a neatly gelled bun at the nape of her neck clasped in pearls, she's the epitome of a socialite who throws galas every weekend or hangs around the golf club Mr.Weston is fond of. It's likely the reason these two vile twats haven't been caught yet.

Monique takes a tentative step towards the cot adjacent to mine, just the rabbit in one hand and a garbage bag in the other. Denise follows her, running a hand over the young girl's tightly cropped afro before she says, "This is Calum, our foster son. You'll be staying down here with him."

I fucking hate being called Calum.

Monique's brown eyes meet mine, wide and panicked, but I mentally applaud her for keeping herself together. She doesn't cry, but then again, the foster care system has a way of maturing us quicker than we're ready for. "Hello," she whispers.

"Hi." My lips twitch, threatening a smile at her shyness. I'm normally not the type of guy to talk to strangers, but if Monique is going to be living here, she'll need someone, and I'm not that much of a dick to ignore a girl too young for the fucking Westons.

Denise's eyes flick to mine, causing the hair to rise on my arms. "You'll make sure she gets settled in?"

I nod and turn my focus to a spot on the wall.

"Answer me," she says. "Use your words."

It takes everything I have, but with gritted teeth, I manage to get out, "Yes."

"Good. And see to it that you come upstairs to visit me tonight."

"I already said no yesterday. Fuck no."

She lifts a perfectly plucked brow and shifts her snake-like eyes to Monique. "Very well. I suppose Don could take my place then with Monique."