23. AFTER
The following hours in the course of Saturday evening prove to be even more painful than I'd initially expected – although it's hardly a surprise. Within two hours of arrival, Uncle Bernard loudly begins to complain about the smell.
"Cows," he sniffs and his bushy, greying moustache seems to twitch in agreement. "It smells like cows everywhere."
"We do live in an agricultural town," Mum puts in gently and I snicker, prompting a withered look from her in response.
I'm amazed at how diligent Dad has remained throughout this entire ordeal. He survives a good half hour lecture from Uncle Bernard about some new researches he's been reading into, something about humans starting off as centaurs. Actually—I'm not too sure what Uncle Bernard is going on about and by the terrified looks Dad throws at me every once in a while I'm quite sure he feels the same way.
When I'm finally allowed to retreat back to my room, I walk in on Brad casually propped up on my bed with my laptop by his side. He's flicking through some of my files with a smirk on his face.
Irritated, I say, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He looks at me slyly. It's scary how much he looks like a fox and the red hair doesn't help improve it either.
"You've got eyes, cousin. See for yourself," he drawls in his infuriating uppity accent. So that's what I sounded like when we first moved to Yieldfarm. It's no wonder no one wanted to make friends with me.
I stride over and snatch my laptop out of his grimy little hands. Shutting it a little more forcefully than I probably should, I shoot him an angry glare.
"No bullshit this year, Bradford," I sneer. He hates being called by his full name. Bradford. I mean, his mum's name is Diamond. One can hardly expect her to name her child something normal.
He scowls at me. "Dickhead."
"Oh dear." I tsk at him sardonically. "Don't want mummy hearing you speak like a common hoodlum now, do you?"
"Oh please," Brad rolls his eyes. "A few years in this dump of a place and you already think you're some hardened little criminal. Say," his eyes twinkle at me evilly, "I wonder if any of the trashy slags here were nice enough to give you a blowjob? I could sure do with one."
My lip curls in disgust. "Get some dignity."
"Hmph," he chuckles, observing me with his head now resting against my bedframe. "Wasn't there some girl you were always hanging around with a few years ago? The one who was named after that cartoon pig. Peppa, was it?"
My grip on my laptop tightens. "It's Pippa," I snarl.
This only amuses Brad more.
"Ah, Pippa," he sighs dreamily and I resist the urge to throw up at the way he pronounces her name, like it's a particularly delicious-sounding meal. "I found her Instagram not long ago. Gorgeous, don't you think? Fucking hell, those tits—"
I'm at his throat faster than you could say kill him.
"Let – fucking – go!" Brad gasps, scratching at my hands as they tighten their grip around his skinny throat. White hot fury courses through me and I don't think I've ever wanted to hurt someone more than I do now. My anger at Oliver all those weeks ago seems like mild annoyance in comparison to how livid I am at this—this insolent, disgusting little rat.
It's only because I hear footsteps walking towards my bedroom my hand retracts from his throat and I stumble backwards quickly, gasping for air while the adrenaline that courses through me hot and fast gently simmers down.
