Wicked Ones {bxb}

{Chapter 6: Hooligans}

"Vincent, number thirty-two. Focus."

Four years ago, Vincent gazed upon the mosaic pattern on the glass of his father's office door. The head maid sat beside him, pointing to a question in his mangled algebra book. Lucille had been by his side for years—perhaps the only help in the house that had lasted more than a few months. She was strict, firm and tired of trying to coax out the good student in Vincent.

"If you can't pass this test, you won't graduate to your junior year." She seemed dissatisfied, the lines on her face growing as her thin lips slacked into a frown. "A tenth-grade dropout! You can do better, Vincent."

"Why does it matter? Even if I fail the test, it won't change shit," he grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

"Your education should be the most important thing in your life right now," she lectured. "Your priority is this test, and you won't move until you've finished every problem on this page. I had to work twice as hard when I was your age. I didn't have daddy to toss money into college; I had to struggle between school and a job."

"Is that how you ended up working for my dad?" Vincent snorted, a sly grin swallowing his face. "You studied for six hours a night, just to clean toilets?"

The maid looked to him with scorn, and with a quick shove, she sent his head smacking against the table.

"Ow, fuck!" he hissed, grasping at his nose.

"Watch your mouth," she replied, slapping his book closed and shoving it into his arms. "Go study in your room, clearly having your father home is too distracting for you."

Vincent was used to the woman's lashings, but that night there was something different about their quarrels. Lucille frowned, a look full of sympathy as she gathered mugs from the table and brushed the polished wood clean. Usually she had more to say—more griping about just how spoiled he was. About how a silver spoon had been placed in his lap yet chose to eat with his hands. But she seemed to be giving him slack, and it wasn't a question as to why. Everyone in the house was more tense than usual, and there were one too many eyes on Vincent.

It was because of his father.

Perhaps twice a year, he'd come home to do business in his office. He was strict about being left alone though, and it was all the more difficult for Vincent. It was easy to be ignored when he was halfway across the states. But even with the man in a four foot proximity, Vincent still felt transparent. It was agonizing, knowing he had the opportunity for closure with his father. He was just behind that door, signing papers, making phone calls. Even a short conversation would be better than nothing, but he never had the time. So, instead, Vincent would give him an excuse to brush away his existence. He'd disappear, like he always did.

He went to his room as Lucille ordered, but studying was a long shot. Instead, he tossed his books aside and flicked through his phone, sending Kailan a short text. Nothing more than a heads up to let him know Vincent would be coming over. Anything was better than sticking around the place, drowning in his own wishful thinking.

Sneaking out without Lucille catching sight of him was a bit difficult, but Vincent had made a habit of escaping via the large cherry tree beside his window. He planted a firm foot on the branches, and hoisted himself down until he was low enough to hit the ground without breaking a leg.

The walk to Kailan's house wasn't far. They lived in the same neighborhood, though their homes were nothing alike. Vincent lived on a gated hilltop in a small multi-million dollar mansion designed and constructed by his father. The land itself wasn't predominantly wealthy, but the location was what set the focal point for Johnathan Alexander's dream home. It was almost like he was throwing his money in the faces of the middle-class families that surrounded the acre or so of land. Kailan, however, lived in an all too average residence: a two-bedroom bungalow only a few blocks away.