Over the Edge

Ch. 3-Parental Perfection

~Rhys~

"Would you just take that stud out of your ear?"

I rolled my eyes, shoving a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth. "No."

Judy propped her hip against the counter, sparing me a glance from her mini mirror she used to put on her lipstick. "Will you at least wear jeans that don't look like they've gone through a shredder?"

"No."

She sighed, snapping the compact shut and sliding it into her purse. "I could ignore those trivialities if you didn't have that . . . That thing on your neck."

I shoved the half-empty bowl away, something about her high and irritating voice absolutely destroying my appetite. "Judy, if I gave a fuck about what you thought of me or what you wanted in my life I would ask for your opinion. But I don't."

"I wish you would just call me by what I am," she insisted, stomping her foot, much like an angry child. And that was really what she was. My dad wasn't a guy to stick with a woman. He left the one who bore me for someone younger. Which I supposed was all the better, because my mother was a stuck-up bitch who cared more about the money my dad gave her to leave than sticking around for her two-year-old son. I was basically raised by babysitters. And I actually started keeping a log of them all. That was how sad and pathetic my father's parenting abilities were. It was the tangible proof. He was a rich asshole who knew how to flaunt his money and get what he wanted.

Judy, the intolerable woman standing before me, was ten years older than me and twelve years younger than my dad. She didn't deserve any of the respect she thought she did. "And what's that?" I asked, in reference to her statement.

"Mom," she replied, as if it were obvious.

I snorted. "Can't call you what you aren't, Judy," I stated truthfully, checking the oven clock. Shit. I was half-an-hour late. Jumping from the table, I grabbed my keys off the counter. I was lucky to have the job I did, and I was seriously jeopardizing it by being late every other day.

"Your father doesn't want you taking the Mercedes," Judy reminded me snippily from behind.

"Dad can go screw himself," I spat bitterly, leaving her in her stuttering shock as I slammed the door behind me. It was a mild September night, warm enough just for my t-shirt. I climbed into my dad's nice, sleek Mercedes-pretty fucking expensive, too-and rubbed my hands over the leather wheel. Oh, he would be pissed as hell when he found out I took his precious baby.

I couldn't wait.

I pulled out of the drive and sped down the road, taking the back streets ten miles over the speed limit. I never got caught, though. First of all, nobody travelled the newly paved back roads, because they were winding and dangerous without the guardrails yet to be installed. Secondly, the cops in Heart were lacking. Half-assed, at best, and completely incompetent. From my experiences, at least.

I swerved into the parking lot of Vittorio's Pizzeria and cut the engine. I slid out of the vinyl interior and plopped the standard issue pizzeria cap on my head. It was the dumbest thing ever but I had been working at Vittorio's so long I did it without thinking.

"Rhys!"

The moment I stepped through the doors and the little bell over them chimed, signaling my entrance, I heard the deep Italian voice call out to me. Vittorio owned the small pizzeria-which was one of the best on the East Coast-and employed me when I was thirteen after saying I "looked like a dough-spinner" and after giving me a test-run, stating that I was a "natural to the trade" and "should start immediately". And that was how it began. I had been working for him, generally every night, ever since.