Rise Like The Sun

CHAPTER TWO

NICK

The lady who calls herself his mother watches him with narrowed eyes. "You can't take it to school," she tells him authoritatively.

Nick is reaching for a glass of orange juice but he lifts his head, barely keeping the smirk from taking his lips. Who is this stranger, to tell him what to do? It's not even been a few days yet. He's wondering how long it will take for her to ship him back to the city, to wash her prettily manicured hands clean of him.

"Is there a rule?" he asks, chugging the orange juice down. "You said this private school was openminded. What's wrong with motorbikes?"

When he puts the glass of orange juice down on the pristine, gleaming table, a few droplets splatter messily across the surface. The butler winces but she waves it away dismissively towards him. The meaning is clear: Just bear with him, for now.

"There's nothing wrong with motorbikes," she begins.

Nick doesn't let her finish. "Sounds good to me, then," he says cheerfully, lifting himself from his seat smoothly. "I mean, if you don't have a problem with them, then that's fine by me. Wouldn't want to go about offending you," he tells her.

He revels in the way she winces before him, brief pain flickering through the light of her eyes, and lets the beginnings of a smirk pull his lips upward. When her business associates or whatever they called themselves had come over the last week, she had been too ashamed of him to introduce him properly so Nick had taken great pleasure in telling them all blatant lies about city gangs and the various dangers he had barely escaped by the skin of his teeth, watching them squirm.

There really was nothing like watching rich folk grow uncomfortable when they realised poor people actually existed.

When his mother had realised he was pulling their legs, she had grown red with suppressed fury and her cheeks had flushed with humiliation. Now, seated across from him at the breakfast table, she looks at him and it is clear by the pink, embarrassed flush staining her cheeks that she remembers, too.

"Nick –,"

"Oh, and don't forget – you should tell me what time you want me back here," he continues, his face the picture of innocence, "so you can get rid of all your rich friends in time. Or I could save you so much time and just sneak in through the back?"

"Nick."

Her voice is snappish and taut but she sounds too motherly for his tastes, her gaze stern and unyielding. She stares at him angrily and Nick holds her gaze stubbornly. What right does she think she has over him, to call herself his mother?

All she ever did was give birth to him.

She breaks away, first, letting out an angry huff of breath. Nick swallows thickly, shaking his head to clear his angry head. There is no use getting angry. His temper has never resulted in anything good and he is quite proud that he's managed to keep a good lid on it, since arriving to this hellhole of a place.

"You can drive yourself in one of the cars I got you," she offers, forcing herself to sound light and easy-going.

She wants to be one of those cool moms, Nick realises. He has to stop himself from snorting incredulously in her face. Cool enough that he'd willingly spill all his secrets to her and build up a strong foundation of trust between themselves that would last the test of time.

He wants to laugh in her face.

She just doesn't want him to go to school by himself.

Nick isn't as stupid as his mother seems to think. She doesn't trust him to actually attend the place but he wishes she'd just actually say it out loud. It's better than pretending she cares anything for him. In truth, he doesn't blame her for being suspicious of him – he wouldn't trust himself to attend school, but now, this puts a wrench into his initial plans.