![]() ![]() ![]() Ray grunts and squirms like the disgusting piece of shit he is until my hand connects with metal. With gritted teeth, I shove my hand under his lard-ass and root around for my keys. So don’t look at me, and don’t call me Rina.” Ray’s the only person who ever calls me that, and I fucking hate it. He makes Homer Simpson look like a gentleman. I’ve never known a man so desperate to touch his own junk. I ignore the meaty hand that’s falling to his crotch. I drag a frustrated hand down my flat-ironed hair before stalking over to my stepfather. ![]() At my sigh of irritation, he grins and shoves them under his sweatpants-covered ass. The lump of flesh on the couch waves my keys in the air. I’m about to pivot when I hear a jingle of metal behind me.Ĭontempt lodges in my throat as I turn around and step into a living room so small that the five pieces of dated furniture-two tables, one loveseat, one sofa, and one chair-are squashed together like sardines in a can. I check my purse again, but the keys aren’t there. The clock in the narrow hallway tells me I have fifty-two minutes to make a sixty-eight-minute drive if I want to get to the party on time. ![]()
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