Your Loss

YOUR LOSSA DARK HIGH SCHOOL ROMANCE LAYLA SIMON Copyright © 2023 by Layla Simon All rights reserved. Developmental Editing by Nicole at Emerald Edits www.emeraldedits.com Cover Photography by Michelle Lancaster www.michellelancaster.com @lanefotograf Cover Model: Thomas James Cover Design: Katherine Hayton No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS PrefaceChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Also by Layla SimonAbout the Author PREFACE TRIGGER WARNING: This book contains dub/non-con, humiliation, knife-play, biting, spitting, somnophilia, coercive manipulation, physical abuse, references to sex trafficking, gambling addiction, and murder. CHAPTER ONE GEORGE I float home from the bus stop, buoyed along by the two good—no, great—things that happened today. The first is I got an A on my history exam, the class I struggle with most because of its absurd reliance on dates and times and titles and names. Collectively, my nemesis. The second is I think I’ve made a friend. My first in the three months since the golden teens of Kingswood College took one look at my raggedy scholarship arse and decided I was Not-Like-Them™. But all that good energy is wiped the moment I see the drops of blood on the top step. Not just blood. I think it’s my father’s blood. It’s fresh. I know that even before I drag the toe of my sneaker across the largest spot, smearing a crimson streak on the off-white rubber. Know it before I hear the faint thump inside as whoever has come to collect their debt uses their fists to convince my dad they’re serious. As if he didn’t realise. As if we hadn’t been on this roundabout a half-dozen times before. My stomach, which had been sending a few nudges to my brain on the values of toast versus apples as an after-school snack, crawls up the back of my throat to hide. I clutch the doorhandle with my shaking fingers and twist the knob, but it catches. My keys are at the ready in my front jeans pocket, but it takes so long to snag them out that I’m sure somebody will get there first, will pop their head out the door, will grab me and drag me inside, slipping and sliding across the pools of blood my father is leaking over the kitchen floor as he stammers all his excuses, his reasons, his lies about how if they just give him time he’ll be good for the money, he’ll earn enough to cover it, he’ll pay it back, every cent, just please—please—give him more time. Half the images that flood my mind are conjured from the same inventive imagination that never wants me to get a full night’s sleep. The rest is pulled from my memory bank, from the file labelled things-I-never-want-to-see-again. I rub my hand against my jeans before retrying, this time succeeding. The key slips into the deadbolt lock and I bite my cheek, holding my breath as I turn it, hoping nobody inside will hear. I don’t own much, but there’s one thing of value I’ve hung onto all these years. My mother’s rings. Hidden away in my bedroom at the far end of the hall. They’re worth a lot to me—far more than just their monetary value—but I doubt the debt collectors will care how much sentiment I’ve invested in the jewellery in the years since my mother’s death. My tears haven’t given the gold and platinum bands any extra shine. The only other thing in the house worth more to me is my dad. He’s even harder to replace. I’ve bundled far more emotional energy into him. I doubt the men beating him see his value, either. The door releases and swings open, a relief after two weeks of mild weather left the jamb just as likely to stick and squeal when opened. With one foot on the top step and the other in the hallway, I gently flick the catch on the bolt, then swing fully inside as I close it, turning the handle so the tongue doesn’t bang against the frame. When it’s flush, I let it go and step back, ears cocked for sound. Low voices tell me there are two men in the kitchen. Two men apart from my dad. I hear the soft mutter of someone asking a question, then a slap. A second voice, deeper, more commanding, also asks a question. When the response doesn’t suit his needs, there’s the solid thud of a head being bounced off the table. The same table we picked out of a second-hand shop together, getting it for five bucks and putting about two hundred worth of effort into sanding out the dents, cuts, and scratches of careless ownership, then varnishing it with a warm chestnut stain, making it ours. I listen, but I already know what the conversation will be. This isn’t the first time I’ve come home to find my dad at another man’s mercy. My increasing pulse, dry mouth, jittering hands—they’re not from despair that he forces me into these situations, the fear that one of these days, men like this will break me apart as they try to extract payment from me. It’s anger at them that burns inside me. Not anger at my dad. Not anger at the only parent I have left. He’s an addict. Anyone can see it. For these men to know that and use it to enrich themselves rather than help just proves they’re not worthy of mercy. He’s worked so hard with his sponsor to put this all behind him, but every day brings a fresh battle. To take advantage of someone at their lowest is the worst kind of crime. And these men will be criminals.