I drag the keys free and spin back to the doorway. 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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