The Bullet List (The Saving Bailey Trilogy, #1) by Nikki Roman Page A

say, my eyebrows perking up.
    Saint tips the Mother’s Day cup, and spits a wad of chewed tobacco into it. He smacks his lips together. “Wise ass,” he says.
    “Sleazebag,” I rejoin.
    It is not uncommon for Mom to bring home guys like Saint after a drunken work-night at Indigo. Saint is one of the worst I have seen yet. He is a grease ball, if I ever saw one. Hair slicked back in its own natural oil, and an odor wafting off him like that of a decaying animal.
    “You just gonna’ let her talk to me like that, babe?” he asks, turning to my mom, who is twirling her hair, in her own world.
    “Go to your room Bailey,” she orders me when she comes to.
    “No, this is my house. Make him leave,” I say. I’ve played this game before, and I know the outcome. If I go to my room, then Mom and the dirtball will drink up and smoke till they pass out. Meanwhile I will be locked up, starving, and in need of the bathroom. Not this time , I think.
    Saint launches from his chair, his face so close to mine that my body tilts backwards, the back of my knees hitting the coffee table. He grabs my arm so I won’t fall.
    Mom’s eyes are huge round saucers, her mouth hanging open, her cigarette drooping. “Don’t touch my daughter,” she says robotically.
    He releases my arm and raises his fist at me. “I beat my son Alex, daily, and he would never talk to me like that,” he spits out.
    “Leave her alone! She’s only a kid,” Mom bellows, and pulls him back down by the belt holding his pants up.
    I’m stunned. When the fear of being punched dissipates, I yell at him, “Get the fuck out of my house you dirt bag or I’ll call the cops! Who do you think you are trying to strike a girl? You ain’t shit. Someday your boy will grow to be bigger than you, and I hope he returns every beating you ever laid on him!”
    Mom gives me a look that says Thank you.
    He reaches for me, but I’m quick and am in the kitchen gripping a steak knife before he has the chance to whack me.
    “Your daughter is a psycho bitch,” he says to Mom, picks up his cigarettes, and walks out, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.
    I put the knife back. “You put us both in danger,” I say.
    Mom cackles hysterically, disregarding the comment. “Psycho,” she says cracking up, “You really are a psycho. You were gonna’ stab him!”
    She takes a swig of a beer on the table then spits it out again because she is laughing so hard.
    “You shouldn’t waste good beer,” I say caustically, taking the bottle. “You’re so drunk you don’t even know who I am.”
    “Sure I do! Ha! You’re a girl, you have nice hair. You must be my friend,” she says, her voice rising in pitch.
    “Not even,” I say and retreat to my room. She must be rolling on something too.
    I crawl into my bed, but it lacks the security and comfort I am longing for. If Dad were here, he would have killed Saint. It wouldn’t be the first time he killed a man for bad-mouthing me.
    My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pluck it out, and answer.
    “Hello?” I ask.
    “Hey Bailey, it’s Trenton. Your voice sounds shaky, is everything alright?”
    I position my arm under my head, and turn to face a picture of my dad on my nightstand.
    “Yes,” I lie, tears springing into my eyes.
    “You sound scared, sweetie,” Trenton says.
    “I’m not,” I say, trying to control my voice.
    “Okay, if you say so. I wanted to see if I could come pick you up in a few, so we could go to Fort Myers and have that bonfire we talked about.”
    Don’t cry . His voice is so cool, so relaxing. I wish I could wrap myself up in it, and receive the solace I need so badly.
    A tear rolls down my cheek. “Yep, that would be great. I live at Parkway Village by the Camelot Publix. My apartment number is two nine six. Second story.”
    “I should be able to find that no problem,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.
    “It’s a blue building; all the apartments have red doors,” I