chapter 8
JULAIN POLE
So, I thought I loosened these alarm screws last night—guess what? I didn't. The thing's blaring like it's auditioning for a horror movie. I swear, if this keeps up, I'll end up in the ER claiming "death by alarm clock."
And to top it off, I've got this slight headache. Probably from studying all night. Not because I wanted to, but because my professor treats assignments like Oprah treats gifts. "You get a case file! And you get a case file! Everybody gets a case file!"
Dragging myself out of bed, I stumble to the bathroom mirror. The guy staring back at me? Yeah, not really me. More like a sad knockoff version—"Diet Julian." Sometimes I don't even know who I am anymore, mostly because I've been rehearsing for the role of "Perfect Son" in my dad's imaginary Broadway show. Spoiler: the role sucks.
Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. But our communication skills? Somewhere between smoke signals and broken Wi-Fi. That's why I stick with my mom—she actually speaks "Julian."
Law? Courtrooms? Crimes? Hard pass. All I want is to paint and capture that perfect shot with the camera Mom gave me. She gets it. She's the only one who does. Dad? Not so much. He just wants me to be "Future Lawyer of the Year." Meanwhile, I'm over here wanting to be "Guy Who Paints Stuff and Doesn't Cry in Bathrooms."
Still, I live for his compliments. Every time he says, "I'm proud of you, son," I melt faster than ice cream in July. That's the problem. I want that praise, but this whole law school thing? Not feeling it anymore.
Thank the stars for Rico and Luka, though. Without them, I'd probably be locked in a library somewhere, crying into a casebook.
And speak of the little gremlins—
"Yoooo!"
Didn't need to check. That's Luka. Loud enough to be heard three counties over.
"Julian!" he yells again.
Here we go.
"Where the hell is this motherfucker?" He barges into the bathroom like it's his second home. I haven't even brushed my teeth yet.
He squints at me. "Bitch, why are you always late?"
I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush. "Correction, dickhead—we are always late."
"Yeah, because we're waiting for you," he fires back, craning his head toward the bedroom. "Ain't that right, Rico?"
From the other room, Rico's voice drifts in: "Says the guy I have to drag out of bed every other day because he thinks alarms are a government scam."
I burst out laughing—not at Rico's words, but at Luka's face. He looks like a toddler told he can't have dessert.
"I was expecting you to defend me, Rico," Luka pouts. Cute. He's the youngest, almost twenty-one but acts like he's twelve.
"In your face, bitch," I grin.
"Not nice, Juju," Luka whines.
I glare. "Don't. Call. Me. That."
He smirks. Little bastard.
Then he perks up. "Are we going to see your mother today?"
"You mean your mother?" I turn the shower on, already stripping down. Luka doesn't even blink. This is normal. We've showered together since forever. Rico? Not so much—he's the only one of us with boundaries and, you know, common sense.
"Yes, because she likes me more than her actual son." Luka puffs his chest like a proud peacock. "I'm irresistible."
I roll my eyes. "Keep dreaming."
From the bedroom, Rico groans. "Both of you need therapy."
I grin. Maybe he's right. But these two idiots? They're the reason I haven't lost my damn mind.
Little bastards I can't live without.