The Blonde Cheerleader

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Raising A Queen

"Home," I muttered as I closed the front door behind me, my eyes glued to the screen of my phone as I scrolled through the flooded group chat.

And because I was so focused on the task at hand, I didn't notice that my darling step-dad was staring down at me as he stood like a big ass wall that's blocking my way.

I bumped into his body and I slowly looked up, raising a brow when I noticed this steel-hard look on his face, "Hello?"

"You and I need to talk," he told me, his tone was formal and serious, as if he was about to close a business deal. I tilted my head to the side as I sip through the straw of my drink, shrugging at his sudden request.

Then again, this was the only time we were left alone. Usually, my mom would come home from work first but maybe something happened at the office, hence he's here to potentially talk about hell knows what.

He led me into the living room and I sat down on the couch, refusing to speak first. He was the one who initiated this, he might as well be the one who gives the wagon a starting to push. I already have a good idea of what he wants to say to me.

It was about my mother, about their marriage, and about Mrs. Matthews.

He plopped down a shiny new credit card on the coffee table, "The credit limit is higher than those you already have."

"Are you bribing me?" I questioned, giving him a cold hard look.

He crossed his arms over his chest as he went around my accusation, "I just don't want your mother to get heartbroken over this."

"You're so fucking sick!" I yelled at him, shooting up, "If you didn't want her to get hurt then you shouldn't have cheated on her in the first place."

"Don't talk to me with that tone," he warned, pointing up a finger towards me, "I could throw you out of this house any minute I want."

No he can't. My mom would definitely be against that, whether she likes it or not, she doesn't want to surrender to the thought that my father has won over my affections. She wouldn't be able to digest the fact that my dad was better than her when raising me.

She was prideful, she wanted it all. That's the same woman I turned into.

Jokes on her because just because I chose to stay with her doesn't mean that I like her more.

"You're still a child, Clara," he told me, "And don't look at me like that. You're doing the same thing."

I tried to comprehend his statement, but I couldn't. I was no bastard so how in the world am I doing the same thing as him, "What?"

"The minute I met you, I already knew," he said, "Times may have changed, but it's the same thing. You're the girl who sleeps around with whoever she wants."

So even this asshole thinks of me as a stereotype.

"I'm not made of money," I said as I took the credit card and flicked it towards him.

He shook his head before chuckling, as if he already won the argument, "Then why did you choose to stay with me and your mother instead of going with your cheap father?"

Because I wanted the high school here. I wanted the cheer team here. If I had a choice between parents, I'll be in favor of my dad in a heartbeat.

But my love of cheering came through.

I slowly approached him, my stilettos clacking on the tiled floor. With a smile, I lifted foot and jabbed my sharp hell on the edge of his shoe, making it hit the toes.