Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Twelve: Who's The Real Father Here?

Chapter Twelve: "Who's The Real Father Here?"

WE ARRIVED AT my house, Tyler and I awkwardly sitting down in the comfy lounge chairs in our family room.

My dad nor mom have spoken, and we all just sit there staring at one another for the last five minutes. It makes it even more awkward when Charlie keeping his focus on nothing but me. If looks could kill. . .

Then the silence is finally broken.

"Where did you go last night?" My father asks.

"I was at a friends." I answer lazily. Not completely a lie. I somehow ended up at Tyler's house, even though it was at three in the morning. Or whenever I actually got there. It's not like my hangover has vanished; it's still proudly partying in my noggin and it seems as if the pounding against my skull gets worse every time Charlie speaks.

"Which friend?"

"You don't know them," I say immediately after, maybe too fast.

"What is their name?" He pushes. I roll my eyes at his sudden caring. Probably just an act.

"Why do you need to know their name if you don't know them?" My father gives me a death glare, knowing I'm pissing him off. You're pissing my hangover off, dude.

"Stop being a smartass and tell me the truth Morgan. I don't have time for games and you know that I can tell when you're lying."

"I know your ways." I snap back. "And I'm not being a smartass. You just aren't taking me seriously."

"How did you get into the bar, Morgan?" Charlie demands. Should I tell him? Or say I was at a friends house or party? I'm already lying to him, so why not? And I love pissing him off now. I don't fear him like I did a few weeks ago.

"Whoever said I was at a bar, Charlie? I wasn't at a bar. I was at a party." I answer. A party with myself and the bartender, I say in my head.

Charlie laughs madly. "No you weren't." He growls. "Nobody throws parties during the week."

"What would you know? Your partying days ended centuries ago. And for your information, Charlie, college kids party all day everyday when they aren't in class," I point out. "Plus weekday parties can be just as fun as weekend ones."

"And what are you doing with college kids?"

"Partying?" I say. "Look, what's the deal? I'm going to college next year."

"Because you can't get into any of the ones you want until your record is cleared." Mom interrupts. Well, now that we're picking sides. . .

I scoff. "That's not why I'm taking a gap year. Remember our little money issue–"

"I'm only going to repeat myself one more time." Charlie cuts me off, changing the subject and staring at me. I don't have a soul to stare through so what are you attempting, old man? "Where were you last night?"

"Drinking." I shrug.

"Where." He hisses.

My dad hates when I go out drinking. He knows I drink; he's even let me drink with them on occasions if I want to be 'sociable.' I've been let off with warnings whenever he finds out I go to parties without telling them, but I never told them because they weren't home ninety five percent of the time so it's not like they had anything to worry about.

I'm cautious with drinking. I always make sure I have a way home, or a sober friend with me. I'm not careless, and Charlie is definitely the one to know that. Tonight was the first time in probably 3 years I was careless drinking–but I have reasons for why I pull such dangerous stunts. And he's always one of those reasons.