I blink at her. What the hell? I know we’re not close, but that was horrific, mortifying. I don’t even know what to say. How do you defend yourself against that kind of venom? Thankfully, she saves me and decides to leave, her heels making an annoying clicking sound on the stairs.

“The fuck?” I whisper, rubbing my forehead. I need my phone, but of course, it’s charging upstairs in my room. Do I chance another run-in with my mother? Or worse, Mr. Powers?

“Screw it.” She’s even more erratic than before, if that’s possible, and I refuse to let this mess with me. I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders back, and march out of the kitchen.

His house is amazing. Not that I would expect anything less from someone like him, but I am surprised at how eco-conscious it is. His entire backyard looks drought efficient. This morning, I went out on the bedroom’s balcony and saw a huge rain barrel. Not that Los Angeles gets much rain, but the fact that he cares about our environment enough to have one bugs me. He has to stay a dick in my mind: a man so horrible he invests in corporate greed and gives millions to lobbyists—an energy hog who doesn’t believe in global warming.

An entitled asshole.

Grabbing the glossy wooden banister, I dart up the stairs, my bare feet tap-tap-tapping on the cold bluestone-paved tile. Not gonna lie. The main room is lovely. Open floor plan, with pale-yellow walls and giant windows, large glass French doors, along with a whitewashed brick wall and an ornate fireplace and mantel.

Either he’s an art lover, or he hires someone who is. That’s an original Jackson Pollock hanging to the right.

Yeah, this place is sophisticated and eye-catching, but at the same time it feels good, welcome, like you want to grab a cup of coffee or tea and sit down and just be.

Disarming, like him.

That should be on Jett Powers’s tombstone: Here lies a beautiful, dangerous, disarming man. I almost burst out laughing. This has to be my mind blocking out that that my mom is a vile and hurtful person.

Why would she say those things?

“Leave it alone, Raven,” I whisper, shaking my head as I swing open the door to my room, then shut it so I can lean against it and catch my breath.

Brody. I need to call Brody. I can’t deal with my mom, but Brody can and will ease my pain.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself right now. This is what I do when my mom traumatizes me. I either act out like a child, or I do the opposite.