Chapter Eight - Reckoning at Midnight

Trish's POV 

It was past midnight. The quiet night had settled around the house like a thick blanket, insulating us from the world. Yet, somehow, Joseph and I were still perched on the living room couch, watching some old rerun of Fantasy Island. Two hormonal teenagers left completely unsupervised. Miss Britney, despite her kindness, had been outrageously careless. I was immensely grateful for her generosity – taking me in, treating me like a daughter, covering Mom's funeral expenses… but her judgment in leaving me alone with her son was baffling.

The silence was charged, heavy with unspoken things. My eyes kept flicking to him, a curious, panicked urge overriding my hatred. The hormonal pull was a frantic, terrifying thing. What if, when Miss Britney comes back in the next two days… I’m already… pregnant? I thought, horrified. Hell no. I didn't care if he was the prettiest boy on earth; my life and my author dreams were non-negotiable.

“Hey, Trish,” Joseph finally broke the silence, his voice low. 

“Could you help me get the ice cream in the fridge?” He smirked lazily, stirring me with a direct gaze that held mine for a second too long.

“Shoot,” I muttered under my breath, my cheeks warming. I was instantly embarrassed, convinced that prolonged eye contact was part of his cunning plan to get me to fall for him… or worse.

“Go get the ice cream yourself. I’m not your servant,” I shot back, forcing a sharp, hostile tone.

“Why do you always have to talk like that? Like you have a problem with me,” he muttered, genuinely sounding hurt.

“‘Cause I do have a problem with you. With boys like you,” I found the strength to snap, needing the hostility to push away the temptation.

“Oh, great. I should've known. This is how you treat me after treating your twisted ankle? No gratitude… no nothing?”

I kept quiet. The truth was, my outburst wasn't about the ice cream or the ankle; it was a defense mechanism. I couldn't risk the sweetness, the kindness, the shared space. Not with the possibility of a baby or a ruined life hanging over my head. I snatched up my phone, staring at the time. 12:00 AM. We were still up like two night cats, sitting together, too close.

A part of me liked the reformed, helpful side I’d seen. But the other part, the one that remembered the pervy, nasty Joseph, was still standing guard. Why couldn’t he just be the normal, good guy every girl dreamed of?

“Hey,” I said, looking at him fiercely. “I still hate you,” I stated plainly. “Why are you so pervy? It's like you’re one of those guys who can’t rest until they’re dancing in girls’ pants.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Ohhh! So that’s it. You’re jealous.”

“Nooo, I’m not! I’m just correcting you as a friend! I don’t like the way you behave, it’s wrong. I’m sure Miss Britney would hate it as well.”

He looked away, the smile vanishing. He took a long, shaky breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tight.

“Look, you don't know anything about Joseph Roland is over.”

What was he talking about?

He continued, barely looking at me. “Well, after you slapped me, I realized I don’t even need girls. I never need them. It’s all just a defense mechanism. And…”

He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a raw whisper.

“I would hate nothing as much as to be… like him… my father.”

The look in his eyes… a mix of deep revulsion and self-loathing… immediately brought me back to the moment I'd slapped him. I had called him a "s*x addict." Maybe that had hit too close to home.

His dad? Miss Britney was a single mother; I’d never seen or heard of her husband or rather - ex-husband. To think that some cruel man had caused this beautiful lady so much pain, it made me angry on her behalf.

I struggled to speak. “I’ve known your mom for a while now, but… never really heard of your dad. How is h…”

“NO! NO! NO! DON’T!” Joseph screamed, cutting me off. He grabbed his hair, tugging violently as if trying to pull the pain right out of his head.

“I hate that man! Matter of fact, he’s not my dad! No, no, no! That cruel man! No, no, no way! I’m not! I’m not! I’m not like him! No!” He had totally lost it. He was shaking, the composure of the obnoxious badboy shattered into a million pieces.

“HE’S NOT MY DAD! NOOOOOO!”

I was terrified, but something deeper took 

over. Compassion. What had his father done to inflict this kind of raw, desperate hatred? I reached out, grabbed his arm, and gently pulled him toward me. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. He didn’t resist. He just crumpled, his rigid posture dissolving as he sobbed, his hot tears soaking into my arm.

Why does he hate his dad so much?

I held him tight, feeling the raw, profound sobs that convulsed his body. He wasn't the arrogant Joseph Roland I hated; he was a boy drowning in shame and fear. When the tears finally subsided, he pulled back, his fierce, dark eyes defenseless and red. I kept my hands on his shoulders, grounding him, waiting for the devastating truth.

“Joseph… What did he do? What did your father do?” I whispered.

He stared past me, past the glow of the television screen. 

“He’s not my father. He gave my mom a baby, but he never gave me a dad. He was rich. Famous, actually. Mom… she married a monster for money and prestige. She was young, lonely, and he was charming.” He spat the word. 

“My whole life, I watched him. The parties, the charisma, the girls… It wasn’t just cheating, Trish. It was… predatory. He didn’t care who they were, how old they were, or if they said no. He was just this s*xual vortex that sucked everyone in.”

He shivered, pulling away to clutch his own knees. 

“The night Mom finally left him, I was twelve. He just laughed. He told me I was his boy, and that I would grow up to be just like him. That a man needs to take what he wants because the world belongs to the ruthless. That’s why he’s not my dad. That man taught me how to be a bastard.”

He scrubbed his face. 

“The pervy stuff, the nasty talk, the demanding I have s*x with you? That was me trying to be the King of Pervy Mthland High so I could control the image and hate him more for it. When you slapped me, when you called me a s*x addict… it was like you slapped his legacy. I saw the monster smiling back in the mirror, knowing he had won.”

“You’re not like him, Joseph,” I insisted. “The man who carried me home, who cleaned my bruises, that’s not a monster.”

“Don’t get it twisted. That was guilt. Or maybe just me trying to make a deal. I still need that project done.” 

A flicker of the old mischievousness returned, now laced with genuine, desperate need. 

“I need those grades to get away from here, to go to college and be someone he can’t touch. And I need you to help me.” He laid his weakness bare, a desperate bargaining chip. 

“So, do we have a deal, Author? You help me escape my

past, and I help you secure your future?”

“Y…yes Joseph. I'll definitely help you.