TREY
I’m f*****g pissed.
No, scratch that–pissed doesn't even touch the edges of the violent, infernal rage currently boiling my blood.
It started at seven this morning with a phone call from the spineless bastard who claims to be my father. Marcus Parker doesn't qualify for the title of dad; sperm donor is already giving the man entirely too much credit. If there’s one single thing anyone should know about Marcus f*****g Parker, it’s that the man possesses some twisted, supernatural radar for sensing whenever I’m in a somewhat peaceful state of mind. And the second he realizes I’m at peace, he makes it his life's mission to ruin it.
Which is exactly what he did this morning. A five-minute phone call of his arrogant, controlling bullshit left me so enraged I felt like putting my bare f
