[Storme’s POV]
We separated ways. I drove my Bugatti home, and she rode her Ducati. I called our driver to pick up Popsie’s Pontiac on the campus. When I got home, a drunken father greeted me.
“Oh, my good-for-nothing son is home.”
“Dad, you're drunk?”
‘What did you do with your grandpa’s Pontiac?” he scolded me.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Who else took the car out of the garage this morning?”
“Dad, I drove my Bugatti,” I said, lying.
“Devin Storme, tell me the truth at once,” he said, pulling his belt out of his jeans.
“Dad, don’t tell me you will hit me with that belt as you did to me before.”
“I will if you don’t tell me now!”
“Sunshine. I mean Skylene kicked the bumper. The fender fell off.”
“Skylene? That spoiled brat?”
“I’m telling you, it’s Skylene damaged the Pontiac.”
“There
