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Putting the pieces of this jagged puzzle together is making my head spin, but there’s one thing I need to do before any more time passes. I grab my phone and hand it to my dad. “Call the Doc. Have him meet us at my place in fifteen minutes. I can’t take you to the hospital, and I have no idea how to sew, so if you wanna keep those fingers…”
“Fuck the fingers. I’ll be dead soon enough, anyway.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I say, taking deep breaths to control the fury rising inside of me. I try to talk myself off the ledge, but that doesn’t really work. I’m too wound. For years and years, I kept so much bottled up deep inside of me — so much anger, so much disappointment, so much sadness inflicted at the hand of my dear old dad, bleeding out next to me. His caustic words and heartless actions, the ones he claims were so well-meaning, ended up causing deeper scars than any weapons ever could. He made me feel small, insignificant, worthless, and for what? To convince me to become something better? To reverse-psychology me into the man he always aspired to become?
Deep down, I only ever wanted his approval. I wanted to feel like he was proud of me, of what I could do on my own. It might not have been up to his standards, but if it was enough for me, shouldn’t it have been enough for him?
And after all of these years, I still only want to please him. I want him to say he’s proud of his son. So I’m putting my ass on the line because I need to hear it from him. How sick and twisted is that? Shaye never needs to go looking for subjects for her psychology case studies. She has one right fucking here. I’m a head case and a half.
I tap my fingertips on the steering wheel as I pull to a stop in my driveway. It winds around the back of my house so I can get my dad inside without anyone seeing us, not that my neighbors give a shit about whether I’m coming or going. I don’t talk to any of them, they don’t bother with me. We all have a mutual disinterest in each other, which suits me just fine. I sure as hell don’t need any more friends. I can’t even trust the ones I have.
I help my father out of the truck and hook an arm around his waist, guiding him up the short back staircase. I fumble with my key and manage to get the door unlocked before I drop him. He’s like dead weight right now, and my side is fucking killing me.
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Christ, here we go.
I fish my phone out of my jacket pocket and squint at the screen as I walk my dad into the mud room. But it’s not a text from Nico.
It’s from Rocco.
Why is Sloane out with some guy in a monkey suit that isn’t you?
He found her. My throat tightens, and I stab a reply. Where are you?
Couzin’s. Stopped by for a drink and spotted her. Without you. You fucked up again, dude?
I toss my phone onto the counter in the kitchen and help my dad onto the sofa. Blood splatters on the ceramic tile floor and onto the hardwood floor leading into the living room, and it barely registers. All I can see is Sloane and some faceless guy pawing at her. Who the fuck is with her? And why isn’t she still at the benefit?
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
Anyway, she looks fine to me right now. She replaced you pretty fast, man. Your cock broken or somethin’?
I grab a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a highball glass from a cabinet. I twist off the top and pour a double, slinging it back like it’s water. She’s safe. And with another fucking guy.
Unfortunately, what’s been broken is something that is now clearly beyond repair.