Page 25 of Badd Daddy

He laughed again, harder. “Text messages, Dad.”

“Heard of ’em, don’t know what the hell they are, though.”

“You really are a fuckin’ dinosaur, aren’t you?” Roman laughed. “We gotta get you a real phone, teach you to text.”

“One thing at a time, kiddo.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

I growled. “Just get your ass over here, okay?”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Don’t get your rumples in a stiltskin.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’. Just means keep your shirt on. I’ll be there in ten.”

True to his word, Roman was stomping down the hall to my apartment in ten minutes. He let himself into my apartment and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Holy fuck, Dad, you actually painted.” He stared around at the green walls, the drop cloth still on the floor, my meager furniture—couch, TV, third-hand TV stand—clustered in the middle of the room. “Green?”

I shrugged. “It’s a nice shade. It’s called like palm frond verbena or some shit.”

He stared hard at me. “You drinkin’ again, old man?”

I was tempted to whip something at his thick skull, but I didn’t. It was a fair question, after all. “No,” I groused.

He blinked at me. “You combed your hair and your beard. You painted. And you’re walking around without that cane you hate.” A slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face. “You got a girlfriend.”

“Roman, donotfuck with me on this, okay?” I gave him as close to a pleading look as I was capable of bestowing. “Please?”

“But there is a woman.”

“You know anything else on this fuckin’ planet that could make me ask my own son for fuckin’ help?”

He grinned. “Nope.” The grin faded, and he eyed me carefully. “So. What’s up, Dad? No more jokes, I promise.”

I sighed. “I just…I…” I growled, raked my hand through my hair. “I’m a fuckin’ mess, Rome.”

Roman wrinkled his nose. “You gotta crack a window, Pops. The paint fumes are making me dizzy.” He gestured at the door. “Let’s go grab a coffee and talk, all right?”

I nodded, hobbling across the room to crack open a window, and then followed Roman out to his truck.

“I hate not being able to drive,” I grumbled. “Fuckin’ sucks.”

Roman clearly wanted to say something, but figured anything he would say would end up sounding snarky, so he just shrugged. “I bet it does,” he said eventually.

I rubbed my jaw. “You don’t have to tiptoe around my feelings, Rome. Say what you mean. I figure I’ve earned it.”

He glanced at me side eye. “She’s got you in a twist, don’t she?”

I tilted my head backward and snarled. “Yes, she fuckin’ does.”

He chuckled. “Women.”

I huffed. “Women,” I agreed.

We pulled into a parking spot on the street and went into a small coffee shop—I sat down at Rome’s insistence, and he brought two huge white porcelain mugs full of black coffee.