Page 2 of Playing Dirty (Leighton U #4)

Theo

Six Months Later — November

“I know you’re convinced it’s all gonna go to shit the second you walk through the door, but it’s probably not gonna be as terrible as you’re thinking,” Phoenix’s disembodied voice says through the speaker of my Bronco as I guide it off the interstate just outside St. Louis.

Unfortunately, from the sheer amount of anxiety wreaking havoc on my nervous system, that isn’t the case.

A disbelieving scoff slips out before I can stop it. “Not as bad as I think? Easy for you to say when you’re the one currently on the way to spend Thanksgiving with your boyfriend and your picture-perfect family.”

“He makes a good point, Nix,” Holden chimes in, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ve got it made this turkey day, meanwhile he’s off to play Cinder-fella with his wicked stepfamily.”

Phoenix snorts, and I wouldn’t need to be in the car with them to know he’s rolling his eyes at his boyfriend. Especially when he rebuts with, “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“It really isn’t,” I mutter, wholeheartedly agreeing with Holden.

Although, I do have a leg up on Cinderella with only one evil stepsibling instead of two.

“Like I said, who knows. Maybe it’ll go better than expected and you’ll really enjoy yourself.”

Yeah, I severely doubt it.

“There’s a higher chance of you two being celibate for the rest of the year, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Holden’s laughter fills the speakers, and I can even hear the barely-restrained chuckles in Phoenix’s voice when he replies, “Fair enough. But—just playing devil’s advocate here—it wouldn’t kill you to go into the holiday with the smallest amount of hope.”

Maybe not, but harnessing anything other than distaste and resentment when it comes to my family is pretty difficult these days.

In fact, it only grows as my father’s house comes into view from the end of the street, filling me to the brim with all the emotions I’ve done my best to push down while I’m away at school.

Everything looks exactly the same on the outside…but I know nothing behind those four walls actually is.

“I’m here,” I tell them, letting my head fall back against the leather headrest .

“What they did was shitty, and there’s a one-hundred percent chance they know how fucked it was too.

Maybe try using this weekend as an opportunity to clear the slate and start over.

” Phoenix’s voice pauses through my car speakers briefly before he softly adds, “People do really dumb things for love.”

I know he’s speaking from experience, just like I know he and Holden are the perfect example of not being able to choose the person you fall for—no matter how messy being together might be.

The problem is, I don’t believe my father loves Carla. Not for a second. I think he’s an asshole going through some bullshit midlife crisis, and the only way he could handle it was to trade out his wife of twenty-five years for a newer model.

One he could screw on his office desk during lunch.

Marrying his mistress within three months of his divorce finalizing doesn’t mean they’re in love. It looks like a desperate man’s attempt to save face after destroying his family. Or, more likely, to make sure he isn’t alone for the rest of his miserable life.

So, while I know Holden and Phoenix are probably right—my best option is to look at this as a fresh start—there isn’t a fiber of my being wanting to give it a chance.

“How long do you think I can sit out here before one of them notices?” I mutter absently, my fingers fiddling with the stitching on the steering wheel.

“First major holiday as a family ? Less than five minutes,” Holden supplies.

Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.

I release a long, drawn-out sigh. “Guess that means I better head in.”

“Call us if you need us, okay?” Phoenix says, to which Holden tacks on a quick, “Yeah, absolutely. ”

It’s a nice sentiment, and one I appreciate, but I’ve got no intention of ruining anyone else’s Thanksgiving with my family drama.

“I’ll be fine. I’m probably just making it into something bigger than it is.”

Both of them are silent, and at first I think we’ve been disconnected. But then Holden softly utters, “It’s okay for you to lean on us, man.”

A knot lodges itself in my throat at the gentle sincerity, and despite swallowing it down, my reply still comes out slathered with choked emotion. “I know. Thanks.”

With that, I’m quick to end the call. If I don’t, there’s a damn good chance I’ll pull my Bronco back onto the street and drive all the way back to Chicago. Or worse, succumb to all the emotions rampaging through my body while I’m still on the phone with the two of them.

All of my friends—not just Holden and Phoenix—have witnessed just how deeply my parents divorce has affected me, just like they’ve proven themselves as confidants through it. But while they can empathize all they want, they still don’t understand it.

How can they, when they haven’t gone through it themselves?

They haven’t watched their mother become a fragment of the person she used to be or slowly lost all respect for the man who raised them. They haven’t been forced into the middle of messy, painful litigation while two people who used to love each other become hateful, cruel, and petty.

The only one of my friends who’s gone through this is Camden…but not even he understands, since he was just a kid when all the bad shit went down.

I’m on my own with this, and it fucking sucks.

Releasing a long groan, I scrub my palm over my face and then shove open the driver’s door. My feet may as well be weighed down by cinder blocks as I approach my family home, and I’m barely halfway up the sidewalk when the front door swings open.

While I’ve done my best to prepare for this, the reality of my father’s assistant standing in the threshold where my mother should be makes my stomach revolt. Add in her chipper greeting and sugar-sweet smile on her maroon-painted lips, and I wonder if I’ll even be able to eat a thing at dinner.

“Theo! Oh my goodness, I’m so happy to see you!”

That makes one of us, Carla.

I scan my gaze over the length of her while I climb up the porch steps, and though I don’t agree with my father’s actions, I can see the allure she holds. She’s beautiful, but in a way entirely different from Mom.

Where my mother gives the effortless kind of pretty, even if she’s in jeans and a t-shirt, Carla is more the type to be…

done up. Maybe it comes with being an executive assistant, but I don’t see the reason why she’s curled her dark hair or done her makeup or is wearing this sweater dress and heels when none of us are leaving the house.

My attention snags on her feet, and a strange little fit of rage bolts through me.

We never wear shoes in the house.

“Here, come in before you catch a chill,” she says, moving out of the way for me to enter.

“Thanks,” I mutter dryly.

Not bothering to paint a smile on, I slip past her through the doorway and make a point to toe my shoes off in the foyer. If she notices, she doesn’t mention it. She’s too busy chattering at me, asking about my drive, how the semester is going, and generally just trying too hard.

“Anyway, dinner should be ready in twenty if you want to drop your bags upstairs and settle in,” she quips, oblivious to my internal musing. “ And if you need to freshen up or anything, the towels are in the linen closet next to the bathroom.”

I’m already halfway up the stairs when I glance at her over the banister and arch a brow. “I know where the towels are.”

Unlike you, I’ve lived in this house for over a decade.

“Right,” she says, an awkward laugh slipping out. “Well, I’ll call up when the food’s ready.”

I just nod and continue up to my bedroom, part of me hoping she accidentally burns the food before then. Hell, she could burn this whole fucking house to the ground and I’d probably be okay with it.

True to her word, Carla calls for me to come down and eat twenty minutes later, and I force myself to leave the sanctuary of my bedroom.

Dad is already seated in his usual spot at the head of the table when I enter the dining room, his attention locked on his phone, and I quietly pull out the chair to his left. My movement has him glancing up from whatever he was doing, his eyes meeting mine as I drop into my seat.

“How was the drive down?”

I shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

The skin around his blue eyes crinkles more now, and his dark hair is now peppered with grays, but besides the obvious signs of aging, he looks like the same man I’ve known my entire life.

Yet, despite the familiarity of his external appearance, I hardly recognize him as the man who raised me.

Who bought me my first glove and drove me to t-ball practices, or toured college campuses with me before moving me into the townhouse with all the guys freshman year.

He’s not the same man who taught me right from wrong .

If he were, we wouldn’t be where we are now; sitting around a table with two strangers for Thanksgiving dinner, yet calling them family .

“How does everything look?” Carla asks as she sets a bottle of wine on the table amidst all the food.

“Fantastic, and it smells even better,” a smooth baritone voice says from behind me, only for the source to come into my view a few seconds later.

Madden.

He notices me only half a second after I notice him, two pools of molten bronze colliding with my gaze.

Unlike his mom, he’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve Blackmore shirt.

His dark hair—damn near black—is cropped short at the sides from a recent cut, but still long enough on top to ripples with waves.

I catch the swirls of ink creeping from the collar of his shirt and up the side of his neck; ones that weren’t there the last time I saw him.

Designs peek out of his sleeves and cover his hands too, and while I can’t see them, I know there are even more hidden beneath his shirt.