Page 8 of Rowdy Boy
My cheeks flush as I reread his message. Last nightwasfucked. I wanted his company and I needed that release. I also wanted to do something stupid and reckless. Guilt creeps in; he had to take care of my drunk ass. And I don’t remember anything after a certain point.
Shame courses through me as I step into the shower and aggressively scrub my body. I feel like an asshole for letting him see me like that. For forcing someone else to clean up the mess I intentionally set out to make. I hadn’t expected things to play out the way they did. What did I think would happen? I don’t know, but that wasn’t it.
Fuck.
I assume my Jeep’s still up at the storage units. At least it’s not near a main road where someone might see it or call a tow. Shit. How did he get me into the house? Which door did he use?
Who might have seen us?
A chilling tremor travels up my spine, even though the water is scalding hot.
I finish showering and find a clean Clinton’s T-shirt and my work pants, then stand in front of the bathroom mirror staring at my reflection. If anyone heard us come in… if anyone saw us together… I’m fucked.
Calming my frantic, racing thoughts is an impossibility right now. I have to walk out of this room. I have to get downstairs. I have to get to work. And yet I’m scared shitless about having to answer for what anyone might have seen last night.
I don’t know how long I stand there before my phone vibrates next to the sink. Rhett’s name is on the screen when I snatch it off the counter.
“I’ll be right down,” I say, panicking when I realize why he’s calling. I hang up without waiting for his reply, plug my phone into the charger on my nightstand, then take off down the hall.
My feet have just hit the landing when he calls my name. I consider pretending not to hear him, but it’ll be worse later if I flee. I turn on my heel and walk to the doorway of my dad’s study. He doesn’t bother with any sort of greeting.
“Where were you last night?”
I don’t know what he knows. I have no idea what he saw. Fuck.
Doesn’t matter. There’s no version of the truth he’ll accept. There’s no lie I can offer that he’ll believe.
“Out.”
Maybe if I piss him off enough now, he’ll get distracted and just go for the kill shot without pushing for more details.
“With who?”
Shit. There goes that theory.
“Just a friend,” I offer, looking him right in the eye and silently begging a higher power that he’ll drop this and let me go.
Joe places both hands on the glass top of his desk and pushes to stand. He leans forward and sneers, a healthy dose of disgust behind his mirror-colored eyes. I find myself feeling grateful for the desk and distance between us right now. He hasn’t taken a swing at me in a while. But with my head already spinning and my stomach churning, I doubt I’d be able to duck, cover, or strike back.
I know he can sense my weakness. He can smell it on me. He gets high off the scent of my desperation. That’s just the kind of man he is.
“Don’t test me, sonny. Don’t you fucking test me. You left this house sometime before midnight last night. You weren’t here when I went to bed. Your Jeep’s not in the garage, and yet here you are, standing before me, giving me lip. I have half a mind to take your keys…”
My stomach flips over on itself at the thought of being without my Jeep, of being stuck, of being dependent.
“It’s not your car,” I remind him through gritted teeth.
He circles the desk, hunting, positioning, preparing to strike. It pisses him off that he can’t lord my vehicle over me and use it as a punishment. He took my M3 away after the accident. Once it was clear he had no intention of giving it back, my maternal grandma bought me a Jeep. It’s in my name. Grandma Patty pays the insurance and even insists on having me charge the oil changes and upkeep to her card.
“As if I need a reminder,” he scoffs. He leans his weight back on the edge of his desk and crosses his arms over his chest. I let myself relax. He’s not likely to close the space between us now. I know he’s not done, but I’m pretty sure I’m not in physical danger.
He smirks before he speaks again. “The only reason you have that car is because your grandma’s soft on you, just like your mother was. They made you weak. You know that? You let women fight your battles because you’re soft. I’ve got a sissy for a son.”
He keeps going. I think. I tune him out, lose track of time as I stand there at his mercy. My still-inebriated state makes it easy to let his words slick off me. It isn’t until the doorbell rings that I refocus and remember who’s waiting for me and where I’m supposed to be.
I jolt as the doorbell chimes again. “I’ve gotta get to work.”
Without waiting for his reply, I head for the foyer. I swing open one of the two heavy wooden front doors to find Tori standing on my front porch wearing white denim shorts and a heathered blue Clinton’s Family Restaurant uniform shirt that matches mine. Her emerald-green eyes light up, but her smile falters when she sees my sorry state.