Page 34 of The Sweetest Cruelty: Hudson (A Sawyer Brothers Story #1)
As I got home that evening, thoughts of one pale little English girl were smashed away. My plan to fuck with Principal Miller also suddenly felt pointless as shit got real.
Callum fucking Gage, real.
It appeared my father had decided to try and fuck with my head again.
Ma was waiting for me in the kitchen with some mail. The return address was the Maximum Security Prison (MAX) in Cranston. What was unusual was that the envelope didn’t show my father’s inmate number in the top left-hand corner.
And for the first time in years, those walls I had built around myself started to crumble.
“You don’t have to open it,” Ma said in a strained voice.
“If you’re not ready, Hudson, I can put it with the others Callum sent?
” Her disgust as his name left her lips was apparent, and that cramping feeling in my chest became tighter.
Like it always did when I thought of the piece of shit that was my father.
Callum had only choked me that one time, yet I remembered the feel of his rough fingers around my throat like it was yesterday.
On the rare occasions anyone in our house spoke about him, we used his given name, as the man was never a father to me. In all truth, he was a monster of the worst kind.
Growing up, I’d believed that I was somehow to blame, that my behaviour as a delinquent youth deserved the punishments he’d dished out. The day he murdered my mother was when that bubble of adolescent ignorance burst open.
I lowered myself onto a seat at the kitchen table, and Ma joined me on the opposite side.
She watched me with that guarded expression she had honed so well.
The one she used to hide any trace of the sympathy she felt for me when the unpalatable subject of Callum Gage resurfaced.
Even thinking his name evoked painful memories from those murky waters of my past. Ma knew never to show me pity; it was one of those key emotions which could lead to triggering an outburst. And by outburst, I meant for all hell to break loose.
The only thing that caged that hell was steering clear of conversations about my past. Well, that and my prescribed medication.
Over the last few months, I had reduced my intake.
I did it gradually to ensure it was safe.
I’d researched the negative side effects of withdrawing from treatment too quickly.
And I wasn’t stupid. I just needed to keep my shit together at school or I was out.
The warning I’d received last year when I tore up half of a science lab had forced me to try and tame my shit down.
And the truth was, I needed to graduate.
I wanted to go to college. I would not be a bum loser like Callum, with nothing to show from school.
I refused to fail. My father had been a man without a trade or skills—unless you consider downing a full bottle of vodka without falling over a talent.
Or murdering your wife in front of your teenage son.
I suddenly felt like I was going to hurl, and the woman I saw as my mother must have noticed that look on my face.
“Do you want me to read it?” Ma suggested softly, breaking into my thoughts.
The letter from MAX sat there on the table between us, and we both stared at it like it carried a disease.
And it did. A disease was a sickness, and that was an accurate way to describe Callum Gage.
And then it occurred to me. Callum’s struggle with cancer. Had things finally taken their toll?
My eyes narrowed as I glared down my nose at the envelope. It was different this time. Something was off.
If the letter was from my father, it would be the third time he had attempted to contact me in almost four years.
The envelope was brown and crinkled, suggesting it had been handled many times during its journey.
And of course, it would have been. Any incoming or outgoing mail from a place like that had to be monitored.
But the font was different for the name and address, and where was his prison number?
I wondered what bullshit the letter contained.
I knew there would be no words to rationalise his past behaviour or sins.
Nothing which begged for my forgiveness.
Callum didn’t do regrets or apologies, even now that he was sober.
Forced sober, I might add, due to a mix of his incarceration and cancer treatment.
He had been given life for my mother’s murder. The fucker should have been given the chair in my opinion. Lethal injection would have been too tame .
“Hud?”
“No. I’ll open it. This is different. Something new,” I explained in a tight voice.
Taking a deep swallow, I snatched the letter and ripped it open.
Ma’s chair squeaked as she leaned back. I could feel her eyes drilling into my hands as I unfolded the paper. Scanning the page, what faced me wasn’t my father’s messy scrawl. It was a letter from the warden, printed on their official letterhead. It wasn’t an overly long message.
The atmosphere in the room was charged, and I released a sharp breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Hudson?” Ma put in after a stretched silence.
The words at the bottom of the letter bled out like a sliced artery.
My father was dead.
What shocked me was that the news didn’t make me feel good or relieved.
All I felt was a surge of rage and another emotion I couldn’t define; remorse?
What the hell?
I shoved the letter back into the envelope and slid it over to Ma.
“I’ll be in my room. I’ll come down when I’m ready.”
Understanding flooded my mother’s features. “Take all the time you need, son,” Ma said.
She let me go, and I spent that evening in my room listening to music. I ignored the knocks on my door. Every time, it was a different brother. They each said they were there for me if I needed them.
I didn’t.
*****
That saying, life goes on, rattled around my brain, and I knew the best way to stop thoughts of my father’s death was to keep myself busy.
The guys all tiptoed around me for most of the morning, until I was ready to rip someone’s head off.
No one could say anything right, and I knew I needed to pull the session with Molly.
Using her as my punching bag would have been easy, but wrong. I wasn’t that fucked up.
After we won the game on Friday, I felt wrecked and didn’t go to the after-party. I’d used the game to work out my aggression, but was still wired, and I knew there was no way I was in the mood for studying that weekend .
As I sat up in bed, cradling a beer against my chest, I messaged Molly. I hadn’t sent her my address or any further instructions; the news about Callum had taken over everything. I hadn’t been able to think about anything else but that fucker all day.
Dear old Daddy was dead. I should have been doing laps of joy around the garden, but nope. I was wallowing and didn’t understand the fuck why.
I have stuff I need to sort, so you’re off the hook for tomorrow, kitten. Enjoy a day of peace.
Friday night must have been some party, if you’re still hungover? She replied.
Taking a swig from the bottle, I thumbed in No. I didn’t go to the party. After a brief pause, I added. And you didn’t either, or you would have known I wasn’t there.
No. I had an early night and today I’ve been boning up for our session tomorrow. Molly messaged back with an eyerolling emoji. Should I have felt guilty about that? Probably, but I wasn’t.
Yeah. Sorry about that. I thumbed back anyway.
There was a pause before she replied, and then those three words. The ones that no one outside of my family ever asked me.
Are you OK?
A sliver of hope surfaced, and a lump appeared in my throat. I attempted to chug it down with my Bud Light. When that failed, I lit up a blunt, taking the smoke into my lungs, trying to relax.
She doesn’t care about you. You don’t even know each other.
Molly was probably being sarcastic after I said sorry. I never apologized for anything.
Dropping my phone onto my nightstand, I pushed myself against the headboard of my bed and attempted to concentrate on the joint I held. I usually opened the window as Ma would be pissed if she found out I was smoking in the house again.
My phone sounded to say I had another message, and I glanced at it.
Hudson. Are you OK? Molly had repeated.
I ignored it, focusing on that dead feeling inside of me and turning my back on the one girl who had started to bring me back to life.