Page 33 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)
TRIPP
I strut into the kitchen like I’m floating on a cloud.
Even the bare pantry doesn’t faze me, despite having skipped breakfast this morning and not having more than a sandwich at lunch.
I whistle happily as I walk to the fridge and take my chances at finding something for a late dinner in there instead.
The workday went quicker than I thought it would, and I crashed on the couch for a while, not long after walking through the door.
Waking up early to my girl’s head between my legs this morning made me want to stock up on nap hours while I have the chance.
I don’t plan on getting much sleep once she gets back.
My phone buzzes, and I think it might be Mesa, but when I pull it out of my pocket, I see that it’s an incoming call from Gage. I swipe a finger along the bottom of the screen to answer.
“Yello.”
“What are you so cheerful about?”
The fridge door slams shut, and I turn to lean against the kitchen island. “Naked Fridays, brother.”
“I thought Mesa was out of town.”
“Never heard of FaceTime sex?”
“ Jesus ,” he huffs.
“I’m kidding.” I chuckle and move toward the cabinet to get a glass and fill it with water. “I just took a nap. What’s up?”
“Well . . . Not sure, honestly. There’s a guy at the gate asking for you,” Gage says.
“What?” My brows draw together. “Right now? Who is it?”
“If I knew who it was, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I? I couldn’t understand most of what he said. Older guy. Maybe early fifties? He mentioned your full name. Like, your legal name.”
Not many people other than Gage know it. He wouldn’t be able to pay me if he didn’t have my social security number and government name. I don’t intentionally keep it a secret from anyone, and if they cared to know, I wouldn’t lie.
But if the guy at the gate isn’t calling me Tripp, I have a gut feeling I know who it might be. I grab my glass of water and move to put it in the dishwasher. I’m too distracted though, and it crashes to the ground in one hundred shards of crystal.
“ Shit .”
“You good?” Gage asks.
“Yeah, just—buzz him in, will you? I think it might be my dad.”
“The fuck? Seriously?”
I scratch the top of my head. “Yeah. Long story, okay? Just do it.”
“Alright,” he sighs. “Hit me up if anything shady happens. We’re at the house.”
“I doubt he’s a criminal defense attorney employed by the literal mob.”
“Right,” he laughs. “That’s what they all say.”
I hang up the phone and look at the broken glass on the floor. It takes a minute to clean up the mess because of my shaking hands. When I finally put the broom up, three knocks sound at the door.
Opening it might mean never having to wonder what he’s like anymore.
It might mean getting what I’ve always wished for.
It could also be someone completely different and not my biological father at all.
But Anna, the private investigator who’s been helping me, warned me with a text this afternoon that he’d gotten out of his short stint in rehab. I doubt this is a coincidence.
I stare, unmoving from my spot near the pantry, until three knocks sound once again.
Louder this time. But not yet impatient.
I drag in a breath and move to the door like I’m walking through knee-deep mud. Once I grip the knob and pull, the man greets me with a smile that’s crooked and way too familiar. The musky, faint smell of cigarette smoke greets me. His black leather jacket is entirely too warm for this weather.
“Hey, kid.”