Susan snaps her briefcase closed and stands, refusing Greer’s offer of coffee or breakfast.
Turning to me, she smiles. At least I think it’s supposed to be a smile. It’s hard to tell. “I would suggest getting in touch with his father as soon as possible. If you’re going to handle this, you might think about getting a power of attorney. I’ll call and discuss the idea with him and keep you posted. Either way, it will be easier if you’re the point person, given he’s interstate.”
Jesus, this is a runaway train. And I’m not looking forward to my father getting on board.
“I’ll be in touch,” she tells me with a firm handshake.
“I can’t thank you enough, Susan.” And I mean it. With the impressive list of misdemeanours Ty has under his belt, juvenile detention isn’t outside the realm of possibility. But I’m confident Susan can sort this out. The question is, who’s going to sort Ty out? Because it sure as shit won’t be his parents.
Once she’s gone, the three of us sit looking at one another. It doesn’t escape my notice Tyrone is giving Greer the once-over.
“How about I order us some breakfast?” Greer suggests. We let her know what we want, and I hand her my card as she heads to the counter.
Tyrone’s eyes follow her across the room.
“She’s hot,” he comments. Which earns him a light slap upside the head.
“She’s off limits. And so are disrespectful comments like that. Unless you want me to hand you back to the cops. Or send you up to Dad.”
He shudders. “Fuck. Not Dad. Anyway, he won’t care. Probably won’t even answer the phone.”
“He will when Susan Kirby calls him.” And we both grin, thinking about Dad being wrangled by the tiny little pit bull.
As Tyrone starts hoeing into a big breakfast and chats to Greer about where he goes to school and what subjects he’s taking, I look him over. He’s kitted out from top to toe in expensive designer wear and a pricey haircut. You wouldn’t know we’re brothers to look at us. He’s blond, brown eyed, and despite still being a kid, a bit stockier than me. But I recognise his angry expression as the one that used to look back at me in the mirror every morning.
No sooner has he finished his food than Tyrone stands up, hitching his fancy jeans and smoothing back his hair.
“So, thanks for the bail and the feed, bro. Catch ya.”
He starts to walk—maybe strut is a better word—out of the café. He doesn’t get far. I stand and put my hand on his chest, stopping his movement.
“Oh, no you don’t. I didn’t spend my Saturday morning bailing you out of the cop shop just to let you back out on the streets.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Greer trying to hold back a smirk.
“Fuck off. I don’t need you coming around taking over. You’re not my father.” The déjà vu is almost overwhelming me.
“You’re right, kid. I’m not. I’m the stupid bastard who saved your arse this morning. So you can park the attitude and show some manners, thanks.”
Greer puts her hand on my arm, and I feel my blood pressure drop back to a safe level. “Maybe you’d like a lift somewhere?” she suggests. “Since your car’s been impounded.”
“Sure. Okay,” he concedes. There’s a loaded silence as we head back to the car.
“Right. I’ll drop you at school and have a word with the dorm master,” I say as we buckle in.
“No. You can’t take me back to school.” Even in the rear-view mirror, I can see the panic in Tyrone’s eyes.
Greer and I exchange a glance that contains a whole conversation.
“Why not?” Greer asks with cool curiosity.
“Because …” he trails off, clearly buying time to invent a plausible excuse.
“Okay, well, there’s always the police station. I hear the beds are uncomfortable, but you’d get three square …” I start the car.
“I can’t go back to school. I don’t board over the weekends. I go home,” Ty blurts.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s almost likeGroundhog Dayand Tyrone is the young me.
“What do you mean you go home over the weekends? Isn’t your mother overseas at the moment?”
