Reluctantly, my gaze jumps from his face to the one he’s staring at.
Gray eyes. Cold face.
Xavier Travon awaits me dressed in a black suit that fits him perfectly, definitely custom-tailored and from Armani. He loves expensive shit; the latest phone, laptop and car on the market he gets them. The Rolex on his wrist catches light and reflects it, reminding me to check the time.
I find a clock in the corner. 5:30 am.
It’s too early in the morning to deal with him after a year of not seeing him.
“You’re free to go. Hurry up, leave.” The officer pushes me and I shoot him a glare.
Striding towards Dad, I realize we’re the same height now. In fact, I might be a couple centimeters taller than him. I remember the last time I saw him—last year a week after the funeral. He hasn’t changed much.
Under the suit, he’s still packed with muscle and has a defined body made from hours of exercise and nutritious diet.His face is sharp and looks striking with features that are very similar to mine. His displeased scowl is in its rightful place and his piercing eyes are busy cutting everything in its way.
Without a word, he turns around and walks out of the police station.
I follow him since he’s holding a bag that has my phone, wallet and wrist watch in it.
Climbing down the stairs we stop in the middle of the parking lot where a black Mercedes is waiting for us. Opening the door to the back seat he throws the bag inside and then gestures me to get in.
Like fuck I would.
I need to check up on Hope. I need to make sure she’s okay. I’m worried sick about her.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him, as I approach the car to get my phone and text her.
“You’re not going anywhere but home.” He closes the door and keeps his hand on the handle.
That voice. The deep, stern voice that loves to command me.
My heart clenches at the sound of it. I’ve missed it. Fuck. I hate saying it. I hate it. But I can admit it to myself as long as I don’t say it out loud.
“Those are your first words to me after seeing me for the first time in more than a year?” I ask him, my eyes set on him in a glare.
He returns it with one of his own. “Get inside the car, son. We need to have a long talk.”
I smile dryly.
There’s so much I want to say to him. I just don’t know where to begin.
I want to be angry at him. Hit him. Curse him. Hurt him. But there’s also a part that just wants to give him the silent treatment and make him suffer.
I’m torn between the two.
“Heath—” he starts.
I shake my head. “No! Don’t say my name. Just don’t.”
My hands shake in anger or perhaps sadness. I have no clue. All I know is my head hurts and my heart cries.
Seeing his face reminds me of the hospital visits and the long discussions with the doctors. A time of my life I would very much like to forget, but I can’t because those moments were when I spent the last days with my sister.
Past is not only made up of bad moments, it also has good moments. The ones you don’t want to forget about. As much as it hurts remembering it, there’s also a joy remembering it because you get to relive those good moments.
Instead of lashing out at me, he softens his response, which is a first. “Let’s go home.”
My mouth opens in surprise, but I soon realize I don’t have time for this.
