“Don’t count on it,” Mason says cheerfully. “In this small-ass town? You couldn’t avoid us if you tried.”
Something tells me Hazel will try pretty hard. “Have a good night.” Grabbing my bag of food, I head for the exit.
Any relief I felt from chatting with men who screwed up before me slithers away as cold rainwater rolls down my spine. I feel hollow and achy and incredibly angry at myself. All that anger aimed inward means I don’t have much appetite for the meal in this wet paper bag.
I jog toward my car through the downpour. In the time I’ve been inside, dusk has given up the fight and let darkness ooze like a slug through the parking lot.
Maybe that’s why I don’t see him.
Or maybe Noah Spencer-King really is some sort of phantom.
“Hey.” He steps out of the shadows and points to my car. “Let’s talk.”
“This really isn’t a good time.” I move past him and open the door, slinging myself into the driver’s seat.
Ignoring my attitude, Noah opens the passenger door. Settling himself, he slams the door shut. “This won’t take long.”
“What part of ‘this isn’t a good time’ did you miss?”
He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Here.”
“You already paid me for meeting with Enzo.”
“That’s not what this is.” He drops it in my lap. “We’ve located your father.”
I feel…nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
It’s like a wet paper bag full of soggy tater togs centered in the space where my heart used to be.
“I don’t care anymore.”
Noah frowns. “Seriously?”
Grabbing the envelope, I start to rip it in half. Noah snatches it back before I succeed. “I can see this isn’t a good time.”
“You think?”
He tucks it into the console and stares at me. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“Your goddamn prison job cost me the woman I love. That’s my fucking problem.” Snatching the envelope, I crumple it up and toss it in the backseat. “This doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Now will you leave me alone?”
“Damn.” Noah doesn’t budge. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened? She found out I broke my promise and made contact with a prison pal. She’s been betrayed before, so there’s no second chance for me. Game over, do not pass go.”
“Shit.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Sorry, man.”
“Yeah, well.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I’m a grown-ass adult. I made my own shitty choice.”
“How’d she find out? Did you come clean and confess all your sins to her?”
“Fuck you,” I snap. “I’m a lot of things—a liar, a shitty father, a deadbeat ex-con. But I’m not a rat.”
He frowns. “Who says you’re any of those things? You’re a helluva guy, as far as I know.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “That’s like getting a letter of reference from Satan.”
