“No, I can’t. He’s special inside and out. There isn’t anyone like him anywhere. It’s too bad you never saw that.”
He glanced around and grimaced. “I need some of that money you got from your uncle. He owed me after what he did to yourboyfriend’swhore of a mother. He owed me big, and he left it all to you after the cancer got him. My lawyer said I didn’t have a chance in hell of getting that cash, but you could give it to me.”
Anger had me sitting up straighter. Had he followed me here? I’d thought it was just my bad luck rearing its ugly head again that he’d showed up.
“Gee, I can’t imagine why she fucked someone else. Oh, wait, yeah I can.”
It was Dad’s turn to breathe fire.
I took a well-deserved sip of the perfect drink my loving boyfriend had made for me.
Dad swiped the mug away, and someone shrieked as the ceramic shattered on the floor.
In a heartbeat, I was on my feet, but so was he. “Perhaps if you weren’t such a fucking prick, Charlene wouldn’t have cheated. Perhaps if you weren’t a born asshole, your own brother would’ve respected you more and included you in his will. Perhaps my mom would still be alive.” My chest hitched like I’d been running a five-minute mile.
People abandoned the tables around us as Dad growled, and I wasn’t prepared when he charged me.
“Red!” someone nearby yelled, urgency lacing their tone.
Dad’s fist met my face faster than a train, and I tried to punch back, but I was out skilled. Dad took me to the floor, my chair getting knocked aside, and landed a punch to my gut. Another one to my side.
“Fuck, stop!”
He laughed, eyes wild and bugging.
A loud crack filled the room, and he collapsed on top of me harder than a ton of bricks.
Red stood there with a bat in both hands, an avenging Christmas angel, and she must’ve brought it down across his shoulders.
“Get your ass out of this business, now,” she said, pointing at the door with the bat. She didn’t raise her voice. She was terrifying enough that those sorts of theatrics weren’t necessary. Murder gleamed in her eyes. I’d only ever seen this woman smiling and kind, but right now I believed she would happily break every bone in his body.
“I’m a cop,” he bellowed, jumping to his feet. I rolled away as he tried to kick me.
“I don’t give a damn if you’re Santa Claus and five of his fucking elves. Go!”
He took a step toward her.
Big mistake. She jammed the end of the bat into his chest, firmly knocking the wind out of him. “Let me tell you who I am. I’m a Harlot Queen, and your buddies can’t watch your back all the time. You aren’t welcome here.”
He straightened. His glare could’ve stripped paint off a car as he stumbled toward the door.
“Tyler, why don’t you hand out some free Christmas cookies to these nice people who didn’t punch anyone in my coffee shop.” She shook her head as she glared after Dad. If she could shoot laser beams out of her eyeballs, she would’ve singed his ass.
Laughter and a short round of applause broke out as she took a bow, then tucked the bat under her arm to gather the shards of my former mug from the floor. She was able to do that girl thing where despite wearing the short dress, she didn’t flash anything important as she crouched.
“I’m so sorry,” Tyler said to her, already carrying around a plate of cookies as one of his coworkers followed along behind him with a stack of paper holiday plates.
Misery washed over me and I righted my chair before flopping down on it. After the floor was clean, Red brought me a replacement drink with a sympathetic smile, and when I’d tasted it, I coughed a bit because she’d clearly doubled the rum. As I sat there, guilt coiled in my stomach—or perhaps that pain was from Dad’s fist? My jaw ached, so I worked it, and when I touched my right cheek, it was hot and puffy.
Some unpleasant memories surged out of the sludge in the bottom of my brain, and I shook my head, not wanting to get caught up in them.
Any time the topic came up, I always said Dad never hurt me. But that wasn’t exactly true. He’d just stopped shoving me around when I outgrew him. When he thought I might swing back. Fuck, how did I manage not to remember watching a baseball game when I was nine with a throbbing cheek because he’d backhanded me in the parking lot for asking too many questions? My thirteenth birthday, when he’d shoved me to the ground for not thanking him well enough for my presents?
I shivered.
There were more memories, worse ones, deep down in the muck, but I ignored them. I’d always been good at that. Too good. But it let me function.
Tyler threw an envelope on the table, and I had no choice except to scoot back because he plopped down on my lap.
