“You didn’t answer your phone, and your mother has been calling.”
“I forgot my charger and it ran out of battery. Dad, you can’t be here.”
“You called me, then didn’t answer your phone,” he fires back.
“Yes, but you said I should stay, so I stayed.”
I hear my chair groan as he sits on it. “Gonna text your mother first, then take you home.”
“Dad, I’m not going home yet.”
“The checkout is at eleven, so might as well.”
“Check out istomorrowat eleven.”
He changes the subject. “I saw car parts on the road up here. Someone hit the tree. Anyone hurt?”
I reach under the bed and grab my gun, then roll my eyes. I’m not gonna fucking shoot her dad. Returning to the dresser, I get out a pair of jeans, keeping my ear on the convo downstairs.
“I don’t know anything about the car,” she says.
“Shhh,” her dad says. “I hear something upstairs.”
“It’s nothing,” she says.
I smile, ’cause that makes me feel younger than thirty-five, puts me somewhere in junior high when Nikola and I snuck out to see girls. Seeing as I intend to propose to her, I slam the drawer shut, then move to the closet, where I pick out my best white button-up.
My chair squeaks, and heavy booted feet climb the steps. Shirt in one hand, I close the closet. Midway up, on the stairs, stands the town’s sheriff in a brown uniform. The dude is at least six five, with an untamed beard covering almost all his face. Piercing green eyes stare at me, move over my body, then back up to my head. He unsnaps his gun holster.
I note the movement, and he pulls out the gun.
“Oh my God, Dad, no,” Isla says behind him.
“Who is this?” he asks.
I slide on my shirt, button it up, and take a step toward him.
“Stop,” he says.
His hand doesn’t shake. He’s not afraid like some cops are afraid, but I fucked his baby girl, so there’s no telling what he’ll do. If I caught a guy with my baby girl, he wouldn’t even see it coming.
I extend a hand. “Stefan Ludvenich.”
“Dad, please. Put the gun down.”
Dad shows me his teeth. “Downstairs, boy. We need to talk.”
He puts away his weapon and stomps down the stairs. I follow him and push by Isla, whispering at her ear, “It’s okay.”
“I’m so sorry about this.”
“It’s okay. I took your phone, and now I will deal with this.”
The former deputy sheriff, now sheriff, stands in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, teeth bared, face red. “You’re leaving right now, young lady.”
“Dad, I’m not twelve.”
“But you live under my roof. I trusted you when you said you’re studying, and I trusted you when I sent you away.”
