Ihaveto fight for it.
I just don’t know what that looks like with a man who is greed-driven and doesn’t give a single shit about anyone around him. I can’t sit and think about what he’ll do with the place I grew up in—the only place that holds memories of Mom, good and bad.
So, I have to fuckingthink.I have to figure it out.
I crack my window to let in the cold air. My heater doesn’t work half bad and mingles with the coolness. Condensation builds on the glass, making it difficult to see across the street. I roll the window back up when the cold sinks under my jacket and threatens my skin.
My fingers waver on the door handle. I don’t want to walk up that porch, but I also know I have to if I want any of this to go the way I’d like it to.
The roar of an engine catches my attention as I push my shoe against the door and prepare to push it open. Clyde’s car comes into view, speeding down the quiet street and swerving toward the sidewalk to park. I watch as he steps out and slams the door shut. As he makes his way toward the front door, I look down the street, watching and waiting for his shadow—the guy with the red windbreaker—to follow. He never does. I take it as my sign to get this the hell over with.
I get out of my car and lock it before stuffing my hands in my pockets and damn near sprinting up to the door. I knock, pounding my fist against the splintering wood and wait. I suck in a lungful of air at the same time the door opens and a short, albeit attractive woman looks up at me. The shape of her face reminds me of Finn. He may look a lot like Clyde, but one look at this woman, and I know she’s his mother.
Her gaze flits behind me before she turns and looks back in the house. Before I’m able to get a word out, she starts closing the door while muttering, “We’re not interested.”
My foot darts out before it latches shut. “I’m here for Clyde.”
“I don’t recognize you,” is her reply. She has a voice that sounds as though it’s naturally quiet. Or maybe like she’s been told to shut up one too many times and now she’s gotten used to maintaining a hush-hush demeanor that doesn’t get any backlash.
“Who the fuck is at the door?” barks a loudmouth from inside. Concern flicks over her features, drawing her eyebrows close together. I catch the sight of a faint scar lining her jaw when she glances back into the home again. “Tell ‘em we’re not interested and shut the goddamn door. We’re not heating the fucking outdoors.”
She opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something but doesn’t know what. I wonder if Clyde has stripped her of who she is as a person simply because he likes having authority overpeople. Almost like their fear boosts his morale and increases his energy in some sick way.
My answer is directed at Clyde, but I keep my stare on her as I take a small step forward and shout into the house, “It’s me.”
A noise ricochets, sounding a lot like a refrigerator slamming shut. Footsteps thud through the house and then he’s standing behind the woman before she slips back into the house without a word and disappears. “You got balls showing up like this. Let me guess. You’re here to get down on your pansy ass hands and knees and beg like she did?”
The room is somber,the windows blocked off with dusty, sun-stained curtains that look like they’ve never been washed. The overhead light is on, but it barely does its job. Instead, it makes the area more daunting. I stand with my back facing the wall opposite the door.
I fucking hate this man.
I hate that conniving smirk quirking his lips to the water-stained ceiling, how he stands tall with confidence in a way that denotes this level of superiority he thinks he has—but unfortunately does possess—and I detest how easy it is for him to want to strip everything I’ve ever known away from me.
“I have no goddamn desire to entertain whatever you came here for,” he tells me, sinking down in the center of a sofa that has seen better days. He picks up a pack of smokes, plucks one out, and lights it. It reminds me so much of Finn it’s almost scary.
My jaw clenches on its own volition as I watch him toss his cigarettes on the table in front of him. “I’m not giving it up.”
“So you think.”
I’d love nothing but to glance away. It’d be better than staring him head on. Every second I stand and look at him twists my insides more. Turns the simple knot that’s there into an intricate constrictor’s knot only a percentage of the population would be able to unwind. I meet his gaze and don’t waver. I can’t when I need him to know how serious I am.
I don’t plan on giving up Mom’s house without a fight.
“What do you want from me?” I inquire, knowing that I might not have a thing he wants. I’m willing to try, anyway.
His smirk pulls to one side of his face. He may not be the moody asshole that was yelling about who was at the door a few minutes ago, but in the snap of a finger it’s almost like that has changed.
He flicks his ash off onto the floor, too bothered to lean forward and make it into the ashtray. “You got nothing I want, boy.”
“I’m sure we can figure something out.”
The cigarette glows orange when he props it between his lips and inhales. He pulls it away, eyeballing me from head to toe. “How do I know you won’t try to fuck me over? Haul my ass right over the barrel top and pull my trousers down the second I agree?”
“Your DNA might be a part of me, but that’s where our similarities end. I’m not about purposely hurting people. All I want is the house.”
He squints at me. “And you’ll do anything to get it?”
“Just about.”
