The rumbling of an engine sounds down the street. I swing my gaze toward it, but I can only make out bright headlights. “You need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere till you talk to me.”
Fuck. Swiping a hand through my hair, I stare into his grey eyes. I stare for so long, trying to decipher what’s real and what’s not. But I don’t get to figure him out when the goddamn headlights are gaining on us. Before I even think, I stalk forward, muttering, “Follow me.”
He tries to keep up with my quick pace as we round the back of the house and pass the pool. I unlock my door then glance over my shoulder toward Blue’s room. Her window’s open, bedroom light casting a glow into the dark sky, and I wonder if she’s waiting for me.
Swallowing, I shove the door open, walk inside, and turn left. After tossing my keys on the kitchen counter, I grab a cold water bottle from the otherwise barren fridge and down it, then return to the small living room and sink into the couch.
Conway’s still standing by the door, which he thankfully shut behind him. I watch him discreetly, trying not to make it obvious I’m staring. He looks different though. Older. The years haven’t been kind to him, but more than that, he seems beat.
He glances toward the half-kitchen. “Got a beer?”
I huff out a breath. “What do you think?”
He never had an issue with drugs or alcohol, but even so, I don’t go near the stuff. I know his addictive personality runs through my veins—I feel it every time I taste something good enough and that black cloud of obsession consumes me—and I’m not exactly eager to find out if that might extend to alcohol.
He slowly makes his way closer, and I refrain from shifting in my seat. “How’d you find me?”
“I, um ...” He looks away. “Back when we first lost the house and I, well—”
“Left us?”
He stares at the floor. “Yeah, around then. I went looking for you.”
My lungs constrict so hard I can’t take a breath. “You, what?” I croak.
He nods, still looking down. “I—actually, I saw some of your matches.”
My head jerks back in surprise.
“Anyway,”—he scratches his neck—“I figured you might still be fighting. So I convinced an old buddy to lend me some money and hopped on a plane, then I asked around till I found your contact, Mac. When I told him who I was, he gave me this address and told me you live in the back house.”
I inhale sharply, my hands fucking shaking. I’m gonna kill Mac.
“What do you want?” I growl to overshadow the burn behind my eyes.
He rubs the side of his arm, glancing around the cramped space. “I wanted to see how my son’s doing.”
“I’m surviving. Good talk. Door’s that way.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. I came a long way to be here tonight.”
“Then maybe you should start with being honest for once.”
His lips thin, then he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms. “Okay. All right. Can I at least sit?”
I narrow my gaze. “Two minutes.”
He walks toward me, taking a seat at the opposite end of the couch. It’s weird as hell seeing him here after all that’s happened since he took off. I wish I could feel relief, comfort, hope—anything but the anger bubbling up inside. I hate that the most. It only reminds me he still has too much power over me.
“So,” he starts, staring at the carpet, “as I mentioned before, I need your help.”
“You need money.”
He presses his hands together, finally looking at me. “Well, yeah, although technically, itismy money.”
“Technically, it becomes mine each day you give it to me. You know how that works, right? Keeping your word?”
