D’s eyes zero in on John like a fucking sniper scope. The old man practically pisses himself, scrambling backward like his ass is on fire.
“Seriously?” I scoff, shaking my head.
I watch D stroll over to where my heels are lying on the grimy sidewalk. He bends down, scooping them up. What? He thinks I can’t pick up my own damn shoes?
But he doesn’t give them back. Just stands there, holding my shoes hostage.
I rummage through my bag, pull out my backup flats. Always got a Plan B. Unlike some people I could name.CoughJohncough.
“Yeah, well, some of us can’t solve all our problems by burying them in shallow graves.”
D shrugs, his massive shoulders rolling under his jacket. “Your loss.”
John’s bleary eyes dart between us, fear sobering him up faster than a pot of coffee.
I slip my flats on, ignoring the way D’s watching me. His eyes feel like a physical weight. It’s… unnerving.
I start walking toward my apartment, not bothering to check if he’s following. The sound of his heavy footsteps tells me all I need to know.
Can’t help but sneak a glance, though. And fuck me if he doesn’t look different tonight. Maybe it’s the streetlights or the adrenaline from dealing with John’s bullshit. But there’s something about the way he’s moving, all coiled power and watchful eyes.
My heels swing from his hand like some fucked-up pendulum. His fingers are huge, wrapped around the thin straps. It does something to my tummy.
Ew. Stop it, Wren.
I drag a deep breath in. Suddenly, John’s bony fingers wrap around my arm. His grip’s about as strong as wet toilet paper, but it still pisses me off.
“W-Wrennie,” he stammers. I freeze.
John’s hands shake as he paws at his pockets. Probably looking for his dignity. Good fucking luck.
“I just… I need a little help, baby. Just a few bucks for food,” he says again.
“Bullshit. You need alcohol.”
John’s face crumples like a used condom. “But… but I’m your father. You can’t just—”
Before he can finish, D materializes in front of him. He bends down, voice low and dangerous.
“Do what she says, John. Walk away. Now.”
“I…” John’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Realization dawns in his bloodshot eyes. He ain’t getting shit tonight.
He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Fuck you, Wren,” he slurs, spittle flying. “I’m your fuckin’ father.” His face twists, ugly and mean. “You’re a fuckin’ whore, just like your fuckin’ dead mother.”
His words sting like a goddamn whip, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I keep my face hard as granite as he stumbles away, shooting one last poisonous glare my way. As soon as he’s swallowed up by the night, I exhale a breath. But I know it ain’t over. Not by a damn mile.
My fists clench tightly. There was a time I’d have worried about him, run after him. But John had never been a real father. Just a walking, talking disappointment.
Something hot and wet pricks at the corner of my eye.Fuck. Not now.
Before I can swipe it away, a warm hand catches my chin. D tilts my face up, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a big guy.
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
39
Wren
