I didn’t want her to see this, I didn’t want anyone to see what my father had become.
Reaching down, I hooked one arm under each of his armpits and started to drag him away from the front door.
He’d shit himself, I could smell it from here. Millie just stared wide-eyed at the both of us. I’d never been more embarrassed in my entire life. Why didn’t she fucking walk away? They didn’t teach privacy in New York?
“I have enough problems in my life!” I roared at my old man. “I don’t need you in it too.”
Millie gasped just as I tripped over a loose tile and fell backward. My butt hit the tile hard and my dad landed right on top of me.
“Ashton!” she shouted and I looked up at her, daring her to make this moment worse for me. “You shouldn’t talk to people like that.” Her voice was small, and I suddenly realized she didn’t know this was my dad. She probably thought he was some random homeless dude that I was an asshole to.
“Mind your own business,Princess. He’s my father and I’ll talk to him however I want.”
Her mouth popped open in shock and I stood again, struggling to get up with my old man, who was now laughing. Once I got back on my feet, I continued to heave him backward, trying to get the smelly fucker into my apartment so I could hose him off. Millie stood there frozen with her mouth turned into a frown. I knew that look and I hated it.
Pity.
I didn’t want her fucking pity, I wanted her to turn around and go back in the kitchen. I was just about to tell her to do so when she surprised me. She shook herself a little, as if to clear her thoughts, and walked over, bending down to grab my dad’s ankles. With a grunt, she heaved him up with me, taking the load off my back.
“Where are we taking him?” she asked matter-of-factly, all pity gone from her expression.
I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Don’t. I can handle him. Been doing it for years.”
“He can sleep it off in my place if you want,” she added, ignoring me and forcing me to walk backward as she pushed his legs.
I shook my head. “My place is fine.”
This was it. The icing on the cake. One year since my twin sister died and not only did Gran tell this chick about my heart transplant, now she had seen how low my piece of shit father could stoop. She’d never look at me the same again, and for some reason that bothered me.
I didn’t know why I cared what this chick thought of me. She was a temporary fry cook with an attitude problem.
Without another word, we grunted and huffed, climbing the stairs with the dead weight of my old man. He had fully passed out now and was snoring while he stank up the halls of the apartment building.
I unlocked my apartment door and we dragged him into my master bathtub, dropping him inside with a thunk. I couldn’t look Millie in the eyes, but she was looking at me. I could feel it. I just wanted her to fucking leave me with my mess and never talk about this again.
“You think he has alcohol poisoning?” she asked suddenly.
I pulled off my shirt, which had vomit on it, and started to wash my hands in the sink while contemplating drowning my dad in the bathtub.
“I sure hope so,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I’m serious,” she hedged. “Maybe I should call a paramedic.”
I spun and faced her, hoping that she’d take my vulnerable and worn out face as a clue to fucking leave. “He’s fine,” I gritted out. “I’ve seen him worse. He’ll sleep it off, have a shower, and be asking to borrow money from me in no time.”
I stepped out of the bathroom and back into my room. Maybe that would signal her to fucking leave before I exploded. I knew she just wanted to help, but this was my shit and I didn’t want her caught up in it.
I pulled open my refrigerator and reached for a beer.
Was I becoming like him? Like my dad? The thought sickened me and I grabbed a Coke instead.
“Has he tried rehab?” Her small voice came from behind me, and I realized then that I was going to have to be a dick and kick her out.
I laughed, looking at her incredulously. She thought she could stroll in from New York and fix my old man on top of fixing my bar? It was comical. “About six times.” I took a swig of soda, eyeing the door.
She frowned, wringing her hands together nervously, staring at the scar on my chest. I could sense she wanted to ask me about it—all women who saw it did—but she never said a word. She just stared.
“Family intervention?” she said.
