“You get into a bed and sleep for at least eight hours tonight. You need it. And if the pain gets worse, you call me. Or go to the ER.”
“I don’t need a hospital.”
“Then call me. Swear it.”
He smiled, his expression both tender and infinitely weary. “I swear.”
“Good.” I took a deep breath. “Then I guess this is good nig—”
He kissed me. Deep and thoroughly. He pressed me back against the side of the truck and plundered my mouth, making me breathless and so hot, I was surprised my clothing didn’t catch on fire. And then he pulled back, his chest heaving almost as much as mine was.
“Thank you,” he whispered. And then he physically turned me around and walked me to my car. Holding the car door for me while I got in, he waited until I was buckled before shutting it. Then he stepped back and waved.
A streetlight cast his face in shadows, showing his cheekbones and emphasizing the darkness under his eyes. He just stood there while I put the car in reverse. I didn’t want to leave him alone like this, but I could tell he wasn’t going to listen to me. I could only push him so far right then. So I blew him a kiss and then backed out of the spot. I could tell he was still watching me when I pulled out of the parking lot and sped down the street.
Chapter Seventeen
Jake
It was morning and I felt like shit. My ribs ached like a bitch and my back felt as if someone had kicked me in the kidneys. I was lying on the mattress of my childhood bed. The thing was like sleeping on a wet sponge, and though a huge collection of pillows and blankets had made it comfortable when I’d crashed last night, this morning, my back was in agony.
A hot shower helped, as did a mug of crap coffee, but they didn’t stop the real pain. That came from looking at my father’s dismal life. The house was a mess and falling apart. The kitchen was empty of edible food except for beer. And the laundry had piled up so high, the entire house reeked.
First things first. I needed food, so I headed out to the grocery store, then back afterward to do the laundry and dishes. And all that time, my father snored loud enough to wake the dead. I was just sitting down to a grilled cheese sandwich when I heard the first stirring of life from Pops’s bedroom.
I tensed as always. No one with a hangover ever handled the morning well, though it was way past noon. So I ate my sandwich with slow care while silently calculating odds.
Would Pops start the day by attacking me? Or trying to be conciliatory? Fifty-fifty.
Would Pops notice all the housework I’d done? One hundred percent yes. But would he be grateful? I gave it a 1 percent chance. Pops didn’t know how to be grateful.
But here was the real question. Was Pops ready to take control of his life? I’d placed his bottle of naltrexone on the table, just in case. It was the medication that had saved me from alcoholism, but so far, I was the only one in the family to make it work. Would Pops be ready today? Would he finally turn his life around this afternoon? The probability was so astronomically small, I amused myself by guessing at the number of zeros behind the odds against it.
And yet here I sat, hoping he would prove me wrong.
I was just swallowing the last of my sandwich when the curses began. He was calling himself names, which was a surprise. But then he hadn’t realized I was here yet. A moment later, he came bumbling out of his room while pulling on a shirt. But the moment he saw me in the kitchen, he froze and gave me an angry glare.
I cut him off before he could speak.
“You’re not late. Larry covered your shift.” I should have stopped there. I knew I should have, but I couldn’t resist throwing in a jab. “It would be nice if you offered to take his shift tonight. Otherwise he’ll be pulling a double.”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my own son.”
I didn’t respond. I knew I’d thrown the first punch, so I buttoned my lip. Instead, I stood up and poured him his hangover cure. It was a ridiculous concoction of tomato juice, cayenne pepper, and herbs that were supposed to put hair on your chest. It had been handed down from father to son for generations of alcoholics. And I swear, it was one of the primary reasons I’d wanted to stop drinking.
Pops took it and slammed it back like it was a beer.
“Omelet?” I asked. “Or grilled cheese?” Those were the mainstay of my cooking talents. Plus a burger or microwaved hot dog, but I knew Pops wouldn’t want either of those.
He didn’t answer, and in the silence, the blare of the washing machine finishing was cringeworthy loud. I got up and headed to the machine, but not before I saw my father notice all the things I’d done. The dishes were washed and in the drying rack. The overflowing garbage was emptied. The living room was picked up and the empty beer bottles gone.
Then his gaze landed on the pill bottle of naltrexone, and his upper lip curled in disgust. Mine did, too, as I transferred the load and added the next. It took me some time to finish. That was good, because I was already feeling my own temper build. I hated doing my own fucking laundry. Why the hell was I doing his?
By the time I made it upstairs, he’d found his tablet and was listening to some interview. It took me three seconds to realize it was one of my interviews. The pretty redheaded reporter was asking me how it felt to be a hero. It was a bullshit question that had pissed me off when the woman had asked. I answered as I always did.
“I’m no hero,” I said firmly. “All I did was save my own butt. And fortunately, I was able to help a couple others at the same time.”
“That’s a big deal,” the woman purred.
