Page 92 of Make You Mine

“What are you doing?” I ask him, attempting to start a conversation.

“I’m busy.”

“I can see.” I step toward him. “With what?”

“Business.”

“Business?”

“Yes. I just said I’m busy. Stop bothering me. Go to your room.”

“I need to talk to you, Dad.”

“Not now.” He raises his voice. “I said, go to your room.”

“This is important.”

“This is important, too.” He slaps a hand against the desk.

My patience runs thin.

I spin my father around in the chair and pull him toward me by his collar.

“Are you faking this?” I spit. “Did you hear I was in town and hired someone to mess with me for messing with you back then? Is that it?”

My father’s eyes are zombie-like, staring at me as if I’m not there.

He pushes me away.

“You ungrateful piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, sitting down in the spinning chair again.

Turning to the computer and ignoring me.

Click. Click.

“Shit. I got distracted because of you and did the wrong move.”

He is not faking it. There’s no way to fake this.

“Leave,” he commands. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

I don’t move a single muscle. Stay right behind him.

“Did someone come and talk to you about me?”

No response. More clicking of the mouse.

The man ignores me and takes pleasure in doing so.

Every single nerve in my body stiffens.

“I said, get out. Don’t make me repeat myself.” The strong tone of his words is surprising, given he’s still focused on the screen. He doesn’t let me finish. “We’ll be having a serious talk at dinner, young man.”

I’m not staying for fucking dinner. But of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know a damn thing. He thinks I’m still a fucking teenager, wearing his leash or something.

I dig my nails into my skin, pressing my fists to my side.

He’s not going to help. And that’s okay.