Page 68 of Catching Feels

“What?”

“Yeah, got papers at eight this morning, demanding the return. So, he gets it and scraps it, or we scrap it at a place that doesn’t input it into a database.”

“What do you mean you got papers?”

“He wants money.”

I feel eyes on me and know it’s Nour. I glance at him, and he crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, brow arched.

“Spill it, Jillian.”

“Spill what?” I ask.

“You’re a horrible liar. Your face gets all pinched up, and your voice raises about three octaves. Did he call for money?”

I shrug, which is more than enough of a confirmation.

“Tell me you didn’t give him the fucking cost of a phone call.”

Nour clears his throat, and I glare at him.

He bows his head and walks past me into the other room, calling back, “Come on, guys; let’s give them some privacy.”

“How much?” Rome asks.

I hold up three fingers.

“Three grand?”

“No,” I huff. “Three hundred.”

“Jillian, that fucker doesn’t deserve an answered call, let alone three hundred bucks.”

I look down like a shamed dog.

“He tell you he was gonna write a tell-all?”

Taken aback by the fact I never considered our father would be working all angles, I ask, “A what?”

“A book. Don’t say a word to him, but the bastard got Hudson for ten grand a year ago with that bullshit. You know who he doesn’t call and ask for money?”

“You,” I mumble.

“Damn right. You know why?”

“Because you do everything right?” I smart back.

He does me a solid by not gloating. “He hasn’t called Hudson in six months because he called his bluff and told him that he wasn’t sure he could stay sober long enough to tell a story, let alone write a book. Be done with it. His threats are empty.”

I nod.

“Cool. See you?—”

“How much do I owe CeCe for the car?”

“Nothing, Jillian.”

“I have a job now. I’ve made over fifteen hundred dollars in three days. Let me make payments.”

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