Page 72 of Bad & Bossy

I got out.

I slammed the door.

“Get the fuck off my property.”

“Cole—”

“No,” I snapped, the headlights cutting and giving me a moment of relief before the floodlights lit the cement. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to turn up out of the blue, venture onto my land, and insert yourself into my life.”

“Son.”

“I’m not your fucking son!” I took a step toward him, the ten feet between us feeling far too close, hoping he’d back away. He didn’t. “You made that crystal clear the moment you sent me off to Aunt Kathy’s.”

“Do you have to do this?” my father asked. His graying hair swayed softly in the wind, loose and unkempt. The stubble on his cheeks was nearly the same level of gray, with little specks of black here and there, the color it used to be when I’d tugged on his beard as a kid.

“What?”

“Bring up the past like I don’t remember it.”

I blinked, almost lost for words. The chaste attitude, the callous way he spoke nearly sent me spiraling further than I already was. “Do you even want to be here?”

He didn’t answer.

“Of course you don’t,” I scoffed. I hit the button in my pocket with a little too much anger, double-locking my car. “What, did Mom bribe you with an extra bottle of scotch? ‘Oh, honey, go make nice with Cole. He’d love a bit of closure, I’m sure.’”

“Don’t act like I’m the one here with the problem,” he said, and my blood fucking boiled.

“You think I didn’t see that shit growing up?” I hissed. “You think I picked up a bottle on a whim? No, Conrad, I watched you. I learned from you. When things got hard, you pulled that Glenfiddich from the shelf. When I disappointed you for the millionth time that week, you poured yourself a glass.”

His upper lip pulled back in disgust. “You could have made better choices.”

“You could have been a fucking parent.”

Silence hung in the air between, thick and accusatory. I tried to control my breathing, tried to calm myself down, but all I could think of was how much I needed a glass of anything and how much I wanted to wrap my fingers around my father’s throat until his face turned blue.

“Leave,” I hissed, my voice rough with bile and anger. “Now.”

It took twenty raspy breaths before he finally took a step toward his car.

Having enough faith that he’d leave and not look back, I raced up the front steps without a second thought. If I could just make it to the comfort of my bed without anything else, without another issue, I’d be fine. I could sleep it off and wake up a half-lit fuse in the morning as opposed to burnt embers and the sparking base of a bomb.

I slammed the door behind me and locked all three mechanisms before stepping through the grand foyer into the living room.

And into the arms of yet another problem.

Bobby sat back against the couch, an open bottle of vodka tucked between his legs and a glass of ice in his hand. Beside him, on the coffee table, was a second glass.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Throw it out,” I begged, my voice breaking. Fuck, I sound pathetic. “Please, Bobby, I can’t deal with this right now.”

He shook his head, the short hair looking so goddamn weird on him, but my eyes drew right back to the bottle. The quarter-empty bottle. “Not this time, man.”

I couldn’t move as he plucked the spare cup from the table and poured out two fingers’ worth. His glass was already half full—this one wasn’t for him.

“Come on.”

The back of my throat burned. The backs of my eyes burned. This was too much for one day, for one person, for one barely recovering alcoholic. Temptation sizzled everywhere in my body. “Throw it out,” I repeated, but the words felt like sand on my tongue. Pointless. Useless. A reflection of myself.

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