Page 102 of Tickled Pink

I place the velvet box back down on the bar and push it toward him. “No,” I say.

“Well, if I keep it, it’s going right back in the box.”

“Not a very sentimental man, are you?”

“I’m fifty years old,” he says. “When she died, I was your age. Done a lot of living since then.”

“So that’s a no, huh?”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he sips his drink. “Just take it. Hell, give it to the redhead. Or Max,” he adds, chuckling.

I throw back the rest of my free drink, then stand up. “Well, this sure has been great, Pops,” I say. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Thad, wait,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That stomp off and flounce thing you’ve always done. You know, you got it from your mother. She had a real flare for melodrama, too.”

“Or maybe we just know when to walk away from your bullshit, Dad,” I say. “Now, I’m going back upstairs to spend the rest of my birthday with people who actually love me.”

His expression shifts.

I scoff. “And you just realized that today is my birthday.”

He says nothing.

“Don’t contact me again,” I say. “There’s nothing else I want from you.”

Yes!

Go, Thad!

Now, just turn around and walk a—

Phoebe.

She’s standing behind me, clad in one of her nice dresses she likes to wear around the house, her red hair fastened back in a sloppy ponytail.

“Well, well, well!” my father says before I can say anything, his laughter booming throughout the bar. “Join us, darling! We were just talking about you. Well, I was, but my son has been rather tight-lipped.” He extends his hand to her. “Rutger Hemsley.”

Phoebe flashes a polite smile as she steps forward to shake his hand. “Phoebe Pink,” she says.

“Phoebe. Pink.” He repeats her name. Memorizing it. Tasting it. “That’s quite the moniker, young lady.”

She shrugs her shoulder. “It’s the name my parents gave me, Mr. Hemsley.”

“Please, call me Rutger.”

Her smile doesn’t slip. “Mr. Hemsley.”

He chuckles as he rises off his stool. “Not one to mince words about your old man, are you, son?” he says to me.

“She can draw her own conclusions,” I say.

He hums with amusement, his rotten eyes hopping back to Phoebe. “So can I,” he says, stepping back. “You two have a good night.”

Phoebe nods as he passes, standing tall and strong despite him hovering over her by at least a foot. Once he’s gone, she looks at me, her mask slipping a bit.

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