Page 72 of Lovingly Restored

“You’ve taken her away this weekend, haven’t you? That’s why she took some vacation time. You can tell her I’m not paying her to fuck my son.”

If he were here, I’d have him by the collar.

“Your issues with me havenothingto do with her.“ My jaw clenches so tight I fear I’ll crack my teeth.

“I should fire her for this. It’s completely unprofessional.”

Fuck.His words are a sharp sting. It’s the one thing she was concerned about. If he lets her go because of our relationship, or whatever the hell this is, she’ll never forgive me.

“We have something to discuss when you get back. You might want to start thinking about packing your bags and getting your shit off my property. Workshop is looking pretty full.”

My molars grind as I hang up on him and shove the phone deep into my pocket. I’d rather hurl it into a snowbank. Ashlyn stands, brushing off the snow from her pants and jacket, watching me warily.

I can’t reach the cabin fast enough. Ashlyn calls after me to wait up, but anger clings to me like something I can’t shake. One second of eye-contact with her, and she’ll read the pain on my face in an instant. The woodpile is the perfect outlet for the rage creeping up my throat, threatening to strangle me. I’ll work the feelings out of my system and then lose myself in Ashlyn for the next day and night. He won’t ruin this. It might be all the time I have because when we get back, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this going.

The whole last day and night Ashlyn and I christened the cabin. Each time our bodies came together, it was unlike anything I’ve experienced sexually or emotionally. Based on Ashlyn’s screams and the time she leaked hot tears onto my chest after an intense, eye-contact-laden orgasm, I’d say she feels the same. Her body is a haven, but she can only briefly quell my worries. I wrack my brain over that phone call and open my mouth a thousand times to bring Ashlyn into the loop. The words stay locked inside me behind a cage of dread. What does he want to talk about? Will he kick me out of the house? Can he even do that? Every penny I have is sunk into the business. Moving in with Mummo was a choice initially, but staying with her now is an absolute necessity.

The snow was fun for a weekend, but the green lawns and blossoms that appear as we drive out of the mountains back down to sea level are a welcome sight. Like any trip, the mood on the way back is subdued. As we approach the house, I sit up taller in my seat. Something’s not right. Blocking the driveway are multiple white pick-ups I recognize by their logos immediately. Forward Construction.

“What’s going on?” Ashlyn asks.

“Fuck if I know.” I hop out of the truck. “You,” I bark at the first person I see.

It’s a middle-aged guy I don’t recognize. He’s balancing surveying equipment in his hands and turns to watch me approach. “And you are?” he says.

“I’m Isaac Lauri.” I watch the wheels turn when he hears my last name.

He clears his throat. “I’m Ralph. I’m in charge of surveying the property.”

“Cool, nobody asked.”

Surveying. You only need that for a few reasons. One of which is in the planning and designing phase of construction projects. Dad is getting too fucking bold. I brush by the man, heading toward the backyard. I’m by the garage when I hear someone yell.

“Bring me the bolt cutters! Boss wants to get in here.”

Bolt cutters?

I push past someone walking on the gravel path. He says something to me, but my ears are ringing, and nausea grips my stomach. He’s doing it again. He’s pulling everything out from under me, right as I’m getting my footing. When I pass the garage, I see a man with bolt cutters securing the jaws around the padlock on my workshop door. My grandfather’s workshop. The crunching sound of metal on metal sets me in motion, eating up the distance to the asshole that just broke into my space. When I draw my elbow back, I’m not thinking straight. And when my knuckles connect to the guy’s jaw, I’m not thinking at all. I barely register Ashlyn’s scream from somewhere behind me.

“Isaac, stop!”

Someone bands their arms around me, and I try to shrug them off, but I’m tired. The fight’s all out of me already.

Berg speaks in my ear, “Easy. Easy lad.” His slight Scottish brogue acts like a balm on my frayed nerves, and for the first time in several minutes, I draw a proper breath.

“I’m calling the police,” someone says.

“Fuck, no. I’m fine. I’m fine!” The injured guy says, pushing someone away from him.

He’s sitting up now, holding the right side of his face. There’s no blood. Too bad.

A quiet falls over the yard as my father exits the house. His mouth is a hard line, but his beady eyes are gleaming like he loves the chaos.

“Isaac. You’re back.” His voice is flat. “Let’s go inside.”

The house is dark and cold after the warmth of the yard. I lean against the formal dining table that Ashlyn and I ate at together while Dad paces along the perimeter of the living room, looking at the art and photos hung on the walls.

“I thought long and hard about our conversation.”

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