Page 33 of Nothing To Lose
Several hours later,we have the first coat of black paint up. The walls and ceiling are painted, as are both of us. It's a good thing everything in this room either needs to be painted or will be covered with special flooring, because we made a mess. We probably spent half the time playing around or finding excuses to touch or kiss each other. I'm gearing up to make another play at climbing him like a tree when my phone rings.
After nearly a dozen more messages about not being home and ignoring him, I blocked Guy this morning when I turned my phone on, then deleted the thread so I didn't have to look at it. My text to my father yesterday morning about being sick was apparently inefficient, because this isn't the first time he's called. Normally he calls from the office, which I've been ignoring. But this call comes from his cell phone, which reminds me that he can track my phone. If I don't talk to him, he'll come looking for me.
Signaling to Isaac that I'm taking the call in the other room, I take a deep breath before hitting accept.
"Where the hell have you been?" My father growls. From the sounds of the background, he's in his car. Fingers crossed he's not headed to my apartment. I put the phone on speaker so I can turn off the tracking app, in case he hasn't thought of it yet.
"I told you, I'm sick. I've been sleeping all day."
"You sound fine to me. No reason to be ignoring your phone." I don't argue or say anything else. The more lies I tell, the more likely I am to get caught in those lies. What I do or where I go is none of his business. I'll just sit here on the line while he bitches at me about responsibility and respect. Sure enough, he goes through the usual spiel about me being ungrateful for the opportunities he's afforded me, and that I owe him. He's expecting me to come into the office the moment I'm no longer in any danger of contagion. Not when I'm feeling better- when I'm not likely to get anyone else sick.
"Now," he says. "We need to talk about Mr. Montague. He told me what happened."
"He did?"
"I must say, Tyler, I'm disappointed in you. I thought I'd raised you better than to–"
"What exactly did he tell you?" I say, raising my voice, not caring that I just interrupted him and I know how much he hates that.
"Tyler, how many times have we talked about respect? It's something I've drilled into you from the moment of birth. I don't understand why you behave this way."
"I'm sorry, father. I didn't mean to interrupt, but–"
"I'm talking about Guy, Tyler."
"Excuse me?"
"That young man comes from a good family. He's got the right pedigree and temperament to manage you, but even he has his limits."
Jaw clenched, and choosing to move past the way he treats me like a show dog he's selling off to the highest bidder, I focus on the indignity of having my father scold me like a child for not making another man happy. Regardless of whatever lies Guy told him, how is it that he always finds a way to make me feel unworthy of basic respect?
"I'm not interested in discussing your need to push me off on someone just so you can try to use me as some kind of bargaining chip. He doesn't want me, anyway."
"Watch who you're speaking to in such a manner, Tyler. Maybe if you remembered anything I've taught you about respect, you'd find a way to be useful."
"Don't I deserve respect?"
"Respect is earned, son. You don't get to throw a tantrum like a child because you don't like something, then expect to be treated with respect."
"Yeah, well, I don't intend to show respect to someone who shows up drunk and treats me poorly. Maybe you should consider aiming one of those lessons at the real problem here."
"Tyler–"
"I'm really not feeling well, Father. I'll let you know when I'm able to make it into the office."
I end the call, hanging up on my father for the first time in my life, then shut my phone off entirely. It might make me weak, but I'd rather hide and lick my wounds than face this head on. I've screwed this up at every turn, from the moment I didn't send him away when I smelled liquor on his breath, to thinking I could escape through a back alley to avoid him. If I'd known the incident would lead to more harassment, maybe I would have turned him in, or at least threatened to. He's right that no one would believe me. Not now, at least.
Throwing my phone to the far corner of the bedroom, I rub my hands over my face and hold my head. I've been in significantly less pain each day, but between all the physical work today, the smell of paint, and my father's bullshit, my head is starting to throb. I don't want to numb myself with painkillers all day every day, choosing to only use them to help me sleep.
Isaac knocks lightly and pushes the door open slowly. His hair is wet, a towel around his neck. Bare chest sprinkled with water, wearing only a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips to show off that mouthwatering V that I'm pretty sure leads to some version of heaven. I'm starting to think it was worth the concussion to get to spend any amount of time in his presence.
"You alright?" he asks, brow creased with concern. This guy that barely knows me is more concerned about me than my own father.
"Same shit, different day," I say with a shrug.
I'm not sure what's gotten into me, or what possesses me to act like I have any idea what I'm doing or how to seduce the sexiest man alive. But suddenly I don't want to think about anything else. I want to be distracted, to not have to think about anything other than this man who makes me feel better than I've ever felt before. More confident. More worthy.
Slipping off my shoes, I toss them on the floor, looking Isaac straight in the eye so he knows it's intentional. I do the same with my socks. Then I unhook the overalls at my chest and let them fall to my hips. I walk backwards across the small living area, unbuttoning the sides of the denim and letting the fabric fall to the floor. Then, in only a pair of black briefs and the loose tank top that's cut off at my ribs, I rake my eyes over Isaac from top to bottom, lingering on the outline of his half-hard dick.
