Page 55 of Burning Daylight
I can be a Montgomery again; he just has to give me the chance.
He blows out a heavy breath. “It’s not the right time, son.”
Anger burns in my veins, and my fists clench. “Then whenisthe right time,Dad?”
“I just lost my wife!” he explodes. “Put her still-warm body in the fucking ground, and your mother sent you here? Now?”
He lets out a hollow laugh.
“Go home and stay out of sight. Donotcall me unless it’s life or death, do you understand? And don’t let anybody see you.”
His rejection is a harsh punch into my chest, branding my bleeding heart.
“Yeah, Marcus. I understand.”
I left him that day with more questions than answers, and I went to the county park with a backpack full of spray paint and a chip the size of Texas on my shoulder.
That’s when I met Juliette for the first time.
When I came back to California with my tail tucked between my legs, my mom immediately blamed Eleanor. Said she’d been poisoning his mind against me for years, and if it weren’t for her, this wouldn’t even be an issue.
And I believed her, because it’s easier to hate a villain than to accept the truth. Easier to imagine that someone twisted his love away from me than to admit that maybe he just didn’t want me in the first place.
But with age comes wisdom, I guess.
I push the thought of Eleanor away because I can’t stand that bitch, and that makes me a piece of shit, because who spends their energy despising someone who’s dead?
“Ryder, are you there?” my father repeats.
“Dad,” I force out. The word feels like grit on my tongue.
“Is something the matter?” He sounds genuinely concerned, and my guard goes up.
“Does something need to be the matter for me to call my father?” I spit the words like arrows, the deep resentment I normally keep locked up tight bleeding through every word. “Oh, that’s right. Life or death only, huh?”
“No.” He softens his tone. “You can call me, it’s not?—”
“I need a favor,” I say through clenched teeth, hating myself more with every second.
“Of course, son. Anything.”
The words raze over my skin like needles, and I will myself to get through this conversation.
How dare he call meson? How dare he even answer my phone call after years of silence? What was all this for if it’s so easy for him to answer now?
“I, uh…” Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, my hand gripping the roots of my hair. I feel sick. “I need some money.”
Well, there it is. I said it, and it didn’t actually kill me.
My pride still stings like a bitch, though.
“You need money,” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yes.”
I brace myself for his refusal.
“How much do you need?”
