Page 118 of Sugarloaf Ridge Lies

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Liv

Pirate greets me atthe door, ears pinned back as music blares.Foo Fighters?

Balancing pizza boxes against my hip, I step inside. A portable speaker in the lounge is the source of noise. Jerry must be in the shower because he’d be tone deaf to be in the same room as this racket. I turn down the volume.

“Hey, I’m home,” I call out. “Am I invited to this party?”

Pirate whines at my feet and swivels his little head between the kitchen and me. Following his lead, I find Jerry slumped over the dining table, a jumbled pile of papers within reach, an empty whisky bottle tipped on its side.What the hell?

I tap him on the shoulder. “Jerry?”

He rouses and his upper body flops back against the chair. “L-livvy,” he says, his tongue lax in his mouth.

I sit beside him and support his floppy head. When his eyes meet mine, the whites are scattered with red. He stinks of sweat and booze. And something else. Defeat?

God damn it.Why?

Gritting my teeth, I examine the drunken mess before me.How could he have gone from holding my hand at the ultrasound, to this in a matter of hours?

Is he re-thinking our situation?

Jerry leans his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

He’s sorry? For what exactly?

“You need water.” I huff and move over to the sink to fill a tall glass.

“It’s all fucked,” he says, his voice soft. “Between my Nan and this fuckin’ guy.” He shoves at the papers, saying something about deserving it.

I place the drink down and sit, drawing his glassy eyes.

Jerry grabs my hand and delivers a wet kiss to my knuckles.

“What happened?” I grab the whisky bottle by the neck and stand it upright with a clunk. “Explain this.”

He stares at the bottle and exhales, his breath shaky. “I’ve been charged with assault. The arsehole that wouldn’t let up with you at the pub.”

I run my fingers through my hair. “Oh no.”

He points towards the papers. I tidy them up and scan over them.

Jericho Michael McAllister is to appear in court on September Fifteen to enter a plea. If he doesn’t, they’ll issue a warrant for his arrest. He’s going to need representation.

This is the last thing he needs. We need.

“I’m just a model fuckin’ citizen, huh?”

I shake my head in frustration. “This is ridiculous. We’ll get a solicitor. We have time. Surely, you’ll get a fine for a first offence.” But given his reputation with trouble, is it? “Is this the first time?”

He shakes his head and winces as if it pains him. “Nope,” he says, his voice thick. The empty bottle holds his attention. “Some fuckin’ father figure.”

Is that what’s really praying on his mind?

“I don’t hold it against you, Jerry. You did it for the right reasons. You were protecting me.”

His head lolls back and he closes his eyes. “What happens when the real father shows up?”

---