Page 112 of Average Joe

Joe hadn’t moved except for his mouth, which hitched on one side. “That’s cute, really. But I’m not an idiot, either. You’re planning to find your father, and you’re going to ream his ass for getting your son involved with Harper before you beat Dylan’s whereabouts out of him.”

What could I say? Joe got me.

“Problem with that plan is,” he continued, too damn smug for my liking, “you said Harper is looking for your father, too. So, chances are good you might bump into him or one of his goons.”

“Fine.” Some battles weren’t worth the effort, and I really liked the idea of Joe by my side. “You can be my muscle. Meet me at my house in half an hour. I need to go call Lilly, see if she can cover my shift today.”

“I did that before you came downstairs.”

I wasn’t surprised. “What are you, my personal assistant now?”

His smirk bloomed into a full-blown toothy smile. “I’m the guy who’s in love with your crazy ass.”

* * *

“Maybe we should check the prisons,” I half joked. We’d visited my father’s favorite bars, his last known address, his parole officer, two of his on-again, off-again girlfriends, and four of his frequented “massage” parlors—places I never cared to visit again. We came up with zero, zilch, nada.

Anyone willing to admit they knew Warren hadn’t seen him in weeks.

Over the years, he’d called me from several different numbers. I tried them all repeatedly on our jaunt around town. One went straight to a full voicemail box. Two others were no longer in service, and one rang and rang.

“What do you know about your dad’s involvement with Harper?” Joe asked, one hand on my thigh, the other on the steering wheel.

“I don’t know the details of their relationship. They’ve known each other since I was a kid. Harper used to come by the house every time my dad decided to grace us with his presence.” I shivered. “Harper always brought candy bars. He and Dad would wave them in my face but only give me one if I smiled for them, or fetched a beer, or something ridiculous. Of course, I was a kid and I wanted the damn candy, so I did whatever they asked.”

“You wanted your father’s attention,” Joe said, not a lick of judgment in his tone.

“You’re not wrong. I would’ve done anything without the candy.” I slumped in the seat. “I pimped myself out for my dad’s love. How messed up is that?”

“Not your fault.”

Deep down, I knew I wasn’t to blame, but the pain surfaced regardless. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“We’re gonna get through this. And Dylan’s gonna be fine.”

I wanted to crawl into Joe’s lap and hide inside one of his hugs. Instead, I straightened my spine, rubbed a smudge from his truck window, and replied, “You can’t know that.”

“I’ve got an idea.”

He didn’t wait for a response. A quick glance at his side mirror, and he darted across two lanes of traffic, then headed for Interstate 5. Thirty minutes later, we parked in front of a brick apartment building, nearly identical to the buildings flanking each side.

Joe grabbed my hand when my feet hit the sidewalk and guided me inside.

“Who lives here?” I asked, trying to ignore the musty stench of the tight hallway.

“My uncle,” Joe grunted, his pace quick, shoulders tense.

We stopped in front of apartment 69, and Joe chuckled while pounding three large raps at the door.

“What?” I whispered.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and went back to brooding.

A rustling came from the other side of the door. Then silence.

Joe shifted his stance. Huffed. Pounded again. “Open the door, Larry. We can hear you.”

He stared into the peephole but gave my fingers a playful tug.

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