Page 62 of A Naked Beauty

“I make my own decisions. I’m quitting at the end of the season and going to NYU.”

“Oh, so you’re a big fucking man now.”

“I’m old enough to do what I want.”

“Yeah.” He looks me over. “Your balls aren’t too big for me to break.”

“Try it, old man.”

His whiskey-laugh sprays in my face. “You want to fight me, son?”

“I’m not your son.”

“Fuck Cayo. He’s not your father.”

I’m tempted to tell him otherwise, but something about his venomous focus on Papa T prevents me from egging him on. “This has nothing to do with Cayo. I’ve made up my mind and you can’t change it.”

“Sure I will. With the right incentive.”

I stand on alert, my fists clenched, ready to fight back.

“If I was going to lay hands on you, you’d already be out flat.” He takes another swig of whiskey. “What I got is better. You see, you cantalk a good game, son, but one thing I know about you that you never learned to hide was your pussy ass weakness. You let people matter and that’s a major fucking flaw. So, have a drink…” he extends the bottle, “and let me tell you exactly how this is going to play out. And it sure as shit won’t be you going to NYU.”

ChapterEleven

Dee

Mick’s shouts have me jackknifingout of bed, my heart racing like crazy. I stare at the man I love snarling vile curses, his hands balled tight, his fists striking air. I move farther away, afraid that he might accidentally hit me. Mick would never forgive himself.

He curses again and takes another swing, hitting the table lamp and sending it crashing to the floor. I scramble for the light switch on the wall. The room illuminates. Hatred and rage contort his face and a layer of sweat coats his juddering body.

“Mick!” I scream several times before it punctures through his nightmare.

He startles awake, searching wild-eyed. “What?” He grapples for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You were having another nightmare.” I pull the throw blanket off the window seat and wrap it around my chilled body.

He looks down at the cracked lamp on the floor. Shame and mortification cut across his expression.

“I don’t care about the lamp, Mick.” I move to the foot of the bed, facing him. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re lying. It was about your father again. You were in a rage, fighting…”

“I have to go.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“Go where?”

“Home.”

“I thought you were home.”

“Christ, Dee.” He picks up the damaged lamp and sets it back on the nightstand. “I should never have come here.”

“You don’t mean that.” Yet the stark bleakness in his eyes tells me he does. “Mick.”

He moves past me and quickly dresses.

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