Page 53 of Too Late

From his end, anyway.

They keep walking, and when they’re about five feet away, I say, “You have a lovely afternoon, Paul Jackson.”

My father stops walking, waiting a few seconds before turning around. When he finally does, I see it. The recognition. He cocks his head and says, “I never told you my name.”

I shrug and then drop my cigarette to the concrete, snuffing it out with the heel of my shoe. “My bad. Guess I should have saidDad.”

There’s no second-guessing whether that’s recognition on his face now. “Asa?” He takes a step forward, but that was his second mistake.

Hisfirstwas not remembering me to begin with.

I stride over to him and come down on him with both fists. The pathetic fuck hits the ground before I even follow through with a full swing. I can feel one of the guys trying to pull me off of him. The bitch is screaming in my ear, scratching at my face, trying to get me off of him.

I punch him again. I punch him for every year he left me alone. I punch him for every time he called my mother a whore. I punch him for every piece of fucked-up advice he ever gave me. I keep punching him until my fists are covered in blood and I can no longer see my father’s face. There’s so much blood, I’m pretty sure I even mistake the concrete for his head, because that punch hurts the worst.

When the guys finally pull me off him and start dragging me toward the car, I feel the wet shit on my face. The shit my father told me is what makes the difference between men and pussies.

Yes, I’m talking about tears. I can feel them and I can’t fucking stop them and I’ve never felt so powerful and so weak in my whole fucking life.

I have no idea how I make it to the passenger seat, or who even put me here, but I’m fucking beating the dashboard, punching it so hard it cracks. Kevin is peeling out of the parking lot, I’m sure trying to beat security before they find the bloody mess I left at their front entry.

Jon reaches around my seat and tries to pull my arms behind me, but he’s stupider than I thought if he thinks he can hold me back. I tear my arms from his grip and start punching the dash again. I’ll punch it until my hands are numb or this shit stops coming out of my fucking eyes.

I’m not turning into him. I’m not fucking turning into that pathetic bastard.

I don’t want to feel this anymore.

“Somebody fucking give me something!” I yell.

It feels like my bones are trying to tear through my skin. I pull at my hair, I punch the fucking window. “I can’t fucking breathe!”

Kevin rolls down the window, but it doesn’t help.

“Giveme something!” I yell again. I turn around and try to grab Jon, but he leans back and lifts his fucking leg up like that’ll protect him from me. “Now!”

“It’s in the trunk!” Jon yells. “Christ, Kevin! Pull over so we can calm him the fuck down!”

I turn around and punch at the dash again. Several punches later, Jon returns to the back seat. “Give me two seconds,” he says.

He’s a fucking liar, because it’s more like ten seconds before he hands me the needle. I pull the cap off with my teeth and shove it in my arm.

I lean back in my seat.

“Go,” I say to Kevin.

I close my eyes and feel the car begin to move.

I am nothing like him.

And they are not all whores. Sloan is not a whore.

“She’s heroin,” I whisper. “Heroin is nice.”

THIRTY-TWO

CARTER

“What are you hungry for?” I ask her.

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