His (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance)(17)

“Dad,” I say, raising my voice. “You need to leave. I have to go to work and I don’t need you rooting through my apartment. Especially not my bedroom. You have no right.”

He turns on me, finger raised. “No right? Do you know what it was like raising you by myself after your mother passed?”

I move behind him, trying to physically push him toward the front door. “Dad. Please.”

He’s too heavy for me to force out. I’m not strong enough. I never have been. Not with him.

“You treat me like I’m some stray dog. Some fucking junkie,” he says, turning to meet my eyes. The sudden soberness in his face makes my eyes sting with the threat of tears. This isn’t just the booze talking. “You think I’m a fuck up because I wasn’t there for you enough when your mom passed. Well, where the fuck were you? It’s no wonder I turned to the bottle when my own daughter didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Where was I? I was working. I was working while my friends went to homecoming and prom and while everyone was having fun at the school football games and going out for drinks after class in college. I was working because I had to support myself and you.”

“Sure. Blame me. Because I chose to get laid off. Because I love being a fucking deadbeat with no job who has to bum cash from his daughter.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it free and notice the time before I even see the text. 5:07. Shit. I’m already late. There’s no way I’ll get to work by 5:30. Then I notice the text is from an unknown number.

Can’t stop thinking about you. -V.

V.? As in Vincent? How would he get my number? My head feels fuzzy and for a minute I nearly forget my dad. I look at him and feel all the fight drain out of me. We’ve had this same conversation in so many different ways and so many times that I’ve lost count. I don’t even know why I don’t just hand him a check and a bottle of Jack at the door and save myself the trouble. I could wrap it in a little bow. Enjoy the downward spiral, courtesy of your enabling daughter.

I stomp to the counter and grab my clutch, pulling my checkbook free. I rip a check out, shaking my head when I realize the only reason I even have a checkbook anymore is for him. If I wanted a real kick in the stomach, I could go back through the check-stubs and see exactly how much money he has bled from me in the last few months.

He watches me closely as I write $100.00 in the little box and “One hundred dollars and zero cents” on the check. Every dollar hurts. I’m mentally calculating all the corners I’ll have to cut because of this even as I slap the check in his dirty hands.

He looks down at the check, eyebrows drawn. “Aren’t they paying you really well at the station? I mean…you’re on fucking T.V.”

I take a deep breath. “Dad. We have been over this. I can’t afford to keep giving you money like this. That’s all I can afford right now. Hell, it’s about a hundred dollars more than I can afford, especially after paying your bills just a few days ago. So would you please take the fucking check and leave! You’re going to lose your meal ticket if you make me any later for work.”

He pulls the corner of his mouth up, nodding, still not looking away from the check.

The sadness in his eyes makes me regret my words, but God, he’s so remorselessly manipulative. It doesn’t even matter that I know what he’s trying to do. It still hurts. It’s no wonder I’ve become the kind of girl that would let some criminal stranger fuck me like he owns me. I feel my body react to even nearing the memory of Vince. Powerful sensory memories blast me: the heat of his mouth over mine, his thick cock stretching my walls, the warmth as he spent himself inside me. I force myself to stop thinking about it as my core heats, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with my dad still in the apartment.

I watch my dad finally leave and then scramble to gather everything I need before heading to work. I spend three minutes I don’t have fixing my mascara. I don’t look great, but I look good enough. I grab my clutch, my keys, and rush to the door, swinging it open and step forward without even looking at where I’m going. I bump into a solid wall.

Except it’s not a wall. Walls don’t laugh. And they don’t wear impeccable cobalt-blue suits with a charcoal gray undershirts. Vincent. Everything about him is perfect, except the stubble coming in on his strong jaw and the faint line of a scar crossing his high cheekbone. But even those only serve to accentuate his utter flawlessness, the full, satin lips and the irresistible arch of his cocky eyebrows. The feline way his lips pull up into a smile as he looks down at me.