Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(105)

And Boon watched it all happen from the closet. He's not bad, Daddy,  he's really not. He didn't choose this life. His dad did. And he wants  to get away from it all, put it all behind him, but he can't do that  if … if … if people are always going to be judging him based on his father."

"Who told you that? About Giordino being crooked? Did he tell you that?  That's a serious allegation about a cop who was nothing but loyal to … "

"Does it matter? Does it really matter, Daddy, why Giordino was there,  or why he was shot? Boon didn't do it. Boon didn't shoot him. He was 12.  He was just a kid."

Dad leaned back in his chair, his face dark. Mom and I watched him as he sat there, turning over everything in his mind.

"Was it Alicia? Did Alicia help you get out, with the ladder?" Mom  suddenly asked, turning to me. I was a little taken aback by the  question, only because it seemed so irrelevant to the rest of the  conversation.

"Becky, too. I think it was actually Becky's idea," I said, almost  relieved to be able to provide a straight answer to a straight question.  Mom looked at Dad pointedly, an "I told you so" look. Dad saw and threw  his hands up.

"Well, Becky Armstrong is not the goddam high priestess of good  judgment!" Dad said, exasperated. It dawned on me what was going on, and  it almost made me laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation: my  parents had their doubts about Alicia's ability to make good decisions,  but they pretty much thought Becky could be President of the United  States.

If I wasn't sure if Mom and Dad would let me go to a party or show, all I  needed to do was tell them Becky was driving, or would be there, and  they immediately relaxed a little bit. Obviously, if they thought Becky  had met Boon and supported my decision to see him, it gave me a little  more credibility. I thanked God, not for the first time, for my best  friends.

"I'm just saying, Bill," Mom replied. She turned back to me.

"Samantha, we are very, very disappointed that you would sneak out  without telling us anything. That's dangerous, no matter what the  situation. But I, for one, think I understand. And I'm not going to  speak for your father, but I think you have a valid point," Mom said,  speaking slowly and clearly. I could have tackled her for a hug at that  moment. For the first time, she was looking at me almost as an equal,  instead of as her daughter.

"Jillian … " Dad said, his face clouding over again.

"No, Bill, that is my opinion, and Samantha deserves to know that. She's  right. She's not a little girl anymore, and she needs to make her own  decisions. I know you want me to just agree with you on everything,  honey, but that ain't the woman you married, and I know that you don't  want to raise a daughter who'll just agree to anything her husband says.  Now you can say your piece, if you want. I've said mine."

With that, my mother leaned back into her chair, folded her hands over  her lap, and pursed her lips together. She was actually going to let Dad  and I hash this out on our own, a first in my household. I guess one of  the things that comes with the territory of growing up is being your  own referee.

"Dad, will you please, just, please, give him a chance? Just meet with  him, once. I promise, you'll see, he's not like his father. He's got a  chance to make a better life for himself here, and he wants to try," I  pleaded, leaning forward, feeling more tears come to my eyes. This time  they were desperate tears. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little  happy about these tears; after all, there was nothing like me bawling my  eyes out to soften my father's heart. It's biological, I swear.

"Samantha, I only want the best for you. All the best. Forever. It  scares me that you're getting involved in this … man. He's older than you,  and he has a past, whether or not he wants to escape from that  past … well, it's hard. It's harder than you could possibly imagine to  just leave your whole life behind, start new. There are all these things  you learn growing up and … they just become second nature," Dad said,  obviously trying to remain calm.         

     



 

"My only job on this whole wide earth, Samantha, is keeping you safe.  Everything I do, from going to work in the morning to going to bed at  night, that's all just … it's all just to help me do that one job. Keep  you safe. From physical harm, from emotional harm … I don't ever want you  to look like that poor woman did on the floor of the hotel. I don't want  to see my baby girl, pumped full of drugs, dead on a floor because she  got involved with the wrong man. Can you see that?"

I nodded.

"But, Daddy, the wrong man could be any man. A football player, a  doctor, a senator. You can't judge people like that. You have to … you  have to try and give people a chance. Boon is strong. He can do it. He  wants it. I can see it in his eyes, how badly he wants it … "

Dad's eyes dropped back to his lap, where he was twiddling his thumbs.

"I can't stop you, Samantha, if this is what you want. I can't tell you  to never see him again. Soon, you'll be your own woman, moving out,  having your own life. I can't always be there to pick you up. I … I just  hope I've raised you well enough to when to back away, when to protect  yourself, because you can't trust anyone else to protect you. Not  always. Not everywhere."

"I promise, Dad, you did good. I'm not … I didn't invite him here. I  didn't know he was coming. I liked him, and I like him even more now,  but I'm taking it slow, I promise. I'm getting to know him, too. I  just … I want you to get to know him. I want you to see that he can be  someone good. And … and I think he wants that, too. Maybe, Daddy, if you  just gave him this chance, he'd be even better. If he knew that someone  like you believed in him … "

"Jesus, Samantha, you're asking a lot now. I mean, it's one thing for me  to say you can see him. But what do you expect me to do? Find him an  apartment and get him a job on the force?"

"No, no, nothing like that, just … just meet him. Please, just look him in  the eye and shake his hand and say hello. Can't we just start with  that?"

The room fell silent as Dad considered. The only sound was a ticking clock.

"Have him come over tomorrow," Dad finally said with a sigh. "He can have dinner with us."

I squealed, ran to him from my chair, wrapped my arms around him and squeezed tightly.

"Thank you, Daddy, thank you," I said, my eyes squeezed tight, a few final tears rolling down my cheeks.

And those were happy tears.





23





The next day, I was in a rare state, frantic for no real reason. I mean,  obviously, I was nervous about what was certainly going to be a tense  meeting. I mean, after the explosive welcome to Missoula that my father  had given Boon, I knew things couldn't really be worse this time around.  But I worried about them both: I worried about Boon acting like the  gentleman I knew he could be, and I worried about my father raking him  over hot coals.

Getting Boon to agree to come over hadn't been as easy as I'd hoped it  would be. He was willing, but reluctant, worried. I think he was worried  about the same things I was: his own ability to put his hard-riding  attitude to the side for one night, his ability to charm my father at  least half as much as he'd charmed me.

About an hour before my father was due home from work, the doorbell  rang. I thought it was UPS or a neighbor or some other person, but my  heart leapt when I peered out the window and saw Boon standing on the  steps.

"You're early," I said, trying to keep my grin from spreading  ear-to-ear. I was, of course, thrilled to see him, but I didn't want to  seem too infatuated.

"I couldn't just sit around in that motel room anymore," Boon said back, his own grin belying his excitement to see me.

I stepped aside, holding the door open for him. He slipped in, looking around the foyer.

"Nice digs," he said, a hint of envy in his voice. My house must have  looked so strangely ordinary to him: family photos on the walls,  carpeted stairs, loveseats and coffee tables. For someone who seemed to  live most of his life in motel rooms, I wondered if Boon had ever had a  home to himself.

"Do you want something to drink? Eat?" I said, letting the door close  and slipping past him, walking towards the kitchen. He shook his head.

"I'm good. When does dear old Dad get home?"

Something about his tone made me nervous. He clearly still harbored some  animosity towards my father: whether that was because of their first  meeting or a general antipathy towards authority figures, I couldn't  quite tell.

"Um, an hour or so. But, Boon, will you … will you be nice? To him, I  mean? Like, I mean, I know that he probably left a bad impression, but  he really is a good guy, and he's willing to give you a chance. I hope  that means something to you," I said, not sure how to say "don't be a  dick" in a nice way. Boon grinned.