Doll Face(35)

“Beverly Hills,” I say with a sigh, and the exclamation is not one of fondness. I hate this fucking town. But this is where I need to be right now. I can feel it. As we head towards my parents' place, we pass the intersection where Asuka lost her life and a wave of pain washes over me, making me sick to my stomach. My fingers twitch and I thank fucking God that I don't have anything good on me. If I did, I'd take it.

Lola notices my shaking hands and my bouncing knee and leans over, brushing hair from my forehead.

“You alright there, mate?” she asks and I sigh, squeezing her knee and trying not to let the emotions cut me into those same grooves they've always run through. Instead, I try to focus on Lola's voice, on the conversation I had with my mom before getting in the van. When I said I was coming over, I thought she was going to have a heart attack. Other than our brief encounter at the airport, I haven't seen my parents in four years. I took her sobbing as proof that she really was excited to see me. Wait till she hears I'm planning on taking Lydia away. That oughta be exciting.

I lean my forehead against Lola's.

“We just passed the spot where Asuka breathed her last breaths,” I whisper and Lola's body stiffens for a moment before she wraps her arms around me and holds on tight. We stay that way until we pull into my parents' driveway and straight into the garage where my father's waiting. He closes the door before the engine's even off and stands near the open doorway to the backyard with his arms crossed over his chest.

Fuck.

Every time I see that man's face – stern but not mean, confident but not cocky, loving without showing a hint of weakness – I feel like a little kid again. God, what a disappointment I must be for him. I'm nothing like the boy he raised, the one he nurtured and encouraged, punished with compassion, believed in. Shit. Shit. Shit. I pull away from Lola and feel my quivers turn into full on shakes, like I'm on a frigging comedown. Great. Awesome. First time in my life that I'm not high as a freaking kite and it sure as hell looks like it.

Don't be afraid of your father, Ronnie. He loves you almost as much as I do. I can see Asuka speaking to me, winking at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. Home for five minutes and my newfound sanity's already turning to ice and cracking around me. Shards fall to my feet, melt across my skin and turn to sweat as I run my tongue over my lower lip and try to force myself out the open door. One of our security guards is standing there, off to the side, not even looking at me. The perfect celebrity escort. Ugh.

I feel bile rise in my throat – I can fucking taste that shit – as I try to pull some semblance of self-control over me, wear it like a coat in winter, protect me against the icy shards of my crumbling soul. Oh my God. I start to pant and feel Lola's fingers curling around mine, tugging on my hands, drawing my attention to her face.

“Ronnie,” she says, voice low, blue eyes rife with concern. Her sister just died and here I am, freaking the fuck out over nothing. I'm such an asshole. “You're having a panic attack,” she tells me calmly, squeezing hard, digging her thumb nails into the backs of my hands. I try to focus on her face, but images assault my mind, twisting me into a big, sweaty mass of nothing. A decade of believing that was true, losing the will to live, it took its toll on me. Right now, I'm paying the fucking price with hefty interest. “Breathe for me, baby,” she continues, leaning her forehead against mine, sucking in a massive breath that I do my best to imitate. “You can get through this. Chin up, love.” She leans back and presses her full lips against my sweaty skin, sliding her hands from mine and placing them on either side of my face. Lola's eyes are big and round, like marbles, stuck in that perfect face. They draw me in, and I let them, matching my breaths to hers.

It's not perfect, but it'll do. It'll have to.

“Son, are you alright?” My father's standing right behind me, the wisdom of his years tinting his voice with this be-all, end-all authority that turns my bones to jelly. I might be twenty-eight years old, but he's sixty-five and far wiser than me. I'm intimidated; I won't lie about that. So when I turn and have to look this guy in the face, I'm sure there's sweat dripping down the sides of my face.

“We drove past the spot where Asuka … ” It seems like as good an excuse as any. The skin around my father's mouth tightens, but he nods his head like he understands. I study him carefully, his brown eyes, his gray hair, the strong set of his shoulders. We stay like that for several moments, observing one another, taking each other's measures. I come away like I always do, feeling as if I've failed this man somehow, wasted a good portion of his life with my fuckups. I don't know what he sees in me, but he reaches out a hand to help me – and then Lola – out of the van. “Dad, this is Lola Rubi Saints. Lola, this is my father, Ronald McGuire, the first.” I pause and look between the two of them as they shake hands. Lola grips tight which is good. My dad is old fashioned, judges people by their handshakes.