“Quit your whining, Wanda.”
“But it was free money.”
“We’re gonna have all the free money in the world, so quit your yapping and play your card.”
Wanda Avery sniffed and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her yellow sweater. Then she played a card that Norville picked up. He threw down a card, got up and went to the fridge.
There was a switch, Dad actually getting his own damn beer. Norville turned to her and glared.
“What kind of mother are you, that your own daughter won’t meet up with you? Goddammit, we need her gone, how did you manage to fuck things up so bad?”
“Trenda probably didn’t even tell her.”
“Don’t blame Trenda, you shoulda taken care of this before I was outta Pikeville!”
“How dare you. I couldn’t do it! You promised you’d take care of it.” Wanda actually looked distraught.
“Fine, then you should have at least gotten the paperwork. We still need that, Goddammit.”
He slammed the beer down on the table, suds flying all over the cards.
“I didn’t know to keep the paper,” she said miserably.
“If you weren’t such a good fuck, I wouldn’t waste my time with you.”
Wanda sat up straighter. “That’s not true, everything comes to me, not to you. You need me.”
He stared at her.
“I’m in. I’m proceeding upstairs.” It was Dare.
“I’m in. I’m sweeping the lower floors,” said Mason.
Drake ghosted over towards the sliding glass door at the formal dining room. He checked. It was latched, but the lock at the base wasn’t fastened. He made quick work of the lock on the handle and quietly and quickly eased the door open. The chill would give him away.
He stepped inside, and went around the corner, his gun pointed at his parents. It was his mom who made the move towards the shotgun, he yanked it off the table and aimed it at the two of them.
“Carl! Robbie!” Norville yelled. Drake laughed, confident in the knowledge that whoever his dad was yelling for were now being personally ministered to by either Mason or Darius.
“They’re indisposed, Old Man.”
Those words seemed to inflame Norville, he pushed up at the table, upending it. Drake saw him reach for the pistol in his holster, and he threw down the shotgun, praying it wouldn’t go off as he lunged for his father.
The men were of equal size, Drake had the training, and Norville had the rage and skill honed from twelve years in the Tennessee prison system. Before the first fist flew, Drake felt fire along his arm and realized his dad had a knife. He grinned. Just made the battle a little more fair as far as he was concerned.
Norville tried for Drake’s ribs and was met by body armor.
“Fucking pussy, you’re wearing a vest,” Norville said as he tried to jab the knife at Drake’s head. Drake grabbed his wrist and slammed it into the ground. He didn’t go for his knife. He used his right hand and delivered three rabbit punches to his dad’s kidneys.
“Ooof.”
His dad shoved at his chin, then thought better of it and grabbed Drake’s head and tried to bring it towards his mouth so that he could take a bite of his son’s face. Drake slammed his forehead into his dad’s nose and twisted his knife hand so that the knife fell out of it.
Using both of his hands, he put his thumbs against the front of his throat and started choking his father.
“No! Stop! You’re killing him,” Wanda wailed.
That was the point, Drake thought, as he pressed harder. He watched his father’s eyes bulge. He replayed in his mind that moment when Piper went crashing against the wall.
His mother’s small hands shoved at his face.
“Drake, stop! I hate you! Stop it, you bastard!” Wanda Avery screeched.
“Drake,” Mason said calmly. That was all it took, and a flip switched. His vision cleared and he released his father, who rolled over and started to vomit.
“Norville. Are you all right?” Wanda hovered over her husband.
Drake watched dispassionately as Wanda rushed around the kitchen, getting Norville a damp towel for his neck, and water to drink.
“I want a beer,” he gasped.
“If he wants a beer, he’s okay to talk,” Drake said as he righted the table. He grabbed his father and pulled him into one of the kitchen chairs.
“You sit down beside him,” he said to his mother. She sat.
She looked so much smaller than he remembered. Her face was heavily lined, and her fingertips were yellow.
He pulled out a chair, turned it backwards and sat down.
“So, who wants to tell me about the piece of paper?”
His dad’s eyes flashed hatred, his mom’s eyes turned calculating.