Lost King by Piper Lennox (moboreader txt) 📗

few bazookas and bullet sprays later, we’re good.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, “why don’t you go with us? Definitely better than sitting at the beach.”

“In the winter,” Van adds.

“Alone.”

“I don’t know.” I pause. “Dad says I can fly out to the winter house.”

Van waits for me to elaborate on this promise we all know my dad took care to imply, but not say out loud. Gotta give Gil Durham credit: deceives frequently, disappoints constantly, but never outright lies.

“And…?” he asks. “Is he actually going to fly out and meet you, this time?”

“You know he’s not, dude.” Wes’s pity stings. “He’s ditched you the last four years in a row, working straight through Thanksgiving, and then you always have to book a last-minute flight to salvage what’s left with us.”

“So?”

“So cut out the bullshit in the middle. Join us at the cabin. Invite that girl.”

“Oh, fuck no.” Van sounds frustrated that he can’t smack Wes’s head in person. “You don’t invite girls to major holidays unless you’re a couple.”

“We’re not doing some big Durham dinner. It’s a friends thing. And there’s no rule about inviting girls to Friends-giving dinners, yeah?”

“I’m sure she’s got plans,” I say. Someone like Ruby probably has a huge extended family just waiting back in Jersey to celebrate. The way she talks about her home, I know she left important people behind when she moved out here.

“Whatever, then just bring yourself. Because, again: your dad is not gonna come through.”

“Wes is right, man. I love Uncle Gil and all, but….”

“But, like…fuck him,” Wes blurts.

Van cracks up. “Yeah, basically.”

I glance at the time on the DVR. Ruby should be here soon.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, out of habit. Then I add something I’m shocked to find I actually mean. “It sounds kind of fun.”

That’s another thing about her: I’m not just happier when we’re hanging out. I’m happier, period. My life feels a lot less boring. Things sound fun again. Even a long weekend in the mountains with strangers, pretending Thanksgiving means something to me.

We say our goodbyes and sign off. I go upstairs to shower. For the first time in months, I put on some music while I do it.

A text interrupts a song halfway through. Assuming it’s Ruby telling me she’s on her way over, I rush through my final rinse to check.

It’s a text from my father’s secretary.

I’m scheduling him to take off Thanksgiving. Promise. Should I book him a flight to the winter house?

God bless Kimberly for never giving up hope that my father will A) learn to actually balance his work with a real life, and B) turn all his half-assed fatherly intentions into actions.

A piece of me really wants to write back, “Him showing up is about as likely as him finally realizing you’re in love with him.” But I can’t stand the thought of breaking Kimberly’s heart any more than my dad already has, even if it’s true.

“No,” I type back. “Going to a cabin w/ friends. But thnx.”

Maybe Kimberly has come to terms with how things are after all, because she doesn’t protest. It’s getting pretty hard to come up with excuses by this point.

She does, however, send me one more message while I’m getting dressed.

Check your mail.

I tell her I will, even though I already did.

The package is still sitting in the foyer closet where I slid it, open but otherwise untouched, where I plan to leave it until I forget it exists altogether.

13

“Callum, seriously: you. Need. To. Go.”

While he spews a few creative curses my way, I grab the television remote from his hand and set it on a high shelf.

Then I decide that’s too dangerous—I don’t want him doing something stupid, like climbing the bookcase to reach it—and shove it in a drawer. He’s very “out of sight, out of mind” right now, so it’s just as effective.

“And where are you off to? Trying to rush me out while you’re all whored up.” He sways when he rises from my couch, where he’s been since God only knows.

Finding him strung out and drunk on my sofa after work, his key to my place still in the deadbolt of my wide-open front door, was far from a welcome sight. I spent ten minutes getting ready, bookended with a collective hour trying to get him the fuck out.

“Come on, Hale, where are you?” I hiss under my breath. I halfway mean it like a prayer.

It must work, because his Expedition swings into the lot about four seconds later. He leaves the lights on while he runs up the crumbling concrete steps.

“There you are.” I swing the door wide. Hale is a big guy, in height and weight. Being near him makes me feel like a Polly Pocket next to a Stretch Armstrong: intimidated, but also pretty well-protected. “Come collect your boy.”

“Not really my boy anymore. Ever since he fell in with those assholes from Doug’s, shit’s been weird with us. Doing this for you.”

I hug my arms to my chest until breathing hurts. “I know. Thank you.”

He tips my chin upward and studies me in the kitchen’s watery light. “Did he touch you? Because I’ll kill him.”

Quickly, I shake my head...glad Hale lacks the X-ray vision to see the bruises on my upper arm, from where Callum grabbed me earlier.

He didn’t mean to, I reasoned; he’s so out of it right now, he didn’t even realize it was me until I forced some coffee down his throat.

Nonetheless, a line was crossed tonight. Callum needs to leave. I don’t care where, or how, or what happens once he’s past my threshold.

All right: I do care where. I care so fucking much