Page 296 of Unexpected Heroine

Unaffected.

The man on the other side of this door cannot hurt me.

Fred Stillman doesn’t deserve to occupy any more of my thoughts.

The door flings open. Glassy eyes latch onto mine. Rancid, smoky air seeps from the living room.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” His wrinkled upper lip curls as he sweeps his gaze up and down my long frame before cutting a glare beside me. “Who’s your friend? Gay lover?”

Big Al’s humorless chuckle meets my ears.

“This is my squad leader, Alan Lancaster.” I turn sideways, making introductions like we’re at a fucking dinner party. “This is my... Fred Stillman.”

I want to add something to the effect of piece of shit, garbage human. But Big Al already knows that part.

My dad lifts his wrinkled chin to study the man beside me. The movement reveals the sagging skin around his neck, coated in a sheen of gray fuzz.

He hasn’t spoken enough for me to ascertain if he’s intoxicated. But given the time of day, the odds are strong. Not that it would change my strategy for the mission. If I waited for him to be sober to do this, it would never happen.

Big Al claps my upper back. “We were passing through town. Tomer suggested we stop in for a visit.”

My sperm donor takes a step backward and slogs away. “Well, come in already. You’re letting out all the heat.”

Closest thing we’re gonna get to a welcome home. I expected nothing more.

Big Al utters an irritated curse under his breath.

Upon entering the living room, I view it through fresh eyes. My time away from this hellscape hasn’t diluted my memories. It’s as disgusting as I remember. Smells the same. Like desperation and filth.

The man I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand the emotion doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer us anything to drink or ask how I’ve been. Not even a gesture to the frumpy sofa to invite us to have a seat.

All he does is plop down on his recliner and fix his dead eyes on the television. With a groan, he withdraws a can of beer from the cooler beside his chair, popping it open and slurping it down. Lazy fuck can’t be bothered to walk into the kitchen.

“Let’s sit,” I mutter to Big Al when the awkwardness peaks.

I lower to the couch, taking the spot farthest from my father. A puff of dust wafts into the air. Instead of settling against the cushion, I scoot to the edge and keep my hands off any surface in this place. Big Al does the same.

Glad the military inoculated us so thoroughly.

Another thing I appreciate about the Army is the forced cleanliness. They taught me hygiene and sanitation. I damn sure didn’t learn it in this cesspool. Since Basic, I take pride in having spotless quarters. After discerning how pleasing it is to be clean—both in body and my surroundings—I’ve never regressed to the boy coated in grime and grease I was when I languished here.

The thought spurs me to glance over my shoulder in the direction of my bedroom. I quickly avert my eyes when goosebumps pebble my skin. Never want to be in that room again.

I’m rapidly growing unsettled by the onslaught of emotions this visit is stirring up in me. For so long, I haven’t felt anything. It’s beyond jarring.

The sooner I get this over with, the better.

My father’s grating laugh at whatever he’s watching is the last straw, propelling me into action mode.

Surging to my feet, I stride to him and swipe the remote off the arm of his chair to cut off the TV from over my shoulder.

Flatly, I state, “Fred, I’d like your attention.”

“Excuse the fuck out of you.” He narrows his eyelids to slits. “You’re a guest in my house, boy. Show me some fucking respect or get the hell out.”

A sheepish apology immediately soils my tongue, but I don’t let it loose. Miraculously, I resist the urge to tuck my tail between my legs. A lifetime of cowering from this man proves a hard habit to break. Not even the years I’ve spent as a soldier have prepared me adequately for this encounter.

As if he knows I need a reminder of his presence, Big Al crosses his booted foot over his knee.

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