Page 8 of Pocketful of Us

More than I already was.

When my father was dragged into the room a little while later by a couple of Gonzalez's goons, I didn’t feel the burning resentment and anger that I had expected to feel at the sight of the man who'd lied to me for my entire life.

Instead, I feltconcern.

Because he had been beaten.

Because he was still bleeding.

Because I was afraid something bad was going to happen to him.

See? Completely fucked in the head.

"Holden," Dad acknowledged when the men shoved him onto a chair, though how he could speak when his mouth was that swollen and cut up was beyond me. "You're okay."

I watched them bind his hands and feet and only then did I feel the delayed anger roar to life inside of me.

It wasn't directed towards him, though.

No, I felt it for the bastards pinning him to the chair.

"Do you really need to do that to him? Tie him up, I mean. He's clearly not in any condition to run wild and scamper off," Presley said, speaking the words I was unable to say and eyeing my father with a look of concern. "Come to think about it, was beating the pretty out of him really necessary? I honestly can't see how, especially considering he was obviously trying to keep Sketch safe from Cal by smuggling him across the border – whoa, you've really done a number on his face, haven't you? Which, FYI, is a total travesty considering he has, or at least used to have, an uncanny resemblance to his son –"

"Shut up, creature," Gonzalez commanded.

"Okie-dokie." Presley threw his hands up in defeat. "Shutting up now."

With the same level of regal composure he always presented, my father kept his body straight and his shoulders back, refusing to slouch even when he'd been beaten half to death. "Are you alright?" Ignoring everyone around us, he kept his eyes on me. "Are you injured?"

"Dad." The word came out hoarse and full of longing. "Dad…"

"Did you hurt him?" Dad asked, attention flicking to the men sitting beside me. "He's an innocent in this."

"No, they didn’t hurt him," Presley interjected, sounding disgruntled. "But you did."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know!" Presley pointed out, shaking Chris's journal around in his hands. "Unlike you, mister-aiding-and-abetting-a-psychopathic-shooter. Uh-huh. That's right. I went there. Now, start talking, Capaldi!"

"Pres!" I warned. "Back off."

"Don’t defend him, Sketch," Presley countered, furious now. "That man's been lying to you all your life. Now, I'm sorry that your fake-dad took a beating like that – I have never been one to condone violence, but let's call a spade a spade here; he has done nothing but lie and hurt you, Sketch. Your sympathy and protection is the verylastthing he deserves."

"On the contrary, I've been protecting him all of his life," my father shot back calmly. "He's alive because of me."

"Strangely enough, I think you're telling the truth this time," Lucky drawled lazily. "Keep it up, old timer. The kid deserves to hear the rest from you. It won't matter a damn if it doesn’t come from the horse's mouth. He's too damn loyal –"

"Shut the fuck up," I snarled, chest heaving. "Leave him alone, dammit!" Turning back to my father, I begged, "It's okay, Dad. Just tell them you're my father and we can go. I won't let them hurt you again." My breath was coming hard and fast. "I promise. I'll get us both out of here."

For the first time in my life, I saw genuine emotion flicker in my father's eyes. "I can't do that, son."

No.

No!

No, no, no, no…

"Son!" I hissed, trembling violently as denial sunk its claws deep inside of me. "Exactly. I'm your son –"

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