Page 58 of Fake Shot

I turn slowly and find him leaning back against the exterior brick of our row house, one foot resting on the wall next to his opposite knee. His tattered jeans and T-shirt with small holes along the seams are practically stiff from the filth, and even from six feet away, he smells like the inside of a trash can on a hot day. The hollows under his eyes are a purplish gray, and his sallow skin sags along his gaunt cheeks, where there’s not an ounce of fat to fill it out. His body’s so thin it looks like the wall might be holding him up.

“What are you doing here?” It’s the same question I ask him every time he shows up. Usually, it’s even earlier on a weekday, and he catches me heading out to work. He’s nevercome by on a weekend, which might be why he’s caught me so off guard.

“I need some cash.”

“I told you last time, I’m not giving you money anymore. Not unless you go to rehab.”

“Rehab’s a waste for a guy like me. I don’t want you spending your money on that.”

“No,” my voice is harsh as I look him up and down, “you just want me wasting it on alcohol and drugs instead?”

His head rears back in surprise. I never talk back to him. I’m always the obedient daughter, the only person in his life who’s still willing to help him out. I don’t know why I’ve held on to the hope that he’s going to change, but I’m finally realizing he never will.

“Listen, girl,” he says, his nostrils flaring as he takes a step toward me. “You are where you are because of me. You think you’d be running your own construction company if I hadn’t taught you everything you know? The least you can do is help me out now.”

Behind me, the back door slams and I jump in surprise. Colt’s next to me so fast he must have jumped down the back steps because there’s no way he could make it down the six stairs that quick.

“With all due respect,” he says, his voice level and firm as he places a reassuring hand on my lower back, “if you’re going to speak to my fiancée that way, you’re going to answer to me instead.”

Dad looks at Colt, and his eyes widen in recognition. They’ve met a handful of times, back before Dad left, when we used to go to all the Rebels games to watch Jameson play.Clearly, Dad hadn’t heard our engagement news, which makes me wonder if he still follows hockey at all.

His dull blue eyes, once so bright and similar to mine, slide over to me. “Ahhh, getting yourself hitched to a hockey player, eh? And you can’t spare a Benjamin Franklin for your old man?”

Colt’s hand flies out, pulling me behind him as he steps forward in front of me. I don’t feel threatened by my father, who is so emaciated from his addiction that he can’t possibly weigh more than I do, but once again, Colt is putting himself between what he perceives as a potential threat and me.

“She’s my daughter, and I’m not talking to her through you,” Dad snarls. Everything about him—from the way his knees are a little bent to the way his lip curls up to bare his teeth, or what’s left of them anyway—reminds me of a mangy dog about to attack.

“You’re done talking to her, period,” Colt says. “You clearly don’t deserve whatever sympathy she has left for you. Now get out of here, or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re trespassing.”

The way Colt is keeping his calm, the way he doesn’t let my dad’s veiled threats affect his outward demeanor, surprises me. He’s level-headed, yes. But I saw him just about lose his shit a few weeks ago when I was being threatened, and it makes me wonder why he hasn’t gone into attack mode this time too. Whatever the reason, his calming presence is calming me, too.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Dad says to me, then he makes a hideous noise in the back of his throat that sounds like he’s coughing and choking at the same, before he spits a wad of phlegm at Colt’s feet.

To his credit, Colt doesn’t react. We just stand there together, watching him hobble down the alley. It’s not until Dad turns the corner onto the sidewalk that I realize I’m holding Colt’s hand. I don’t even know when that happened.

“Hey,” I say, squeezing. “You didn’t have to jump in like that. I don’t need protecting.”

He obviously didn’t absorb that message after what happened at the restaurant, but at least there was no catastrophic fallout this time.

“I know you don’t. You could have handled him by yourself ... but I wanted you to know you didn’t have to.” Then he turns, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead that has me softening toward him even more. “Don’t forget your sunglasses.”

We’re an hour into our drive north when Colt says, “So, you want to talk about what happened back there with your dad?”

I shift in my seat, bringing my travel mug with my always-warm coffee up to my lips and noting, as I do each time I use it, what a thoughtful gift it was. “Not particularly.”

“How often does he come around asking for money?”

“You asked if I wanted to talk about it, and I said no.”

“Well, I’m going to need some basic information, Jules, so I know whether I need to be worried about him coming back.”

“Colt, you saw him. It’s not like he’s a threat.” At least, this confrontation didn’t result in a panic attack like I had after the interaction with Jerome.

“Do Jameson and Audrey know he still comes around?”

I glance out the windows at the evergreens lining this part of the highway. Now that we’re farther north, the trees are just starting to get their leaves, whereas they are completely filled in back down in Boston. “No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

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