Page 74 of The Off-Limits Play

Dad frowns, looking down and rubbing his forehead again. “He makes your mom happy.”

“Whatever. He’s a dick.”

Glancing back at me, Dad’s nostrils flare, his voice going hard and brittle. “He’s the best dad you’re ever gonna get, kid.”

“He’s not my fucking father!” I whisper-bark, trying and failing to keep my voice down.

Dad’s expression softens, his bruised cheeks sagging, his gray gaze going despondent as he whispers, “Neither am I.”

What the fuck?

“Dad, come on.” It’s impossible to hide the hurt riding through me. How can he say that?

“You don’t want to be related to a loser like me, so stop visiting. I tell you this every time, and you still keep coming back.” His eyebrows dip together as he huffs and spits into the phone, “Seriously, kid. I’m doing you a favor. Don’t visit again.”

And with that, he slams the phone down and orders the guard to take him away.

“No! Dad!” I call after him, but he doesn’t even look back.

Gripping the phone, I squeeze the shit out of the handle before slamming it back down and jolting out of my chair.

What the fuck!

All this way for nothing!

And he doesn’t ever want me to visit again.

Well, fuck that!

I’m coming back. I don’t give a shit what he says. He’s my old man, and I’m gonna stay loyal to the guy.

As I stalk out to my bike, I think about his banged-up face and wonder how he can put his body on the line to protect a little guy but won’t even spare me ten minutes of his time!

“Fuck!” I shout, snatching my helmet and hurling it across the parking lot. It hits the fence, making the whole thing vibrate while I stand there huffing on the concrete and hating my mom for killing Dad’s soul. If she’d just waited for the guy, he’d have hope. Now he’s stuck in a concrete box watching the woman he loved move on with some rich prick.

It’s killing him.

And I’m not enough to heal the pain.

CHAPTER27

NYLAH

The party is going off, and I only arrived fifteen minutes ago. I thought I was right on time, but the place was already packed.

I squeeze my way between partygoers, looking for familiar faces.

I spot a few football guys but don’t know them by name.

Oh wait, is that… Grady Newman?

He’s a running back. A damn good one. And I’m pretty sure he lives at Football Frat with Carson.

He’s in the kitchen, talking to a sorority girl with strawberry-blonde curls—that dress, those shoes, she’s gotta be a Sig Be sis. Actually, they’re not really talking. They look like they’re arguing.

She throws up her hands in obvious frustration, and he rolls his eyes, shaking his head and looking away from her.

I should probably stop gawking at them, but I can’t help myself, studying their body language and figuring that this is more than just some minor tiff. She spits out something else, which annoys him, and then he bites back with some sharp words that obviously hurt her feelings.

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