Page 49 of Ruled Out

No money for food or supplies, but plenty to go on a state-of-the-art flat screen. Figures.

“What happened to the TV, Mom?” I push, turning back in Mom’s direction and making my way back to the couch with two bottles of water. I offer one to her and perch on the arm at the other end.

She shifts uncomfortably and then leans across, taking the water and looking at me for the first time since I got here. Her blue eyes are dull and glazed.

I look down at the coffee table and pick up the open packet of ginger biscuits set in front of her.

I reach inside and fetch one out, breaking it in half and handing the bigger piece to her. “Eat this and take a few sips, Mom. You need it.”

She shakily brings the biscuit to her lips and crunches down, chasing it with a small sip of water before setting the bottle on the coffee table. “The last one couldn’t get all the channels he wanted.”

That’s the biggest pile of horseshit, and she knows it.

“Didn’t punch a hole through this one then?”

“Jessie,” she drawls, “just leave it, yeah?”

Slowly, she shifts her body forward and gets up. The black leggings she’s wearing hang off her legs. Since the last time I saw her, she’s lost even more weight. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I watch as her frail body climbs the stairs she’s fallen down more times than I can count.

“I’ll make us some food,” I say, downing the rest of my water and heading back into the kitchen.

It must be ten minutes when I finally hear footsteps approaching from behind me as I stand at the burner, stirring pasta sauce.

“Can you help out and grab a couple of plates?” I call over my shoulder.

“Enough for your old man?”

I stop stirring and turn around to face my dad. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a week, the dark blond stubble on his chin long, and his floppy hair sticks out of the sides of his Scorpions baseball cap.

That’s the thing about my dad—he hates the very bones of me, but enjoys telling everyone who I am and how he got me into hockey. In reality, he did nothing for my career except hold me back with injuries that weren’t sustained on the ice. The only people who looked out for my career were my papa and Graham Jenkins, and neither of them ever knew the truth about my father.

As I stand, facing him, his eyes laser-focused on me, I know it’s not a question of if he’s going to attack me, but when and how.

I cross my arms over my chest and pin him with a mocking smile. He doesn’t need to know that behind my confident exterior, I’m a trembling mess, waiting on his inevitable strike.

You’re not a kid anymore, Jessie. You can take him.

“Just enough for us both. I didn’t know when you’d return. Today, tomorrow, next week. Maybe never,” I eventually answer.

A subtle sneer traces his lips. “I live here, and I own this place. Of course I was coming home.”

Turning back around to the burner, I point at the top-right cupboard. “There’s extra pasta in there if you want it.”

The tickle of his breath on the back of my neck is the first thing I feel, then the constricting vise grip as his palm squeezes my shoulder. Tighter, harder, with increasing brutality.

“Make me somefucking pasta.”

Normally, it’s unwise to poke the bear, but when the animal is Wayne Callaghan, it doesn’t matter what you do. I could roll over and ask him to tickle my stomach, but that wouldn’t serve me either.

I pause on stirring and take hold of the pan handle. “You didn’t say please.”

He knows I’ve got scalding pasta sauce at my disposal. I’ve never hit him first—ever. But I have always defended myself in any way possible.

When I feel him back away, my lungs inflate once more.

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, and before I can stop him, he rips it out, tearing the denim.

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