Page 65 of Own the Eights
He held the man’s gaze, unflinching when the unmistakable synthesizer intro of “How Am I Supposed to Live Without You”by freaking Michael Bolton cut through the confrontation.
He looked over his shoulder to find Georgie, smiling and coming toward them.
His father gave her the once-over and frowned. “Did you bring a hooker along to pick me up?”
Georgie laughed and shook her head. “Sir, I’m not a hooker. I recently ingested seven Jell-O shots then entered a wet T-shirt contest as a result of poor judgment and deep-seated issues with my mother. I actually own a bookshop. My degree is in library sciences.”
His father’s hardened expression softened. “If bookshop owners look like you, I might start reading.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Georgie Jensen, Jordan’s friend. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Marks.”
“Dennis,” his father sputtered. “My name is Dennis, but some people call me Denny. That’s what my wife used to call me.”
She gave his father that sweet, wash-away-the-pain, Georgie smile. “Then, Denny, it is.”
His father grew pensive. “I do need to ask you something, Georgie.”
“Anything!” she chirped.
His old man narrowed his gaze. “You really found this song on the jukebox?”
She nodded, her grin dialing up a notch. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”
His father turned to the men congregating at the end of the bar. “You’ve got Michael Bolton on the jukebox?”
“He’s a national treasure,” a small man on a barstool said, raising his glass.
His uncle shrugged. “He kind of is.”
“To Michael Bolton! May we all relish in his lyrical wisdom,” Georgie added, pretending to raise a glass.
Jordan glanced around, and to his astonishment, everyone began clinking beer steins. His dad even pretend-clinked with Georgie.
“Denny, can we take you home? And once there, could I possibly borrow a T-shirt? This isn’t my usual Saturday night attire.”
“Jordy’s got drawers full of T-shirts up in his room. I’m sure we can set you up with something, right,son?”
Son.
Disgrace and disappointment used to permeate that word when it fell from his father’s lips. Tonight, it sounded like it used to when his mom was still with them.
He nodded because he couldn’t speak. Not unless he wanted to unleash a barrage of squeaks and sobs, and that sure as hell wasn’t an acceptable Marks Perfect Ten response.
Georgie turned to go when his father rested his hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind if we stayed until the song ended? That Michael Bolton really has a voice,” his dad said, grinning at Georgie.
She matched his smile. “Only if you sing it with me, Denny.”
Jordan caught Georgie’s eye, and she threw him a quick wink. Emotion welled in his chest as his burly, hard-edged father parted his lips and belted out the ballad’s refrain.
* * *
Jordan climbed the stairs to his childhood bedroom, tracing his fingertips along the familiar grooves in the railing, and knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah, I’m decent,” Georgie answered.
He entered his room to find her wearing his worn Superman T-shirt and perusing his bookshelf.
