Page 65 of Maddox
As soon as it feels safe, I cross over and enter the trailer, eyeing Joey when he swings around.
“Where you been?” he barks.
We’ve been ignoring the last argument we got in, but I think it’s only a matter of time before he kicks me out, which is why I try not to instigate another altercation as I move past him and say, “Out.”
“I don’t like you hanging with them,” he says, grabbing my arm.
Shaking him off, I hiss, “Yeah well, I don’t like having a drunk for a father. Who was that at the door?”
“Who?” he grunts, and I wave toward it as though that will jog his memory from two fucking seconds ago.
“The guy who was just here.”
Staring at the can of beer in his hand, he shakes his head. “Wrong address.”
I hardly know the man but when he refuses to meet my gaze and turns back to the tiny television playing some game, I sigh.
We’re basically two fucking strangers coexisting and at times like these it’s really painful.
Who is he really? Was he MC? Why? When?
I know this will only lead to further frustration but once again, I can’t resist and say, “Joey?”
“Huh?” he says, focused on the television.
“Do you…know the Aces?” I ask tentatively and he whips around.
His wide eyes meet mine before they narrow and he barks, “I told you to stay away from them scum.”
“Why?” I ask, searching for clues but for all his drunken habits, he’s remarkably good at avoiding answering questions.
“They’re trouble,” he says, tossing the can of beer into the trash beside him.
As he reaches for another sitting by his hand, I rub my aching forehead and mumble, “You’re such a fucking liar.”
“Ha!” he bellows. “I’m a liar? Go ask your fucking mom about lies, you little bitch.”
Despite what’s happened between us, I don’t appreciate how he’s speaking about my mom, and I swing toward him, shrieking, “Shut up. Just shut up. Do you even care about how you treat your own daughter?”
“I ain’t your fucking father!” he bellows, and I stagger back.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Ask her, fucking patch whore. She probably don’t even know who the poor fucker is.”
After the screaming match with Joey, I find myself standing on the front porch of my home, or at least what used to be my home.
It’s late, which means the house is dark when I let myself inside before tiptoeing down the hall.
To my left is the living room. An L-shaped sofa faces the big screen television that Peter insisted on buying two years ago.During football season he plants his ass there and barely moves, much to Mom’s chagrin.
At the end, past the stairs is the kitchen and the light above the stove casts a dull glow across the floor when I pause at the base of the stairs and look up.
I’m sure Peter is sleeping. He has to work tomorrow.
Although my throat burns with the questions that roll around in my brain, my chest clenches when I consider what I might find out. Does Peter even know or am I opening up another can of worms?
Who am I?
