Page 37 of Heartless Boss
“You like this car?” Gunner asks, checking out the engine.
“Yeah, it’s cute. I’m going to buy a used one,” I admit. I picture myself driving it on the highways. “I’m going to get it in apple red, decorate it with polka dots on the roof, and attach lashes to the headlights, so it can look like a ladybug.”
Gunner shakes his head. “You’re weird.”
After we check out a few more cars, he stops in front of an updated version of his white Audi. It’s sleeker and smoother than his current car.
“Get in the passenger seat,” he orders. I slide in as I drink in the sight of the colorful dashboard blinking lights at me. The black leather smells like fresh lemons.
“You love cars,” I say while he smiles like a schoolboy who received his first kiss from his crush.
“I worked as a mechanic in college”—he grips the steering wheel—“to help my ma to pay off bills. This baby is an Audi R8, with a V10 engine and six hundred and thirty-two horsepower.”
“I have no idea what you said.”
“It’s a fast sports car costing over a hundred grand.” He smirks. “I’ve been waiting on this baby to come out for the longest time.”
People gather around the car, snapping pictures, and a little boy with the purest blue eyes I’ve ever seen waltzes up to the car with a magazine in his hand. His dad is right behind him, and he does a double-take when he sees Gunner but doesn’t say anything. He takes a picture of his son and the car and walks away. I lay my head on the back of the seat as two more little boys with their father take pictures of the car.
“I need to let you in on a little secret,” Gunner tells me. I turn my view to look at him. Sadness flickers in his eyes as he uses his thumb to rub his bottom lip.
“Okay.” I rest my hands on his while his eyes move back and forth as if he’s thinking hard.
“My dad used to use me and my ma as a punching bag.”
His face scrunches up in pain, and my heart breaks for him. I want to give him a piece of mine. Even though it won’t be a lot, it might be enough to cover the hole in his heart.
“When I was four, I had my first drop of alcohol. My dad was an angry drunk. And weirdly, I used to want to be like him, so I snuck in his man cave and drank some of his beer. When I was caught red-handed ...” He blinks, and the crowded building evaporates in front of us, as if we’re in our own little bubble and time has stopped. “He beat my ass with an extension cord to punish me and told me if I ever uttered a word to anyone he’d skin Ma alive.”
My heart catches in my throat at his words, and it weeps for the little kid inside him. He’s broken like glass; I can see the cracks he hides within himself. My tiny fingers entwine with his big ones, and I squeeze as hard as I can. His eyes—filled with unspoken words—meet mine.
I’m broken, don’t fix me.
I don’t say anything because the way I grip his hand speaks volumes.I’m here, and it’s okay to be hurt and broken.
Maybe that explains why he drinks so much. Ever since I moved in with him, he seems to have some kind of liquor in his hand. And earlier this week when I went to his room to clean up the mess I made, I found him asleep clutching a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, weeping like a baby. So I backed out, giving him his space. And I don’t dare bring it up to him. Those are his demons to deal with.
“That’s also the first memory I had of him beating me.” He pauses. “When my ma wasn’t around, he would hit me for stupid shit, like leaving my toys on the floor, or asking for seconds after a meal.” Another pause. “When I see other kids happy with their dads, I think how fortunate they are.” He points to a boy and a girl running circles around their dad. “Sometimes, it’s best not to have a parent at all than to have one who’s fucked up.”
I agree with him on so many levels. People who are abusive get off on having control of their victims, and if they feel like they are losing power, their violence escalates.
There is a very long pause, then he says, “Alana was born two months before her due date. My dad kicked my ma in the stomach because she made the wrong dish for his boss when he invited him over for dinner. And he threatened to kill her if she told the doctors what he’d done to her.” My eyes burn with tears, but I try so hard not to let them flow. “When he left, I was relieved. It felt like I could breathe.”
“Why are you spilling your secrets to me?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“You’ve shown me you’re not using me to get a paycheck. Therefore, I don’t have to worry about you blackmailing me with personal information.” He removes his fingers from mine and taps the steering wheel. “My secrets are safe with you.”
Chapter Twelve
Gia
With my purple glittery headphones over my ears, I listen to the playlist Gunner gave me. I notice his playlist contains old eighties, nineties, and a very few early two thousand songs.
I tear some tape with my teeth and press it onto the pictures in my scrapbook.
Two things I’ve learned today.
One—Gunner’s cold heart is cracked from his past.
