Page 17 of Forever Wild
No reply.
“Any time you want!”
Her expression shifts, gaze narrowing and lips turning down at the corners.
“Please?” It’s a last-ditch attempt and I’ve already accepted that I’m going to have to call for a ride when she grabs her purse and heads for me.
Relief sweeps through me.
“Thank you,” I say as she climbs behind the wheel of my G-Wagon.
I don’t wait for her reply. I hustle as much as I can around to the other side. Everly adjusts the mirrors and the seat while I struggle to get myself up into the passenger seat.
“Where am I going?” she asks as she pulls through my circle driveand onto the road.
“Take a right out of the neighborhood.”
I’m grateful that she doesn’t pepper me with more questions. The beginning of a headache is starting behind my eyes. We drive in silence, except for the prompts I give her at each turn. When we reach Brettwood, the small town my dad lives in, anxious energy starts to thrum through me, making it hard to sit still. Luckily, it’s not that big of a town and I’m instructing Everly to pull up to the curb of Perry’s Pool Hall a few moments later.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” I say.
The old bar smells like stale cigarettes. It’s been years since smoking was banned inside this place, but the scent still hangs thick in the air. Country music plays from a jukebox. The pool tables are empty, as are the few tables set up in front of the windows looking out toward the street.
A handful of people sit at the small wooden bar, but I head toward the only one slumped over, too drunk to hold his head up at two o’clock in the afternoon.
His dark hair is streaked with white. The greasy strands are slicked back and hang down onto the back collar of a dingy white button-up shirt. His face is buried into one arm but what I can see of his skin has that reddish flush that would be a telltale sign that he was drunk if that weren’t already obvious.
“Jackie boy.” My gaze lifts to the man behind the bar. He’s almost more familiar to me than my father. Gray hair, same old mustache he’s been sporting since the nineties, and his usual attire of pocket T-shirt and khakis. It’s hard to believe of the two, Coach John is older than my dad.
“Hey, Coach.”
“Good to see you.” His eyes crinkle with a smile, but then his expression falls into one more appropriate for the situation. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Not your fault.”
His nod isn’t all that convincing, but he pivots asking, “How are you?”
“Been better,” I admit. Certainly didn’t plan on leaving the house in this condition today.
“Thank you for calling me.” It’s preferable to bailing my dad out of jail again. He isn’t on a first-name basis with the booking officers or anything, but once is enough to earn a place on the “never again” list.
“You’ll be okay.” His words temporarily heal that nagging seed of doubt since the accident, but I don’t have time to dwell right now. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”
“No. I got a ride from a friend.” I tip my head toward my dad. “What’s he owe you?”
My old hockey coach shakes me off. “He’s all settled.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s on me for overserving him.” Coach owns Perry’s but hasn’t worked here in years. His presence is purely to keep my dad out of more trouble because someone else didn’t know that Lance Wyld is the town drunk. My gaze cuts quickly to the younger guy working behind the bar. I hate that my dad is a cautionary tale.“Don’t serve the old man or he’ll get belligerent and refuse to leave.”
I take out my wallet and stuff all the cash I have into the tip jar. “Thank you.”
“Need some help getting him out?” Coach asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.
Fuck.How the hell am I going to carry him home like I’ve done amillion times before? Like I’ll have to do a million more.
Swallowing down my frustration and loathing, I nod.
