Page 100 of Ecstasy
I grit my teeth. He should tell that to the hired help that scrubs his fucking toilets. But there’s no use fighting over this. Besides that, if Mom isn’t here, I’m not staying long. Unbeknownst to my father, I’ve already contacted a lawyer and he’s working with her in secret. I’m footing the bill with my own inheritance from my grandfather.
I unclasp my hands, make one into a fist that I knock softly on the island in the kitchen. “Where’s Mom?” I’m not debating the hands and fucking feet of Jesus Christ with my father.
He shrugs. “She was upset you left.”
I know that’s bullshit. She was upset that she’s still married to my dirtbag of a father. She’s miserable that she spends most of her time in a Xanax-induced fog, so she doesn’t have to deal with this shit he’s brought upon us.
Besides, she already knows my dad and his love of Jesus haven’t meant shit to me for a long time.
“Did you offer your congregation an explanation in person?” I ask him, feigning innocence. I read his stupid fucking newsletter.
“I gave them the truth.”There’s venom in that word.
“Right.” We glare at each other a second and then he seems to deflate, as he sometimes does when the guilt weighs him down.
His shoulders sag, and he approaches the island, places both palms flat atop it. “I’m telling the truth, son.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. I hate when he does this almost as much as I hate when he lies to my and Mom’s fucking face. I like his cool, detached tone better. The hint of anger lying beneath the surface, but dormant.
Something we have in common.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask again, forcing back that emotion he stirs up. I need to get back to Zara.
“At the spa.”
Little late for the goddamn spa. I wonder where she really is, but then again, the spa is her home away from home. I don’t really blame her for wanting to hide out from Dad.
“How are you doing? With everything with Rihanna and—"
I wave away his concern. I spent most of the week with Mom, and I guess he’s trying to take advantage of her not being here by forming some sort of connection between us. Fuck that. “I’m fine. I told you, I didn’t really know her. Nice of you to come to the funeral, by the way.”
His eyes narrow. “I tried to get away but—”
“Don’t finish that.” I don’t want to hear his bullshit anymore.
He glares at me and I glare right back.
He takes a breath, hangs his head. He’s not looking at me when he says, “I would think you of all people would understand that sometimes honest men make mistakes.”
His words are a fucking cheap shot and I know he knows it. That’s why he can’t pick up his head and look at me right now. He’s a pussy.
“I never said I was an honest person.”
He looks up at that, a scowl on his weathered face. “Son, we both know—”
I stand to my feet, the chair scratching along the floor as I step back, throwing up my hands. “What do we know, Dad, hmm?” I ask him. I drop my hands, but don’t drop his gaze. “What do we really know? For all I know, I did hurt that girl. You ever fucking think about—”
“She knew you were popular, well-liked, and wealthy, Alex. Don’t you dare think that she—”
“Fuck that,” I tell my father, clenching my fists. “I didn’t know her from shit. I’d never seen her before in my life. You think she actually scoped me out, tempted me to that empty room and then cried rape so she could, what, exactly? Get paid off?”
My father raises a brow. “Well, she did, didn’t she?”
I bite my tongue, taking a deep breath in. Out. This is why I play football. For a fucking outlet for this temper. One more week and I’m back on the field.
One more fucking week.
“Are you still messing around with that girl from rehab?” my dad continues, as if he doesn’t know her name.
