Page 26 of Benson
Daddy Benson gave a short laugh. “You think you’re dragging me? Kyle, I chose this. I chose you.”
And just like that, some of the cold in his chest thawed. It wasn’t gone—not yet—but for the first time since those messages came in, he let himself believe maybe this road still had more ahead than behind.
The motel was quiet in an uneasy way—like the air itself was waiting for something to happen. They’d both moved around the room in practiced silence: Daddy Benson checking the locks twice, Kyle half-distracted as he set the blankets on the chair and sat up in the bed with his teddy bear. He didn’t understand why the teddy bear comforted him, but it did.
The TV was on, volume low, with some comedy laugh track spilling into the space. Kyle leaned back against the headboard,phone in hand, eyes skimming news headlines without really reading them. That’s when it came—a faint scrape, like rubber soles shifting on the concrete walkway outside their door.
Daddy Benson was on his feet instantly. No startle, no wasted motion. Just a smooth, quiet shift from relaxed to alert, eyes on the door. He lifted a hand—wait—and crossed to the light switch, flipping it off so the room slipped into shadow.
Kyle’s pulse spiked. The scraping came again. Whoever it was didn’t knock. Didn’t speak.
Daddy Benson eased closer to the window, keeping to the side where no one could see in. A quick glance through the gap in the curtains, then he stepped back, his jaw tight. “Not a guest,” he murmured.
Every nerve in Kyle’s body lit up. “How do you know?”
“Guests don’t hang around a door they don’t knock on.”
He moved toward the small nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and closed it just as quietly. Kyle didn’t know what he’d checked for—maybe nothing—but there was an unmistakable readiness in the way Daddy Benson stood now.
The footsteps shifted direction, fading down the walkway. Only when they were gone did Daddy Benson flip the light back on, his shoulders easing by degrees.
“You’re good,” he said without looking at Kyle. “Just some idiot who picked the wrong spot to loiter.”
But Kyle could see it in the lines of his face—Daddy Benson didn’t believe his own reassurance. And maybe that was why Kyle did. Because Daddy Benson didn’t sugarcoat. If he said they were fine for now, they were.
Still, Kyle knew sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight. Not with that scrape echoing in his head, and the shadow of someone lingering just outside their thin motel door. Daddy Benson wrapped his arms around Kyle.
“You’re safe in my arms.”
Chapter Fourteen
Benson
New Mexico
Benson woke to the sharp buzz of his phone on the nightstand, sunlight barely warming the edges of the curtains. He squinted at the screen—Dad. For a second, he thought about letting it go to voicemail. Should’ve. But he swiped anyway.
“Morning,” Benson said.
“You need to come home for Christmas,” his father’s voice came through, all command and no warmth. That was how his father was, and he would never change. How his mother stayed with him was beyond Benson’s comprehension.
He sat up, massaging the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Can’t. I’m headed west. California’s the goal.”
“You’re not thinking about the company. Michigan is where you belong.”
He stared at the bland hotel wall. “Not sure I want to come back and work for the family business, Dad.”
There was a pause—measured, disappointed. “The company has to make money, Benson. Not lose it. Like Logan says you’ve been doing.”
Benson snorted, the kind of sound that could’ve been a laugh if it had had any humor in it. “I’m not gonna be part of anything that kicks people while they’re already down. Raising rents fifty percent on folks barely scraping by? No, not doing it.”
“That’s business,” his father shot back.
“That’s greed. And I’m out if that’s the direction.” He leaned forward on the bed, elbows on his knees. “I’ve got nothing else to say about it.”
“You need to return,” his father pressed, and then, as if pulling an ace from his sleeve, added, “your mother has been ill since you left.”
The words landed heavy but in a way Benson recognized—more hook than truth. He shut his eyes for a beat, jaw tight.
