Page 38 of Monk
“Uh-huh. And how many times did you haul Jacob in, Dad? For anything?”
He stabs a piece of meat on his plate and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. He knows he can’t say anything to that because the answer is none. For all of his ill words and thoughts about Jacob, my father has never arrested him once.
“It’s only a matter of time now that he’s one of those Dark Pharaohs. Goddamn biker gang. They’re always mixed up in trouble,” he says, pointing his fork at me, “trouble I don’t want you getting mixed up in, Kasey.”
“They were handing out food to the poor. That’s where I ran into him,” I say.
“And Ted Bundy volunteered at a suicide hotline.”
I gape at him for a long moment before I can speak. “Are you seriously comparing Jacob to Ted Bundy?”
“If the shoe fits.”
Pushing my plate away, I have to literally bite my tongue to keep the snarky response from flying out. This is an argument I don’t want to have with him.
“I think your dislike of Jacob is making you jump to ridiculous extremes,” I say.
He gives me a disapproving look. “Think so? That motorcycle gang of his is involved in drugs, runnin’ guns, prostitution, human trafficking… even murder, so tell me again that I’m jumpin’ to ridiculous extremes, Kasey.”
My father and know he sometimes embellishes stories to make a point. And while I have no doubt Jacob’s motorcycle club is involved in some shady stuff, I have a hard time believing that if they were truly doing the things he said, they’d still be walking around. If they were guilty of half the things that he’s accusing them of, they’d be rotting in prison.
I know my dad well enough to know he’s made it his mission—no, his crusade—to lock them up. See, my dad has a very specific, idealized image of what Blue Rock Bay must be. And as the Sheriff, he does all he can to make sure that image comes to pass.
I’m not going to continue debating this with him, though. There is no reason to. My dad has hated Jacob since we were kids, and there’s nothing I can say at this table that’s going to change his mind. I don’t know that there’s anything that can change my dad’s mind. When he forms an opinion of somebody, he can be that immovable.
“Well, this is all moot anyway. He asked to meet because he wanted to explain why he left, so I met him and listened. That’s it,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything, so I get to my feet and start clearing the table. I carry everything into the kitchen and set it all down in the sink. As I’m putting all of the leftovers into containers, my dad comes in and sets his plate in the sink. He turns on the water.
“I’ll clean up,” I say.
He pauses for a moment but then turns the water off. My dad walks to the doorway and then pauses, his back to me.
“I remember how tore up you were when he left. I remember what it did to you. I just… I don’t want to see it happen again,” he says.
He doesn’t wait for me to reply and heads through the door. A moment later, I hear the television come on and hear the cheering of the crowd and the muffled but excited voices of the announcers. I turn back to the sink and start the dishes.
Seeing Jacob has turned my world upside down. I’ve always thought I have come to terms with all of my feelings for him and about what he did long ago. But seeing him—speaking with him—has been like ripping the scab off an old wound. And now, I’m just bleeding all over myself again.
***
After a shower and brushing my teeth, I change into a pair of boy shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in. I open the windows then pull back the covers. The nights are chilly but not cold, which is perfect for me.
Stepping back into the bathroom, I’m putting on my night cream when I hear my phone buzzing on the nightstand. A shot of adrenaline gets my heart racing when the insane thought that it’s Jacob calling pops into my head. I don’t know why I’d be excited to talk to him. But then, I don’t know why I kissed him back last night. I did, anyway. And much to my own dismay, I didn’t entirely hate it either.
With a crazy flutter in my belly and a stupid smile on my face, I dash out of the bathroom and snatch up the phone. I quickly connect the call, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I say.
“Well, don’t you sound chipper?”
My heart immediately drops, and my mouth goes dry. Feeling simultaneously disappointed and irritated, I sit on the edge of my bed silently cursing myself for forgetting to pick up a new phone.
“What do you want, Spencer?”
“You know what I want. You and my money.”
“Get used to disappointment,” I bark at him.
