Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I’d never be done with my father’s shittiness in life.
“Uh. Yeah.” Detective Monteyo scribbled one last thing before putting his pad away. “Want to explain why a businessman with prominent and known Mafia ties is standing behind you right now?”
I opened my mouth, but yeah. I had nothing.
A hand touched my side. Ashton was moving.
Both the detectives saw the motion, their eyes falling to his hand, but at that moment, the bell above the door jangled again, and my dad’s voice rang out, “Daughter! Daughter! You here or—” He skidded to a halt, his oversize cargo jacket flopping in front of him.
Marcus Easter always looked half-homeless, mostly because he ended up sleeping a lot of nights on the streets, but tonight he looked worse than normal. Ratty and greasy hair a mess, half-smashed to the left side of his head. He had jeans and a sweatshirt underneath his jacket, but the ends were in holes. The jeans wore him, not the other way around. The ends trailed on the floor, and it looked like he was wearing moccasins on his feet.
“Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa.” He gaped at everyone before his eyes bulged and he turned, already lunging back where he’d just come from.
I felt movement at my side, and then Elijah moved in from behind him, his hands clamping down on the sides of my dad’s arms. His hands were huge and half on my dad’s shoulders.
“Hey! What are you doing?! Let me go. Let me go, I say.” My dad was wiry, and he was trying to get untangled from Elijah’s hold, but Elijah was six four and solidly built where I didn’t think he had any fat on him, that kind of built. My dad didn’t stand a chance.
Then my dad got a good look at Elijah, and his voice trailed off. “Wait a minute . . .” He tensed again. His head popped up, like a bird’s, and he whipped around, looking, looking—seeing me, clocking me, and then switching behind me, and my father looked like his eyeballs wanted to really pop out of his skull. I saw the whites on the back end of his eyeballs before he started shaking his head, recoiling backward, but Elijah was there, and he merely grunted before picking up my father and bringing him closer to the group.
“Hello, Marcus.” That came from Worthing.
My dad’s gaze was riveted on Ashton before he turned to who had spoken, and his eyes closed, his head fell back, and he made a whole dramatic groan. “Are you jerking me around?”
“Shorty. How’s it going?”
Monteyo moved in on the other side. “Pretty certain we’ve got three warrants out for your arrest.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Oh, come on, guys! Not like this.” He waved a hand to me. “In front of my daughter. And on Sunday? I was hoping to come in for a warm meal. With my daughter.”
A warm meal? With me?
I.
Was.
Seeing.
Red.
RED!
Sunday night?
With me?
A warm fucking meal?
After what he did to me?!
I growled and started for him, or I would’ve if Ashton hadn’t held me in place. “Relax,” he said under his breath. He had an arm around my waist, clamping me to him. His chest was firmly behind me.
I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t. What my father did? He wasn’t a dad to me. When had he ever been a father to me?
I wanted to murder him. I wanted to take his head, twist it, and yank it off his body.
I wanted to bathe in his blood.
I was unhinged. Fully aware of it, but this was him. This was what my dad did to me. He had the ability for me to flip the switch, and my switch was all the way flipped.
“Marcus Easter, you’re under arrest.” Monteyo motioned for him to turn around, and as he did, Monteyo put the handcuffs on him.
Worthing was watching Ashton, who was as cool as a fucking cucumber.
I wanted to commit murder, in front of these cops, but no. The Mafia head guy was all nonreactive and Mr. Cool Joe. Then again, that’s probably why he did what he did.
As Monteyo was reading my father his rights, my dad turned his head my way. “Sweetie. Honey. I heard what happened to you, and I was worried—”
I burst forward, but Ashton had ahold of me still. I yelled, “Two days ago, Dad! Dad. Dad, my ass. You—” A hand clamped over my mouth.
I wasn’t having it; I wasn’t dumb, though. He was smothering my words for a reason, the law enforcement for one, but I was beyond seeing reason. I hated Marcus Easter. Hated him. Loathed him. I was planning his funeral on the joyous occasion of when he was killed. By me.
By me and my shovel.
Yes. Me. My shovel. My dad.
Monteyo finished reading my dad his rights and glanced over, his eyebrows pulling low. “You got her under control?”