Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Kicking aside stray beer cans, I passed through the short hallway, nose wrinkling as the smell got worse. I rounded the corner and there he was. The great and honorable Sheriff Jack—defender of the city and upholder of all true and lawful—slumped on the dining table.
A puddle of vomit decorated the floor, spreading to mix with the whiskey dripping off the table, flowing freely from the upturned bottle.
“Dad.” I shook his shoulder. “Dad, wake up.”
“Wha—?” He swiped at me and flipped over, mumbling something I couldn’t make out.
“Dad.” I grabbed him under the shoulders, grimacing as days’ old sweat and tequila enveloped me. My father didn’t discriminate. If it was alcohol, it was going straight to his liver. “Wake up.”
His head lolled. Dad peeled open bloodshot eyes, gazing at me for a second like he didn’t know me. “Cairo?”
“Who else would it be?”
I moved into the kitchen, taking the whiskey bottle with me. I returned with a glass of water and a bowl of pretzels. He didn’t even argue. We had our routine down by now.
Dad sipped his water—swaying slightly, and splashing some on the floor while I cleaned.
“I’m sorry, son,” he rasped.
“Just give me the name.”
“I... don’t want it to be this way.”
“Name, Dad.” My voice was hard. I was entitled.
“It’s just— It’s just—” He burst into tears. “I can’t say no. I w-want to. I do.”
“We’ve done this for ten years and you’re still singing the same song,” I said.
I wiped up the last of the sick and tossed the paper towels in the trash. Going back to my father, I made him eat a handful of pretzels. I made sure there was always food in the house. Didn’t stop him drinking himself to death on an empty stomach every time.
“But this is what a son does, steps into his father’s place. What you can’t do, I can.”
He sobbed harder. Tears and snot ran down unshaven salt-and-pepper scruff.
“I’m sorry. For everything. I wanted to be a good father. A good man. I wasn’t strong enough.”
I wasn’t about to dispute that.
“Let’s go. Time for—”
Dad grabbed me, burying his face in my shirt. “You’re a good son. The best I could’ve asked for,” he wailed. “I love you.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, trying to peel him off me.
“I do. I love”—he hiccuped—“you. I don’t say it enough. I don’t tell you how proud I am of you, but it’s true all the same.”
I got out of his hold and slung his arm around my shoulder.
“You’re all I have.”
He tried to hug me. I put a firm hand on his chest, keeping him back.
“Give me the name, Dad.”
Jack sniffled. “I’ll do it this time. I can—”
“No, you can’t. You couldn’t then, you can’t now.” I made him look at me. “Tell me the name.”
When the words came, they came slow.
“Axel. Axel Verlice.”
“What did he do?” I asked tonelessly.
“Started a side business. Cut us—her out of the profits.”
“Unwise.” I half carried him out of the dining room. “The situation will be taken care of.”
“Just don’t hurt him.”
“Don’t tell me how to do your job,” I bit off.
Jack fell silent.
He didn’t speak during the time I helped him out of the uniform and holster, cleaned him up, and pulled the covers to his chin. I left once to get another cup of water and put it by his bedside. I checked to make sure his pillows propped him on his side, then eased onto the rocking chair in the corner, picking up a book on the dresser.
I’d most likely be here till the morning, ensuring he didn’t choke on his vomit or die of alcohol poisoning.
Settling in, I picked up The Picture of Dorian Gray, where I left off.
People asked why my bedroom in the Bedlam House locked from the outside. The answer was simple and not shared.
It was so no one realized how rarely I slept in my room.
Chapter Eleven
Rainey
I woke early the next morning and watched the sun rise on Bedlam University.
Roan was correct about my short reprieve. Jacques came home and brought me down to the doghouse. He wasn’t shy about making me change into my home clothes, either.
It didn’t bother me as much as it should.
Which bothered me.
I dozed on and off throughout the night. Sleeping, I lay half in the doghouse. Awake, I snuck snacks from the kitchen, munching and thinking.
What did it say about me that I didn’t put up much of a fight at wearing a collar and sleeping on the floor in the living room? What did it mean that I looked at Roan and saw both the devilish imp and the vicious manipulator? I saw cold, arrogant Jacques and the man who cracked his knuckles, beating a guy who threw a drink on me. What did it mean that violent, rough rape-fantasy sex had become the staple of my relationship with Cairo, and as much as years of social programming said I should, this didn’t make me fear or hate him?