Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 409(@300wpm)
“Is that an apology?” She smirked.
“Somewhat. A half apology.”
“Oh. How big of you.” She grinned.
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“Good, because I’m not Jesus. So… why do you hate my ilk?”
“Okay, to explain what happened, I need to put it in context. So basically, my parents had some problems when Irish and I were kids. Long, terribly depressing story short, my mother lost custody of us and we were sent to my grandparents. My father lived with them at the time because he was broke. They’d been divorced for a couple of years, and he just couldn’t get on his feet. I told you he was a singer and a musician.” She nodded. “He didn’t make a lot of money from those performances, so he tried to get other jobs, but for him I guess, it just wasn’t worth it. They didn’t pay enough and what not. He didn’t have an education or much work experience, either.”
He stopped speaking as the waiter approached and set their food before them. Once the coast was clear, he began again.
“So anyway, for the first year or two, for the most part, things were fine. My dad got some gigs, worked odd jobs, and my grandparents chipped in for our care. My father tried to help with our homework, and though he wasn’t exactly hands on all the time, he did try, and he was affectionate and funny. He was a good father, better than many, I’m sure.”
She nodded and plunged her spoon in her miso soup that came with her meal.
“Go on.”
“Irish and I finally had some stability. Our grandparents were great. My father wasn’t a drug addict or alcoholic, nothin’ like that, but he started hanging around with some so-called friends, fellow musicians, and a few of them were big time druggies. One of ’em had been a good friend of his since he was a kid. So, there was some history there. He trusted him. Boogie, they called him. Boogie and his buddies committed crimes to support their habit. Home invasions. Theft rings targeting stores. Shit like that. My dad got involved, seemed like easy money to him, and uh, once he got through the first one, he kept doing it.
“We didn’t know what he was up to, at least Irish and I didn’t and if my grandparents felt like he may have been involved in something, I doubt they believed it was anything like that. I do have one memory though where I started seeing money showing up.”
“Money showing up? Like lying around your grandparents’ house?”
“Not exactly. It was stashed under his bed in a shoebox. I had found it when I went looking for some toys that had rolled under there one day. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was saving that up for me and Irish. He wanted to move us out to a nice apartment, and he was also about to get a job at a music equipment store. Something a bit more stable. At least, that’s what he told our grandparents. He’d lied to them and said the money came from painting houses and doing repairs. So, as you can imagine, eventually Boogie and my dad got busted.” He paused to take a sip of wine, then took a deep inhale. With his eyes closed, he resumed talking… “My dad got shot and killed by a guy in a house they’d broken into—they thought the couple was on vacation, but they were in there, asleep. My father opened the bedroom door, the guy saw him, grabbed his gun, and shot him point blank in the chest.”
Honey dropped her gaze, took a deep breath, then looked back at him. Such pain.
“My dad was an only child. This was my grandparents’ only kid. They were good people, Honey—did all they could for him. My father wasn’t a bad person… just made some wrong turns.” He shook his head. “He never wanted to hurt nobody. He sang love songs, for God’s sake. So, that happened… but guess what? Before we even know he’s dead, the news comes on, right? And it shows my dead father on the fucking floor in the house.”
Honey bit on her bottom lip and shut her eyes.
“I’m a little kid, sitting there with my SpaghettiOs, next to Irish. I remember it like it was yesterday. I dropped the bowl and it shattered. Little yellow pieces of ceramic everywhere, splattered with tomato sauce all over the television, the walls… like blood splatter. I kept staring at my dad, dead on the floor. It felt like they showed him for hours, but it had to have been only seconds. Blood all over him. My grandmother walked into the room and started screaming. The phone started ringing. My grandfather snatched me and Irish away from the television.
“Red and blue lights filled the house as cop cars arrived. That phone never stopped ringing… The doorbell also rang. My grandfather tried to force me up the steps, but I wouldn’t go. I fought him until I got out of his hands. I raced to the door. I wanted to escape… run outside and tell the cops they had it wrong, and that I was going outside to find my daddy. The police grabbed me. Wasn’t long before they got my grandmother to come to the door so they could give her the news we already knew. My father was dead. My grandmother, still in shock, collapsed to the floor. She dropped like a pile of concrete. It was a whirlwind… it was a nightmare. My horrible reality.