On the Run (Vagabonds #1) Page 8

  She swallowed and let some air out of a thin slit between her lips. “I don’t expect you to understand, Ky, but I love your father…and I will find a way to forgive him.” I scowled but said nothing. What was I supposed to say? I had nothing to give him—he’d betrayed me when he’d betrayed my mother, and I felt nothing but contempt for him right now. So I just nodded and then looked down at my hands in my lap. As much as I loved my mother, I wasn’t happy with her right now either and, more than anything else, I just wanted this moment to end.

  But mom wasn’t done yet. “I suppose you’re wondering what you heard last night.” I swallowed. Oh, Jesus. I did not want to talk about that. I glanced up at her, hoping my eyes didn’t give away what I knew. “You trying to tell me you and Decker weren’t here?”

  I blinked. “I didn’t say that.” I didn’t care if mom knew Decker and I had been intimate, but I didn’t want to fucking discuss her sex life. Gross.

  “You were here.” Like a typical mom, though, she caught me off guard. “Wanna tell me what the two of you were doing?”

  I couldn’t help the half smile that turned up my lips before I could stop it. I might have even blushed—probably for one of the last times in my life. “Hanging out.”

  Mom tipped my head up with a finger under my chin, forcing me to make eye contact. “In your bed?”

  Fuck. How did she know? And was it important in the grand scheme of things? I felt a little ire rise in my belly, though, and said, “What does it matter what I was doing with Decker?”

  She cleared her throat. “Do you need to wash your sheets?”

  Yeah…there’d been some blood in them—but I’d had period accidents worse than that. She was right on the money, though—I’d lost my virginity to my boyfriend and the act had bloodied my sheets. Even if not, sex was messy…and that gave me an idea that I knew might get me slapped. My mother had never been violent with me before, but she’d been behaving completely out of character for the past week. Why not see if I could push her over the edge? “Do you?”

  Instead, she threw me for another loop. “Maybe.” I chuckled, feeling more like the mother in this moment, and I shook my head. What the hell else was there to say?

  Somehow, the awkward moment ended with me and mom in a stilted hug, and then I made an excuse that I needed to go to the bathroom so I could get away. Mom seemed to feel better, and I supposed that was all that mattered. I needed to play the shit out of my guitar to wash all the weird crap out of my head and heart, but before I had a chance to hook it up to my amp, I heard the vibration of my phone on my nightstand. As I walked over to pick it up (thinking it might be Decker), I looked at the screen and saw that it wasn’t my boyfriend. In fact, it was no one I knew—at least, no one programmed into my phone. It was just ten digits and I didn’t recognize them in that pattern.

  A wrong number.

  So later, as my fingers worked out another Judas Priest solo, when my phone vibrated again, I didn’t hear it, and—even if I had—I would have ignored it. And, that afternoon, when I checked out my missing calls, I sneered and pretended not to see that my father had called. For the hundredth or so time.

  But the next morning, as I got ready to get in the shower, my mom asked me to have a cup of coffee with her. She wasn’t going to pull any punches, either. “Ky, you need to call your dad.”

  “Uh, no, I fuckin’ don’t.”

  “Don’t talk to me that way.” I drew in a deep breath but said nothing. “Show me a little respect.”

  “That was for him, not you.”

  “Still…don’t you think your dad blames me because you’re not talking to him?”

  I grew quiet then, realizing that she was dealing with not just her own issues with my asshole father, because of the hurt he’d caused her, was probably continuing to cause her, but then she had to fend off accusations that she was poisoning me. Well, maybe dad needed to hear it from me, that he was the cause, not my mother. It wasn’t that I didn’t think mom didn’t deserve some of my anger for lying down and taking it and then acting like a teenager herself, but she certainly didn’t need dad blaming her for the wrath he’d earned from me fair and square.

  I sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll call him—but I make no guarantees about what I say.”

  Mom’s face showed relief. “That’s fine. Say whatever you need to say. Just…call.”

  I nodded and started pecking on my phone, hoping she’d get the hint and drop the subject. A few months ago, I would have loved to have either one of my parents ask me to share coffee with them, but now? I just wanted to be left alone. I knew it wasn’t my mom’s intent, but I was beginning to feel like a pawn in their game, and I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t want to feel used by my parents—and yet that was exactly how I felt.

  She stood and poured more coffee in her cup but her gaze didn’t leave my face. I stood as well, looking up from my phone. “I’ll call.” And then, as if words could force her to stir her coffee and quit staring at me, I added, “I promise.” I wanted to also say, “So get the fuck off my back,” but I was a good daughter and kept my mouth shut.

  I left the kitchen, glancing down at my phone again. I was irritated at having to do this, but I knew I might as well get it over with. I sighed again and walked up to my room, scowling the whole way.

  On my way there, my phone rang again. That same number that had called me the day before and hadn’t left a message was dialing my number again. I let it go to voicemail and, when I got to my room, sat on the bed, waiting a few minutes to let a voicemail appear, but it didn’t. I was growing irritated that my newfound mad caller wasn’t bothering to leave a message. That was one of my pet peeves. If it was worth dialing me for, it was worth leaving a message. Besides, it was rude not to.

  I didn’t realize at the time that I was irritated with the caller who wouldn’t leave a message more than I normally would be simply because I was projecting the anger I felt for my father on that person. In fact, I was still in a snit when I touched the green button on my phone’s screen so I could connect with my dad.

  I honestly didn’t know what to expect when he answered, either…or if he even would. And if he didn’t, should I leave a message? If I didn’t, I would be doing exactly what— “Kyle, punky. So glad you called.”

  I almost puked when I heard him call me punky. He’d lost that right. And yet my eyes welled up with tears anyway.

  I swallowed. He would never know how much he’d hurt me because I wasn’t going to give him that power. Instead, I decided right that second that while sex might be a weapon, putting off the vibes that you were untouchable was great armor, and I’d have to adjust, but I could do it. “Yeah. What did you need?”

  Even I was shocked at the cool temperature of my voice, but no way was I going to let on. Dad was silent for a few seconds before he said, “I thought maybe you and I could go out to breakfast this morning.”

  Oh, yeah, so we can catch up. Great idea. But I said yes and promised to meet dad at Village Inn in one hour…without knowing if I’d be able to actually eat.

  Chapter Eleven

  I ACTUALLY ARRIVED at the restaurant before dad did, and I sat in a booth next to a big window facing the highway, just like we used to when we were on the road. I began feeling a little panicked. If dad brought his tramp along, wanting to introduce me and get my blessing, he was in for a rude surprise…and I didn’t know that I could control myself if that happened. My emotions were all over the place, and I’d done well containing them thus far. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I had to keep my comments to myself in an attempt to be civil.

  And then I decided not to. If dad had the balls to bring her here, I’d give it to her—and him—with both barrels. Not like they didn’t have it coming.

  But I was all knotted up for no good reason. I looked up from the menu one last time to see the waitress escorting dad to my table…and he was completely alone.

  Guess dad was smart after all. I glanced back down at the
menu, not sure if I could handle looking him in the eye right now. I hadn’t realized till now just how utterly pissed at him I was. He was a cheating bastard—I had figured out that much—and if he thought playing the you’re-my-little-punky card right now would get him out of the hot seat…he had yet another think comin’, ‘cause I wasn’t in the mood.

  But he was still my dad and we had all that history—all those good times, and I did have mostly good feelings for him. So, needless to say, I was conflicted and confused by the time he sat down at the table, and I had no idea what to say to him.

  Fortunately, he began talking. “Have you ordered yet?” I shook my head.

  Before dad could continue, the waitress approached our table and asked, “Can I bring you some coffee?”

  Dad nodded and I said, a little miffed that she hadn’t asked me when she’d seated me, “Two, please.”

  She smiled, a little too large but it would do. “Of course. I’ll be back to take your orders in just a moment.” She placed a menu in front of dad, but as she walked away, he didn’t even touch it. His eyes were on me. They weren’t angry or worried or upset. They were…just my dad’s. And in that moment—that moment of weakness, or vulnerability, or humanity, whatever you want to blame it on—all was not forgiven, but I was willing to listen.

  Damn him.

  I didn’t smile, but I felt my features soften. It’s hard to glare at your daddy when he looks upon you with so much affection and unconditional emotional bullshit. I swallowed, still not ready to talk but a tad mollified.

  But he started out by almost acting like everything was normal. “Know what you want yet?”

  That reignited my irritation. “I don’t know that I’m hungry.” And I really didn’t. Eating at a time like this…seemed irreverent.

  But dad gave me that look. It was the “Come on, punky; pull up on those bootstraps” look. It had always been part encouragement and part expectation, and the look had communicated in the past that he expected more out of me (“Just one more try, kiddo!”) but that he had my back.

  Only now I wasn’t sure about the latter. I didn’t know if he was trying to cover his ass at this point. But I knew I had to try to have an open mind.

  Try. That was all I could do—and he’d better be happy with it. “Fine, dad. I’ll order…something.” Too bad we were at Village Inn and not some more upscale place where they served mimosas. I’d order one just to see the look on his face. Here, though, coffee—and lots of it—would have to do.

  So we ordered—dad got some huge egg-y breakfast and I asked for pancakes, assuming I wouldn’t eat any—and then I could see he was ready to get down to business. I wondered if I would hear the truth or a lie or some mixture of the two…but I was pretty sure I’d know what it was when I heard it.

  He took a sip of his coffee and then folded his hands on the table behind the cup before speaking. “You know, punky, sometimes things happen between people that you can’t necessarily understand.” I couldn’t help the eye roll. It just happened…but dad caught it and he gave me one of his looks. But he didn’t say a word, and I don’t know if it was because he felt guilty and knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on—or if he truly thought I was in the wrong but wanted to give me a pass just the same for the sake of mending a fence. So I pursed my lips closed and wrapped my nervous fingers around the coffee mug. Part of me wanted to stand up, tell him to fuck off, and storm out the door. I was so angry.

  But I still loved my daddy.

  I think my eyes must have softened, because he finally said, “I hope you’ll understand when you grow up.”

  Oh, God, that was it. He was treating me like a little kid. Me. I’d just lost my virginity the night before last. In fact, I was still sore from my first time trying out sex, but that act alone had made me feel more adult. There was more to it, though, and that was the feeling that I was having to help my mother cope with her emotions. I was seething, but I managed to keep myself from a loud outburst that would have drawn attention to our table. It was bad enough being one of the newer families to this sleepy college town; my father’s indiscretion made us stand out even more, but if I lost my shit? We’d probably be the laughingstock for all time. I understood that even then.

  But he had no problems comprehending my anger. My voice was super quiet, but there was no mistaking how I felt about the matter. “Oh, I understand perfectly, dad. There was some cute college girl you couldn’t resist, so you fucked her.” If my words hadn’t pissed dad off so badly, I think his jaw would have crashed to the table top. But before he could chew my ass, I had to get in one last dig. “Oh, sorry. She sucked your dick, right? That’s not exactly fucking. At least, I think I learned about one of our presidents saying that once.”

  Oh, shit. I’d crossed a line—I could see that by how calm he remained. He didn’t speak at first, but I saw his pupils grow large as his blood pressure spiked. I’d struck some nerve.

  I’d been afraid at first but then I felt justified. I was right, and the truth hurt. He could be pissed all he wanted, but I, at least, had the moral high ground. I almost wanted to taunt him now, ask him what he was going to do about it, but, instead, I decided to keep my mouth shut at this point. I was right. I didn’t need to smear salt into that wound.

  He took a large gulp of his coffee and set the cup back down on the table, the sound of it seeming to echo in my hollow ears. When he finally spoke, his voice had an eerie quality of complete control, and I felt afraid again—for no good reason. This was my dad, and he loved me, in spite of the fact that I was being a hateful shit. “Is that what your mom’s been telling you?”

  “Seriously, dad? You think she’s tattling on you?” It was so in my worst interests, but I couldn’t keep the snotty-ass tone out of my voice.

  Still spookily serene. “What am I supposed to think?”

  “She’s not. I overheard you guys fighting the night you left.”

  His face went pale then, just for a second, and it was in stark contrast to how red his neck had been turning as I’d poked and prodded him, pushing button after figurative button. “You heard everything?”

  I couldn’t keep it up. Being whisked mentally back to that night gave me a glimpse at the little girl inside me, the one who loved her daddy, the one who was disappearing by leaps and bounds on a daily basis. I managed to fight back any tears, managed to keep my voice from sounding scared, alone, or afraid…but my vulnerability still got through somehow. “You missed the talent show that night.”

  And then I could see it in his eyes—the realization that I was still a girl, that, for all my tough talk, I continued to be his young daughter, someone impressionable, someone who could be hurt by the actions of her caretakers (or lack of giving a shit). Knowing that he’d had that revelation steeled me. His lips turned down and he said, “Oh, punky. I’m sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, it sounds lame, but we were so busy—fighting, we missed it. If there’s another time—”

  I couldn’t recapture that bitter edge I’d had to my voice earlier, and I supposed whatever I could muster would have to do. What my dad didn’t know was that what the teachers let fly as talent one year might not be appreciated a year later. And, even if I could do it the next year, there would never again be a first time. You can only be a virgin once… “There might not ever be a next time.”

  He knew it was true—and, for once, he had no easy answers. So, when the waitress brought our plates, we ate our hot breakfasts in cold resignation, and I wondered if I’d ever find it easy to talk to my dad again…or find something akin to love in my heart for the man, because right now, I wasn’t sure what I felt—but it sure as shit wasn’t love.

  Chapter Twelve

  DECKER ASKED ME out on a real live date. Yeah, we’d been hanging out together all the time, went to each other’s homes, spent less time with our friends—we were viewed as a couple, in fact—but we hadn’t dated. There was no going to the movies together, no watching a baseball game together, no g
oing to a school dance or a restaurant together.

  But the coming Friday was going to change all that.

  There was some spring fling dance thing and Decker wanted to take me to it. The problem was I’d never been a girlie girl. I wasn’t big on wearing dresses and never had professionally manicured nails. In fact, I didn’t see the point of those fuckin’ things—no way I could ever shred a guitar with long nails. Sure, I liked to paint them, but they were always short. They had to be out of necessity. And then shit like jewelry—sure, I liked the occasional necklace and I loved rings. I liked earrings okay too, and piercings could be very hot on the right person, but there were no piercings on me—not then, anyway. Makeup, too. I liked some eyeliner, a little mascara, some eyeshadow when I felt like it, but lipstick and blush and even foundation seemed overrated. I hated perfume too, at least the flowery shit my friends wore.

  So I was worried as hell about the dance, but my mother assured me that Decker didn’t care what I wore.

  Maybe not, but I was sure he’d care if I looked like a slob.

  So, once again, I relied on the help of my part-time girlfriends. We went shopping, stopping by the two consignment shops and three thrift stores in town, because Cheri and Michelle knew I wouldn’t drop a shitload of money on a dress I’d only wear once, with or without my dad’s guilt money.

  And I have no idea to this day how I managed to let those girls talk me into it, but I wound up buying a dress that was totally not me, not in any way, shape, or form. Without their influence, I would have gone my whole life without wearing something like that damned dress. But there it was—a pink number with accents of fuchsia, semi-formal, so the length stopped somewhere mid-calf. It was snug too, and it had little spaghetti straps.

  It might not have been me, but the damned thing turned Decker into an animal.

  I felt a little awkward, but I learned two things that night. One was that I never wanted to wear pink again. The dress looked vaguely like vomit—I wasn’t a huge fan of pink anyway, but this dress color wasn’t even baby pink. Trust me—it was puke color. The second was that I could attract a lot of male attention by baring a little skin. For the first time ever, the boys at my school (yes, plural) saw my shoulders and legs. I’d never worn summer clothes to school, or they might have seen me in shorts and a tank top before then. Instead, they were seeing me as they never had before—and I had, once more, somehow captured their fascination. I felt their eyes on me—not just the boys, but the anger and hostility of their girlfriends. Some girls, like my friends, would cry and moan and groan over the concept of being under a microscope. Others might relish it. Me? I didn’t give a shit. It felt a little strange at first, but then I decided they didn’t matter.