Shit.
Irritated, I grabbed a hair band and pulled it back into a haphazard bun. I wasthiscloseto cutting it off and rocking a pixie cut like Tyn. But my head was too big.
I finally jumped on the expressway to LAX around twelve-forty-five. I felt like shit for not picking my mother up on time. Especially since she’d spent eleven hours on a plane.
Get yourself together, Rissa.
I stared at the road ahead, maneuvering through traffic. Safely, of course. Zara was right. I hated driving. If I hadn’t been preoccupied, I would’ve hired a car service to pick Mom up, but nooooo . . .
When did I become the girl who forgot the world around me for good dick?
I was neverthatgirl.
But Iwasthat woman. For years, I’d let myself believe. I thought I’d found the treasure, a man who ran circles around my father, the man who would love me, the man who would never abandon me.
I’d fully immersed myself into the fairytale, complete with a palatial estate in Malibu, political capital, and the handsome prince who knew how to make me come.
All of Rick’s red flags were obscured through my rose-colored pussy. Either that or I was too caught up in the flowery scent of his love. The whispered promises of forever, the loving glances, the extravagant dinners, the status.
When it all crashed and burned, I’d promised myself that I would avoid the minefield, that I would stop looking for forever in empty promises. Then, Asa made me an irresistible offer, a night to forget and a night to remember. And somehow, he’d changed my worldview.
I’m confused as fuck.
I’d been fucking up since I let him walk in that hotel room with me.
A few years ago, I would’ve run like hell away from a man who got his best friend pregnant, hid it, and acted like the kid was his nephew. That entire scene with Karmashould’vebeen the shit that doused my little flame.
That was all good in theory—andin action. At first.
After Karma scurried away in her orthopedic shoes and mom jeans, I’d managed to excuse myself, ordering a rideshare and leaving Tyn to talk toherbrother alone.
I’d pulled myself together enough to give him my best and dip.
But . . .
Instead of going home, doing all the things I should’ve been doing during the day, I’d plopped myself on the couch and ate a steady diet of junk food for the rest of the day. Because what the hell?
I worked hard every damn day. People looked tomefor guidance. Shit, I received three hundred emails a day from leadership, colleagues, subordinates, and my family.
And what was I doing?
Obsessing about a man who’d abandoned his son.
But that was the thing. I couldn’t even fathom him doing something like that. Not Asa. He wasn’t my father. He wouldn’t do that.
There was a strong possibility that he had, though. But I didn’t stick around to ask the question. I didn’t want to hear the answer. Just the thought of him doing that made me angry. Because I’d been the child longing for a relationship with my father.
Alexander Reid was a deadbeat. He’d made a lot of money playing pro ball, but was stingy with his time, with his love. At one point in time, I would’ve given up every gadget, my car, and financial security to go fishing with him, to hear him tell me he was proud of me, to see him in the crowd during one of my dance recitals.
He never came.
I’d seen him, what? Two times in the last decade? One of those times was my wedding, and he’d had the nerve to be upset that I’d asked Jax to walk me down the aisle.
My neighbor was more of a father-figure than my own dad. Jax had been there for me and Zara. He’d attended events, presented me at my debutante ball, and offered me valuable advice when I needed it, while my father was living his best life with the skank of the month.
It was hard to believe Asa would do that to a kid. Not when he had amazing parents of his own. Papa Stew and Mama Vicki were #RelationshipGoals. They were active, present fixtures in their children’s lives. Reminded me of The Huxtables with a Philip and Vivian Banks aesthetic.
Why would Asa circle the drain into punk-muthafucka territory?
