I raise my hand behind my back, silently telling her to give me a second as I address my father again. “What are you talking about?”
“If you hadn’t started fucking one of the Hardens, they never would’ve stopped taking my bets.”
My molars grind, but I know any breath I use to defend myself or bicker over his lack of logic will be wasted. Been there, done that. More times than I can count, if I’m being honest. Nope. Now, all I am is tired. Keeping my foot pressed against the edge of the door just in case my idiot father decides to pull a fast one despite the chain lock, I announce, “You need to leave. Now.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do!”
“If you don’t get out of here, the police are going to come and they’re going to arrest you for loitering on private property. And guess what, Virgil?” My upper lip curls in disgust. “I won’t bail you out.”
“The fuck you won’t!”
“No, really,” I grind out. “I won’t. I’m done, Dad. Okay? Go home. Sleep it off. And maybe get your head out of your ass, though I’m not holding my breath on that one. All I know is you have no reason to be here. Zero. So, go. Okay?” When I start to close the door, he slaps his hand against it.
“They’re gonna take the house, Violet” he seethes.
They? What is this man talking about?
My eyes thin as I take him in. Rumpled clothes. Unkempt hair. Add in the bloodshot eyes and the way he clings to the doorjamb like he’s on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, and I can’t help but ask, “Did you take something harder than alcohol?”
“Morgan,” he spits. “They started taking bets under the table and?—”
“What did you do?”
The man almost has the decency to look ashamed. Almost. He scratches his arm, and stares at the door. “You left me no choice.”
The pit in my stomach grows, swallowing my amazing night and turning into a black hole of resentment. I slam my hand against the wall so hard it burns, jarring him from his staring contest with a knot in the wood. “What. Did. You. Do?”
Body trembling, he insists, “It was a good bet?—”
“Tell me you're joking.” My arms turn numb, and my tongue grows in my mouth. He mentioned the house. He said they were going to take it. But he can’t be serious. It’s not his to offer. Not legally. Not that underground betting rings care about legal technicalities, but still.
His expression twists in disdain. “Don’t speak to your father that way?—”
“What father?” I say with a dejected laugh that makes me want to cry. Hell, I’m so blindsided by his confession, I can’t even think straight, let alone take into consideration where I am or who might be watching our exchange. Not anymore. Besides, I’m pretty sure this interaction is long past due. With a deep breath, I let go of the words I’ve kept bottled inside of me for years. “All you’ve ever done is take, take, take. And when taking isn’t an option anymore, you do nothing but destroy, and I am tired of it!” I shove my hair away from my face. “How could you put up the house? It’s not even yours. It’s under my name.Mine.”
“You think Morgan cares about that?” Shaking his head, he pulls out a small stack of folded papers from his second-hand coat pocket, then waves it at me. “You don’t sign over the house, I wind up in the ground. Do you understand me?”
I stare at the papers. Is he serious right now? After everything he’s put me through? He honestly thinks I’d take the fall for another mistake of his? Honestly, I’m offended he even came to that conclusion, let alone showed up on my doorstep, demanding I sign over something that doesn’t belong to him to pay for his mess.
“I don’t care!” I snap. “You ruin everything?—”
“Here we go again, my kids blaming me for everything. You’re as worthless as your brother,” he spits.
Like a bucket of water has been tossed in my face, my lungs seize, and I stare at the man who donated his sperm to bring me into this world. Brother? What brother? Wait. Am I hallucinating? I misheard him. Obviously, the sips of champagne have gone to my head, and I’ll wake up in my bed tomorrow morning with a nasty hangover and no memory of tonight or this moment at all. Because it’s the only logical conclusion as to what the hell I swear I just heard this man say. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I draw slow circles. But even then, I can’t help myself. The need for clarity. For confirmation that I misheard him—my own flesh and blood—tell me something so deceitful that even after all the shit he’s done, all the shit he’s put me through, I can’t believe it. “W-what did you just say?”
“Sign the papers?—”
“Tell me what you said,” I push. “Tell me or I shut the door and call the cops myself.”
His upper lip curls, his beady eyes nothing but thin slits. “I said you’re as worthless as your brother.”
My legs threaten to give out as I digest his words and lean against the doorjamb.
So, I was right. I’m not hallucinating. I didn’t mishear him. Didn’t jump to conclusions or misconstrue his meaning. I’m asworthless as my brother. As in…I have a brother. Why doesn’t it make me feel any better?
I shouldn’t be surprised. I always knew the odds of my dad being faithful to my mom were less than slim, but I never would’ve guessed, never would’ve actually considered the possibility of having a sibling. A real life sibling. Not one I daydreamed about playing with when I was home alone and my mom was at work, or later, when my dad showed up and locked me in my room. Yeah, I remember those moments like they were yesterday. Someone to keep me company. To commiserate with. To connect with. Resting my temple against the edge of the door, I whisper, “Did you just say I have a brother?”
With a huff of annoyance, he mutters, “Oh, so now she’s interested?—”
