Page 79 of Bared

“Père,” the man echoed, as if forming the word for the first time. “Paipanne. That means…”

“Yes,” she filled in, voice strangled with feeling. The wet spot on LaBarre’s shirt started to grow. “That means I have finally found you. That you have finally found me.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” The man was definitely still back in Ohio, commenting as if confirming he wanted fries instead of onion rings. “You’re so…pretty.”

The compliment, despite its detachment, was a new turbo switch for Jayd’s tear ducts. But that wasn’t the only punched button here. Brick flipped a knob inside himself too. One he hadn’t twisted so high in a long time.

A switch labeled Suspicion.

“Merderim, Paipanne,” she said with laughing underlines. “You are quite dashing, as well.”

Brick managed—barely—to pull back his bugged glare. Dashing? Was she kidding? More and more, he likened the man to a walking MRU packet. He was pale and thin, even for a dude who likely skipped meals during creative jags. His pupils were like dehydrated peas. His breaths were erratic, as if someone had just jangled a remember-to-inhale bell in his ear.

Clearly, Jayd saw none of that. Her massive rose-colored glasses were firmly in place. Would Brick have expected—or wanted—it any other way?

He didn’t waste time answering himself. It was easier to put it into action instead. He did so by finally taking that step, which placed his chest flush to Jayd’s head, and reached over with his palm extended. “Monsieur LaBarre. Bonsoir. Name’s Max Brickham. Should I get us a table?” Though he wondered why the man hadn’t snagged one already. If the pub was closing off that section for the night, why had the guy insisted they meet here?

No answers on that from LaBarre. He glanced over like Brick was merely a moth buzzing by. The man was fully fixated—or whatever his glassy eyes and simpering smile meant—on Jayd. He leaned closer to her, like he was the moth and she was his hypnotic light.

“You are…really my daughter?” he murmured, barely audible even in this laid-back room.

“And are you really thinking with a full deck, man?” For that, Brick got a princess-sized backhand in the chest. But just when he thought Jayd might repeat the retaliation, she returned her grip to LaBarre instead.

“Yes,” she rasped. “I really am. It is nice to meet you. Wait. No.” She laughed out the negation. “It is not just nice. It is amazing. And wonderful. Oh, Paipanne!”

Her effusion washed over LaBarre like oil over water. How Brick wished the comparison was an exaggeration, but that wasn’t the case. The man literally stood there like a dormant oil spill, slightly curious about why a thousand tears were aggravating his surface gloss.

“Paipanne,” the man finally echoed. “That sounds so familiar…”

“It’s Arcadian,” Brick pointed out. “You probably heard a lot of words like it when you were there.”

LaBarre blinked slowly. “When I was where?”

“Arcadia.” Jayd supplied it this time, though she nearly extended it into a question. “You remember it, do you not, Father? Arcadia. It is an island. And while you were there—”

“Arcadia,” LaBarre blurted, detaching his hand from hers to rub his temple. “It is…an island? I was on an island once…”

“Yes,” she said, cracking something in Brick’s chest with her blatant, desperate hope. “You were. And you met my maimanne there. The queen.”

“The queen.” He smiled, though he kept the kneading fingers at his forehead. “So that means you are the princess?”

She laughed again, though her emotion was strained. Nervous. Forced. “I—ermmm—well, yes, I am, at least still on paper.”

“Magnifique,” the man exclaimed. “Yes, that is good. A very good thing to know.”

“I suppose.” Jayd tilted her head and crunched her brows. “But was it not something you knew already, Father?”

“I’ll second that.” Brick pivoted forward a little, saving the brunt of his incisive stare for Monsieur Peas-For-Eyes. “Do you really not know why they disappeared you out of Arcadia, buddy?”

La Barre jerked his head up. “They did what? To who?”

“Christ on sourdough.”

“What?” Jayd countered, joining her father in the scrutinizing stare. “Brickham?”

He tugged her back by a few steps, not bothering to beg an excuse from LaBarre. He doubted the guy would notice, and he was right.

“Your father… I’m sorry, sweetheart, but he isn’t right,” he murmured for her ears only. “And I don’t have a good feeling about it.”