Page 97 of Spring Break Fling

“Look,” Diego said, his tone softening. “I know what Jessie did wasn’t cool. Ambushing you like that.”

“Jessie didn’t do it. Hannah did.”

“Maybe you should hear Hannah out. She seemed genuinely upset.”

“There’s nothing to hear,” I muttered. “She came here to get revenge. End of story.”

“Was that before or after she fell for you?” Diego challenged.

The words rattled me. I gripped the gas pump tighter, my knuckles turning white. “She didn’t fall for me,” I said flatly. “She had a plan. She executed it. Game over.”

“You don’t believe that,” Diego said. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be riding around Miami like a man possessed. You’d be balls deep in the next chick.”

I hung up the phone without responding.

The truth was, Diego was right. And that made everything worse.

I finished fueling my bike and pulled out onto the street, letting the wind whip against my face. Maybe if I rode fast enough, I could outrun these feelings. Outrun the memory of Hannah. Outrun the betrayal.

I continued riding, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. My bike was my only companion, the rumble of the engine a steady backdrop to my turbulent thoughts. It was my only friend. It wouldn’t fail me.

I didn’t realize where I was heading until I was already there. I did what any self-respecting disaster of a man would do when he was in a foul mood: I went looking for trouble.

The sight of my old childhood home still made my stomach twist. Paint peeling off the siding, an old couch rotting on the porch, and a broken-down truck in the yard—it was a time capsule of bad memories, but the damn thing wouldn’t stay buried. I cut the engine and waited to see if any of the occupants scrambled outside. They were like piranha swarming whenever someone showed up. They were always hoping there would be a new fix delivered or a new mark to borrow money from.

This was the epitome of walking into the lion’s den. I didn’t care. I hoped they tried to fuck with me. Even if there were ten assholes in the house, I was confident I could walk away relatively unscathed. They were old, drunk, drugged, and fucking losers.

I flung open the door. The same, nasty stench hit me like a two-by-four in the face. The air smelled like cheap beer, burnt toast, and stale cigarettes. My father and a few of his “associates” were lounging around like they were kings of their own filthy castle. I didn’t understand why they didn’t at least pick up the trash. That didn’t require money or a whole lot of energy. If you finished a burger, you put the wrapper in the trash. Two seconds.

When I stepped through the door, all eyes turned to me.

“Well, well,” my old man said, leaning back in his chair. “Look who finally showed up. Came to help your pops out?”

“Not even close,” I said, my voice low and sharp.

He laughed, a raspy sound that grated on my nerves. “Then what are you here for, son? A walk down memory lane?”

“More like a reckoning.” I took a step closer, my fists clenched at my sides. “You’ve been dragging this family through the dirt for years. You’re a deadbeat, a loser, and the worst excuse for a father I’ve ever seen.”

The room went quiet. Even the guy in the corner who’d been picking his teeth with a pocketknife paused mid-pick.

“You’ve let everyone down, but mostly, you’ve let yourself rot in this dump while the world moved on without you. I tried—God knows I tried—to pull you out of it, but you just keep choosing the gutter.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spat, his face twisting in anger.

“Oh, I don’t?” I pointed to the fading bruise around my eye, now a sickly shade of brown and yellow. “I know enough. You sent your problems to my doorstep, old man. Guys came after me because of your mess. You sent them to me. You knew what they would do when I didn’t have the cash. And why in the fuck would I have ten grand lying around? You don’t think I would do something with that kind of money? You don’t think I’d pack my shit and get as far from you as possible!”

My father’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’re so much better than me?”

“I know I am,” I said coldly. “I built something. A life. A reputation. And you? You sit here, rotting away, sending gangsters after your own son because you can’t pay your fucking debts.”

One of the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably. My father’s reputation was well known, and not in a good way.

“You didn’t pay them?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“No! You are the one that owes the debt. Not me.”

“Those guys will be back.” My father took a swig from a beer bottle. “And they won’t be nice next time.”