Page 7 of Saints & Sailors

She wiped at her eyes. “I love you.”

Did she? Did this look like love to her? Because it sure as shit didn’t feel like it. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

She hiccupped and I scowled.

This was my fresh start. Richard had pulled major strings so I didn’t have to do time over my little joyride or the breaking and entering. Even Jack and the guys walked away free. I should’ve been grateful, really I should’ve, but all I felt was anger.

I wasn’t perfect. Far from it, but I couldn’t believe she was shunning me. Couldn’t believe she was giving up on me and sending me away.

My mother clearly hadn’t known my father all that well, or else she would’ve foreseen herself being abandoned with a baby to take care of. Now, I was subjected to go and live with the guy.

I wasn’t afraid, but on my toes. Unsure of what type of person he was.

I kept a utility knife on my keychain—not that it would do me much good with how long it took to get the damn thing open.

Hopefully I wouldn’t have to stab my father or fight him.

When it came time for me to board the bus, I allowed my mother to wrap her arms around me. Because I was sure I’d miss some form of her always bitching at me, I told her to have a nice life.

And then I took the early bus to nowhere.

Traveling two days by bus was hell. There were multiple buses, or transfers, instead of a straight shot. Each bus was crowded with smelly people, crying children, and some moron who insisted upon carrying a conversation.

Each time I arrived at a transit center, I contemplated taking off and running away. I still had my debit card—if my mother hadn’t cut me off yet.

As many times as it crossed my mind, I didn’t run. I just endured. Too tired to come up with a solid plan and destination anyway.

After leaving early Friday morning, I arrived in Atlanta, Georgia, Sunday evening, exhausted and stiff.

I gathered my luggage from the bus and made my way inside the transit center. It felt like I’d been awake for days without a bite to eat. There’d been a few stops that offered the convenience of fast-food chains, but what I wanted was a real meal.

That was the one thing the Asshole was good for. He could grill and cook like no other.

It dawned on me as I was coming through the station that I didn’t even know what my own father looked like.

How fucked-up was that?

I knew I had a father, or else I wouldn’t be here, but the living, breathing version of him never existed outside of my mother’s tale of their brief union and my conception.

How had she even gotten into contact with him after all this time?

Nonchalantly as possible, I scanned the crowded station.

I saw him before he saw me. He was standing by the exit. Smart.

Standing by the back of an Asian family was a lone man holding up a sign.

Party for Saylor Stanley

He’d even drawn a smiley face on the end.

I cringed at the corniness before taking him in.

He had dark eyes, dark hair, a nice tan, and faint scruff across his jawline. In another life, he was probably handsome. Now he just looked tired and nervous. In his collared shirt and jeans, I took in the fact that he had a sleeve of tattoos on one arm. A vivid array of intricate pieces that didn’t seem to hold any color.

Huh.

At least he wasn’t clean-cut like the Asshole.