Page 106 of Taking Turns

I stop mid-sentence.

“Excuse me?” Senator Walcott asks me.

“Uhhh…” I might be speechless. “Ummm…”

“Who are you?” he asks. “And where is Marcella?” He pushes past me. “Chella?” he calls up the stairs. “Chella?”

I stand there, looking out at the snow falling on the black car. What the fuck is happening?

“Is my daughter here or not?” Senator Walcott demands a few seconds later.

I tap the door closed and spin around, trying to pull myself together. “No, sir. Sorry. She’s… uh, at a party tonight.” Not a lie.

“Who are you? And if she’s not here, why are you here?”

Shit.

“Do you live here?”

I look around to see how much evidence there is of my habitation. The entire dining room table—which seats twelve—is completely covered with files and papers. I’ve got two pairs of shoes in the hallway, and a t-shirt hanging over the arm of the couch. The kitchen is littered with dishes I haven’t bothered to put in the dishwasher, and if that wasn’t enough, the house sound system is playing I Wanna Be Sedated, by the Ramones. A song Chella would never—ever—listen to, let alone own in her music library.

“Yeah,” I reluctantly admit. “I’m really sorry, Senator. Chella didn’t mention you’d be coming for the holiday.”

“What is your name?” he snaps at me.

I get my shit together and extend my hand. “Smith,” I say. “Smith Baldwin. I’m very sorry, sir. I just wasn’t expecting you. And we have a party tonight.” Which really isn’t a lie.

“If you have a party tonight, then why aren’t you there with her?”

“I’m meeting her there. She got off work early and I…” I don’t fucking work, but that’s not something you tell your girlfriend’s father. “And I told her to just go ahead because the party is close to work.”

Shit. I’m five minutes from her work right now. I’m totally fucking this up.

“Why don’t I call her?” I ask, walking over to the messy dining room table to try to find my phone. “Yeah,” I say to myself. “I’m gonna get her on the phone… figure this out…” I find the phone under a pile of paperwork and press her contact. I smile at him as it rings, and rings, and rings… “She’ll pick up, don’t worry,’” I say, hoping.

He glares at me.

The call goes to voicemail so I spin around and say, “Sweetheart,” as I cup my hand over the phone. “Your father is here. At home. Call me back.” I end the call and turn around to face him again. “I’m sure the music is just loud and she’ll see the message in a minute.”

I put my hands in my pockets, realize when they drop below my waist that I’m still unbuttoned—and I have no shirt on. I clear my throat. “So how long are you in town for?”

Senator Walcott just purses his lips at me, checks his watch, and then pulls out his own phone. “I’ll call her.”

But just as he says that, my phone buzzes. “Hello?” I say, smiling at him again.

“What the hell?” Chella asks.

“Your dad is here, Chella. At home. I’m here with him. At our house. He’s… a… You should talk to him.” I hand him the phone and he walks off, speaking as he goes.

What the fuck? Why didn’t she tell me he was coming to town? I would’ve crashed at the Club for a few nights.

I button my pants, grab the dirty t-shirt from the couch and pull it over my head.

Senator Walcott comes back just as I’m doing that. “We’re meeting her at the restaurant.”

“We are?” I ask. “For…”

“Dinner?” her dad snaps.