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The Slavic cabbie hands me a card with his number on it when it stops in front of the large Tudor-style home. “You call ven done, da?”
“Sure.” I pay the cabbie, taking the card. My stomach clenches as I climb out of the car. I have absolutely no idea what my parents think of the situation with Gavin and the media’s spin on our relationship. Not a single clue. I’ve never asked them their opinions on homosexuality, always too afraid to hear something I wouldn’t like.
My mother yanks open the door mere seconds after I ring the bell. “Mitchell? Why are you ringing? Come in, son.” She pulls me inside, giving me a long, comforting hug. I allow myself to sag into the embrace for a moment before pulling back.
“Sorry, mom. I don’t know why I rang the bell. Been away too long, I guess.”
“You have,” she scolds. “Come, we’re just about ready to eat.”
“Where’s dad?” I to
e off my shoes and leave them by the front door.
“In the dining room already,” she answers. I follow her down the hall, my stomach knotting up tighter and tighter the closer I get to my father. When I enter the room I can tell just by the look on my dad’s face how this conversation is going to go.
“Mitch,” he grumbles, his tone already conveying disapproval.
“Should I bother staying?” I ask, resting a hand on the back of a chair.
My dad stares me down, his eyes narrowed. I flick my gaze to my mom who is studiously avoiding eye contact, choosing instead to dish out the meal, fluttering around the table uselessly.
“I guess I’ll go,” I announce, turning to leave.
“Wait.”
My back tenses at the sound of my father’s voice. I don’t turn to face him.
“Why? Are you going to let me explain?” I ask, fisting my hands at my sides.
“Are you really with this… person?” he spits.
The unease I had been feeling quickly morphs into red-tinged anger. Some of it is directed at myself because, up until now, I hadn’t been sure if I would deny my relationship or not. My dad just made that decision very easy.
“Don’t you dare speak badly about Gavin,” I hiss, spinning around to meet my father’s shocked expression. I’ve never talked back to Robert Hale in my life. I’d be willing to bet that not many people have. “You don’t know anything about him. If you won’t let me explain then you don’t get to judge.”
“We’re not judging, love. We just don’t understand,” my mom says, her hands shaking. I get the impression my mom does understand. Those are my dad’s words coming out of her mouth.
“Phillipa, be quiet!”
“Don’t yell at mom,” I snap.
“Son, you will not raise your voice to me in my own home!” My dad pushes his chair back and stands to his full height, matching every single inch of my six feet.
“Robert!” my mom admonishes, her mouth open in disbelief.
“I’m going,” I snarl. “Mom, I’ll call you later.” Without waiting for a reply, I stalk to the foyer, shove my feet into my boots and walk out without even tying the laces.
I slam the door shut behind me reveling in the loud bang that rattles the frame. Childish? Yes. But I could give a shit right now. Pulling out my phone, I call the number on the card given to me by the cabbie. My dad didn’t even let me speak. I just can’t believe that he wouldn’t at least listen.
The cabbie answers as I fume by the curb, pacing back and forth. The sun is low enough in the sky to cast long shadows across the grass and asphalt. One of the shadows catches my eye a second too late.
I reach for my Glock and spin.
“Hallo?” The cabbie repeats in his clipped, Eastern European accent.
A popping sound echoes down the street, cutting off my response. I have no idea where my phone is, but I can hear the faint noise of the cabbie speaking through the tiny speaker as the world goes dark.
“Hallo? Eez anyvone dere...? Hallo?”
