AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Two
Nate Reynolds’s good mood evaporated the second he stepped inside his house. The booze-drenched air clogged his nostrils, and the familiar sight of his father passed out on the living room couch with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in his hand chased away any lingering amusement Nate felt after his conversation with the beautiful brunette from the parking lot earlier.
Kris.
She’d been a favorite of Alchemy’s male staff since she first showed up at the cafe a few weeks ago. She was a regular now, but her perfect hair and designer clothes screamed “spoiled princess,” which was why Nate had steered clear of anything resembling flirting. His coworkers could drool over her sultry looks and aloof haughtiness all they wanted, but uppity rich girls weren’t his type.
However, she’d turned out to be more intriguing than he’d expected—fiery and sharp-tongued, instead of dull and vapid like the few heiresses he’d hooked up with in the past. Kris’s extravagant five-figure offer didn’t hurt, either. Nate may not like spoiled rich girls, but he had no problem taking their money, and God knew his family needed the green. However, the idea of selling his body for cash—even if he was only pretending to do so—caused his stomach to churn with nausea.
Nate had forty-eight hours to decide whether his values were worth the roof over his head.
I’ll deal with it later.
He had more pressing issues at hand—namely, getting his father up to his room and airing out the sickly smell of whiskey before Skylar returned home.
Michael Reynolds grunted and shifted in his sleep. He’d been a handsome man once, with the same sharp bone structure and olive complexion as his son, but age, grief, and alcohol had transformed him into a shell of the person he used to be.
A familiar cocktail of resentment, resignation, and weariness bubbled in Nate’s veins as he opened all the windows and spritzed the air with a lemony-smelling spray Skylar had bought on their last Walmart run. He tidied up the things Michael had knocked over—the umbrella stand in the tiny entry hall, the framed picture of a ten-year-old Nate and four-year-old Skylar on the side table—before attempting to pry good ol’ Jack from his father’s hands.
Michael stirred. Nothing kicked his ass into gear like the threat of being separated from his precious alcohol.
“Nate?” His bleary, bloodshot eyes blinked up at his son. “Whaddaya doing here?”
“I live here,” Nate said, voice clipped. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”
Michael was supposed to be job hunting. He’d gotten laid off from his construction gig for showing up to work late and drunk, and he’d said he would find another job soon.
That had been two months ago.
“I sent out a few resumes,” Michael mumbled. “Don’t know what happened after that. Must’ve fallen asleep.”
Nate exhaled a controlled breath. His patience with his father had run out a long time ago. He understood Michael’s heartbreak—he and Skylar battled the same grief. No matter how many years passed, the sadness lingered in their household like a dark fog that wouldn’t go away.
But life didn’t stop moving because you were sad, and Michael had two children to take care of. Since he’d traded in his responsibilities for the oblivion only found in a bottle, Nate had taken over as de facto head of the household.
He was twenty-three, but he acted more like a father to Michael than Michael did to him.
“Shower and get dressed. Skylar will be home soon,” Nate ordered.
He knew when to pick his battles. There was no use pushing Michael on the job hunt when he was like this—he’d just stare at Nate with that empty look in his eyes, like he’d lost the will to live.
He basically had five years ago, when Joanna Reynolds got on a plane home from visiting her best friend in Chicago. She’d never arrived. Her plane had suffered a mechanical failure and crashed in the Rockies, leaving behind no survivors and dozens of devastated families, including Nate’s own.
Michael struggled to sit up. “Didya get any new roles this week?” he asked.
It was both his and Nate’s dream for Nate to become a successful actor, only they had wildly different motivations. Nate had dreamed of taking over the big screen since he was a child; Michael just wanted Nate to earn enough money to keep him flush with alcohol.
Yeah, no.
Once Nate had the cash, he would ship his father off to the best rehab he could find. Maybe then, he could glue the pieces of his family back together.
“I had a modeling gig,” Nate said, sidestepping the question as he looped an arm under Michael’s and pulled the older man to his feet.
Nate took the occasional odd job to supplement his salary from the cafe—modeling, catering, bartending. It didn’t matter as long as they paid him. Every dollar counted.
The Reynoldses weren’t destitute. There were families in far worse straits than theirs, but between Michael’s unemployment and alcohol addiction, Skylar’s expenses as an incoming high school senior, and Nate’s acting aspirations, they were stretched paper-thin. Thin enough that rent day sent spirals of anxiety tunneling through Nate’s body every month.
If Nate were selfless, he’d cut back ruthlessly on their spending and give up his dreams of Hollywood stardom. The pursuit of an onscreen career wasn’t cheap—headshots, acting classes, an inordinate amount of gas spent driving all over L.A. for auditions and networking events. It added up. He’d dropped the acting classes when Michael lost his job, but it wasn’t enough.
