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“Thank you, your mother would’ve been so happy to see an event like this taking place. I imagine she is up there in heaven smiling down on us.”
The mention of my mother makes my blood boil and I curl my hand into a tight fist, wanting to swing the thing into his asshole face. He never cared about my mother, about her anxiety, her crippling depression that kept her in their bedroom all hours of the day and night well he was gone working which really meant sleeping his way through North Woods finest whores. He didn’t care about me, and he cared even less about her.
A small hand lands on my clenched fist, covering it and I look down to see a tiny smile tugging at her lips. She sees me, feels me.
Mine. My Emerson. Her touch cools my heated blood enough for me to rein in my emotions.
“I’m sure Mrs. Jefferson would’ve loved it,” Emerson adds softly, and my father’s eyes light up at the sound of her voice. I guess he should be surprised that she speaks since the last time he saw her she did everything she could to hide from him.
“Yes, yes, she would’ve,” my father says, his eyes lingering on Emerson’s body far longer than acceptable. Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him. “Well, I’m going to mingle, but have a drink and enjoy yourselves.” He directs his attention back to me and I can see the heated warning in his gaze. He told me not to fuck Emerson, not to get anywhere near her with my cock and though I haven’t… yet, I’m sure he thinks I have. He’s always been horribly judgmental of me, and who I fuck, though he did the same thing himself many years ago.
Either way, I don’t care what he has to say.
He can warn me away, cut me off, treat me like shit. None of it matters. I’m still going to do what I want to do. Turning his back to us, he dismisses us like we’re two of his hired workers. I force myself to turn and walk away, my feet moving across the floor as if they have weights tied to them. As soon as we’re out of earshot, the words spew from my mouth like word vomit.
“I hate him, truly. How can he put something like this together when he doesn’t even give a fuck about people, let alone their mental health. Saying shit like my mother would’ve loved this and she’s watching from heaven.” An exasperated laugh slips past my lips. “She killed herself so she wouldn’t have to deal with him, deal with his shit. She is sure as hell not watching from the afterlife. She killed herself and left me here.”
Moving so she can wrap her arms around me, Emerson hugs me, or at least tries to.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” she mumbles into the fabric of my tux. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, and that your father doesn’t care. I know what that’s like and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Get it together, Clark. I feel like such an ass, complaining to Em, about my father being an ass when she has gone through way worse than me. Yeah, I lost my mother, but so did she and while my father’s a piece of shit at least I’m not plagued with fear, anxiety, and nightmares. At least I wasn’t abused like I know Emerson was.
The waitress walks by with a large tray and I grab a glass of champagne, bringing the flute to my lips I take a large sip, calming the rage inside of me.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to feel sorry for me,” I say, peering down at her. I’d much rather be at home in bed with her right now than here, but we can’t always have what we want. She pulls away, and shifts back to my side, a soft smile gracing her lips but said smile slips off her face and falls to the floor the moment her eyes collide with something, no not something, someone off in the distance.
“That’s my father…” Emerson whispers, a tiny tremble in her voice, as a big burly looking man with blonde hair stalks toward us. He’s tall, almost as tall as me, and though he’s not wearing a tux that’s as flashy looking as my father’s, he still oozes that asshole look-at-me-I-have-money attitude. As he gets closer, I feel the need to shove Emerson behind me protect her, to tell this asshole who obviously didn’t protect his daughter from whoever hurt her to fuck off.
“Emerson.” His voice is deep, stern, as he comes to a stop a few feet in front of us. Our gazes collide. His eyes are the same color blue as Emerson’s, but they don’t hold the same warmth, the same energy or life. My jaw tightens and I so badly want to tell him to take a hike, but what good would that do? His gaze cuts to Emerson, who is now holding onto me like she just saw a ghost. “I would like to have a quick word with you.”
