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She delivers this with such a straight face that I can't keep it together. D props her hands on her hips, which makes it even worse. I can't stop the laughter, and within a few minutes, I'm wheezing. Den watches me from her spot, and when I regain control, I find myself smiling for the first time in weeks. My chest feels like a heavy weight has lifted off it, and I'm…almost happy.
I push myself up and walk over, wrapping my arms around her. "I'm sorry I didn't come to get you, D." I press my nose in her hair and inhale deeply. The signature scent of her black-bottled shampoo that costs more than my annual supply of hygiene products registers in my nose, and my body relaxes.
My best friend is here.
She returns the hug, and I tighten my hold. "I missed you, D." I didn't realize how lonely I felt until now.
She pulls back and frowns at me. "What's going on, Wes?"
Kai, who'd been lingering in the door, closes it after he gives me a brief nod. I guess I do owe the guy an apology for everything I've put him through.
I take Den's hand and lead her back to the bed, where we both settle against the headboard.
She waits patiently while I sort through my thoughts. I don't know how much I want to tell her, but at the same time, there is no question that I need to confide in someone. She is the only person that would truly understand.
"King—" My throat closes up, and I rub my hands over my face, digging my fingers into my hair. "Fuck!"
A hand lands on my thigh. "Talk to me." Den knows me too well, and she won't judge.
I wrap my arms around my midsection and turn my head to her. "King wasn't who I thought she was."
"What does that mean?" Her tone is hesitant, and after everything we've been through together, it's understandable.
"I fell for her, D. Hard," I confess, and my heart rate picks up. I admitted it as much for myself as I wanted to tell someone else.
Den's brows shoot to her hairline. "So why are you not with her?"
I draw in a deep breath, my pulse now so fast that it's almost painful. "Because she is Francis Turner's daughter."
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
The passing landscapehas long begun to blur together. At first, the constant stream of tears impaired my vision. After that, it was simple disinterest. I didn't give a fuck where I ended up. I turned my phone off hours ago when Mags wouldn't stop calling.
I guess she found my note.
After Wes walked away and my world fell apart, I broke down right there.
Grizz found me hunched over and bawling hysterically next to a fist-size hole in the wall. He didn't ask questions, only nodded at my best friend, who stood helplessly beside me. Since I didn't have a car there and Mags was busy, Kiwi texted her that I had taken off. That gave me at least three hours.
My best friend watched me run through the apartment in an attempt to find all my belongings.
He pleaded with me not to do it. "You don't need to run. Has Francis said anything? Why can't you stay?"
Kiwi still called my father by his given name—the name we knew him by before he haddied.
His car had gone through a side rail and crashed off a cliff on the Pacific Coast Highway when I was a child. My father was dead—at least, that was what the police officer had told my mother. What no one knew was that it was all a lie. He had faked his death—and for what?
I had no idea what to call the man who came back into my life a week after I buried my mom—by myself. He was neither my father nor Francis Turner to me, which was probably why I used his childhood nickname after the shock wore off: Gray.
I heard him mention it to Mom here and there, yet she was not allowed to use it. The first time I addressed him as Gray, he was livid. Thankfully, I was also pissed enough to hold my own. He had abandoned my mother—his wife—and his daughters for over a decade then leaned against my car in The Pole's parking lot like he used to when he came to pick me up from school. I lost it. I had been reliving my mother's last moments over and over in my head while I danced naked in front of middle-aged men for hours, hoping for enough tips to be able to pay the hospital bills eventually. How dare he show up like this. I punched him and cursed him out while tears streamed down my cheeks. He took it all—until I called him Gray.
His eyes had narrowed to slits, and he seethed, "Don't ever call me that again. Ever."
"Oh, yeah? Gray." I had propped my hands on my hips, eyeing him with a what-are-you-going-to-do look.
He had grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "NEVER, Kingsley! That's whotheyturned me into. Gray was never your father. I was. Am."
His reaction scared me, but not enough to back down. He had left us. I yelled until my voice gave out, hurled everything we went through because of his selfish actions at him. When his shoulders sank, I had won. But the victory didn't make it better. I was tired. At eighteen years old, I was exhausted from life.
