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I try to reverse, but more cars box me in. And it hits me.
I'm stuck, moving at a snail's pace, unable to do anything about it while my wife sits with the man who should lay down his life to protect her, yet signed her away like she's his unwanted dog.
I wish I could escape my growing feelings, but I can't. And I've never been so afraid in my life.
24
Maeve
When Da finally messaged me after all this time, I couldn't help it. I had to sneak out. I took the keys that Tynan had given me and told Alaina I was going to my room. Then I made my way through the mansion, going out the side door.
I'm still surprised I got through the gate. The guard barely looked at me and had opened it before I got to it. It took a while to get through town to the Red Feather, but relief hit me when I stepped inside and laid eyes on Da.
It was short-lived.
Da looks like he's aged twenty years. He's drunk, which is normal. His green beret has faded even further and has more holes. His shirt and pants have large rips. And he stinks. I don't think he's ever smelled so bad.
Within minutes, Brogan comes into the pub. I tell him to mind his own business. My orders were pointless though. He's still watching me from the back of the room. I can feel it.
Then Tynan calls, so I turn off my phone. I'm sure he's pissed at me for leaving Alaina's, but I'll deal with him later. This is my da, and I'll have a relationship with him no matter what Tynan thinks.
Even if maybe Da doesn't deserve my love.
He does. He's my da, I remind myself.
The smell thickens between us. I refocus, asking, "Da, how long has it been since ya showered?"
His phone rings, and my gut sinks. I know it's Tynan based on Da's response. I cringe, listening to Da's side of the conversation before he hangs up. I feel bad about it, but I'm between a rock and a hard place.
Concentrate on Da for the moment.
He turns his phone off and tosses it on the table. He slurs, "Interrupting bastard."
"Da, how long has it been since ya showered?" I repeat.
He takes several sips of his whiskey, staring at the barmaid.
I want to grab the glass from him, but I've done that before, and I learned never to do it again. It's the only time he ever hit me. I was thirteen when it happened. Since then, he's never hit me again, but I've also never taken his drink from him.
He points at me, his eyes narrowing, and grumbles, "You've been making my life miserable."
I gape at him.
"Ya have," he insists.
"How have I been making your life miserable? I've been calling ya. Your phone's been off."
"Ya disappeared." He tries to snap his fingers but is too drunk to give it enough power.
I ask, "Then why haven't ya put your phone on?"
He points at me. "Ya had that man take me to London."
Confused, I question, "London? What are ya talking about?"
He wiggles his finger in a circle, and more anger swirls around him. He declares, "He left me there to die...to keep me from ya." He downs the rest of his whiskey, picks up the bottle, and pours another glass. Some of it splashes on the table.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Please stop drinking," I beg.
