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I hold up my hand. “Wrong.”
Sloan blinks in confusion. “Wrong? What do you—what are you talking about?”
“You said the Bloodhound is your problem. That’s not true. He’sourproblem.” I sigh and close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose because my head feels like it’s about to fucking explode. “The Bloodhound is my father. Bobby Daniels.”
The light in her eyes dim and I know, in that moment, she sees what everyone sees when they hear that.
They see a thug. A rotten apple lying in a pile of shit right at the bottom of the rotten tree that birthed him.
She’s not all that wrong.
29
SLOAN
The Bloodhound is Beck’s father.I roll the sentence over in my head a few times because I can’t believe it.
If that evil bastard is Beck’s father, that means he’s this baby’sgrandfather. The very idea of it makes my stomach churn, as if the baby understands it and is rebelling.
Grandpa Bloodhound. I picture him coming to Christmas dinner with a gift-wrapped Fisher PriceMy First Unregistered Pistol with the Serial Number Sawed Off.
Gross. Despicable. I hate every part of it.
And what does that mean about Beck? Is he here because the Bloodhound put him here? Or was this a genuine accidental collision course between strangers who each didn’t know the other’s connection to the worst piece of vile human in the history of our species?
“What did you just say?” I have to hear it again from his mouth. I can’t assimilate that these two men share genetics.
He sighs. His eyes won’t meet mine. Maybe he’s afraid of what I’ll see there. The barely contained rage. His father’s grim look.
“Beck?”
No answer. I’m starting to veer from fear to anger.
“That son of a bitch kidnapped me, Beck. So y’know, in retrospect, that might’ve been the time to mention your family ties.”
He nods slowly. When he finally speaks, his voice is a husk of its normal strength. “Can you imagine that conversation? ‘Sloan, meet Daddy. Pops, do me a favor and stop kidnapping my woman.’ How would you have handled that?”
“It couldn’t possibly have gone worse than this!”
He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and hands me a picture…
Ofme.
I recognize it immediately. It’s from today, around the corner from the restaurant, with the Bloodhound.
“You sure about that?” he asks.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Fucking shit.”
“We’ve covered how I know him.” He breathes in deep and exhales. “How doyouknow him?”
“Don’t worry,” I joke darkly, “you’re not a Jerry Springer episode. You and your dad didn’t both sleep with the same woman.” I’m trying to be funny because the tides have shifted and I’m the liar now.
Needless to say, it fails miserably. Beck just sighs.
“Okay,” I say. “Here’s the truth: my dad has known your dad for long enough to be in debt to him so deep that I’m probably never going to get it paid off.”
To my surprise, Beck laughs bitterly. Like he’s in on some joke I don’t get. “No one ever gets the Bloodhound paid off completely. Owing him is a lifelong thing.”
