Don’t Call Me Dad

Chapter One

Slade

The phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, cutting through the silence. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, the faint scent of motor oil still clinging to my skin from the garage, and glance at the screen. Local PD . I already know what this is before I answer.

“Slade,” I say, voice flat, pressing the phone to my ear as I lean back against the counter.

“Slade, it’s Paul.” The officer’s tone is tired but familiar, the kind of weary patience you earn after too many late-night calls about the same damn kid. “Andrew’s been picked up.”

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, exhaling through my nose.

No son of mine would be sitting in a holding cell for the third time this year.

But he isn’t my son, is he? Just the nineteen-year-old leftover from a marriage that went sour years ago, when his mother decided she’d rather chase whatever thrill was waiting two states over, than stick around and raise the boy she’d brought into my house.

I could’ve walked away then; should’ve, maybe.

Instead, I’d looked at that scrawny, angry kid with his too-big mouth and decided I wasn’t going to be another adult who bailed on him.

“What is it this time, Paul?” I ask, already walking out into the hall, and reaching for my keys on the hook by the door. The metal feels cool and familiar in my palm, a small anchor against the irritation rising in my chest.

Paul sighs on the other end, the sound crackling through the line. “Found him and another teenager behind the old mill, fists flying. Both of ’em had stolen goods on them… cigarettes, beer, some cash from the Gas ’n Sip down the road. You know the drill, Slade. They’re both cooling off in holding.”

The words hit like a dull punch to the ribs.

I picture Andrew the way I last saw him this morning…

restless, that sharp jaw clenched like he was spoiling for a fight, his dark hair falling into eyes that always seemed to dare me to look away first. Nineteen, all mouth and attitude, the kind of kid who never learned when to shut the hell up.

And now he’s out there scrapping with some other punk from town, fists flying, probably running his mouth the whole damn time.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache already blooming behind my eyes. “Yeah. Another five hundred dollars out of my pocket, easy. I’m glad we don’t live in a big city, or I’d be bankrupt from this kid by now.”

Paul chuckles, but it’s without much humour.

“Listen, Slade… have you considered getting him some help? A therapist, anger management, something? One more strike and this stops being kid stuff. Next time it co uld be a felony. Real jail time. He’s nineteen, the system won’t keep cutting him slack forever. ”

The words settle like lead in my stomach.

I run a hand down my face, the rough scrape of stubble loud in the quiet.

The house feels too empty suddenly, too still without Andrew’s usual chaos filling the corners…

his music thumping from upstairs, the way he slams cabinets like they owe him money, that smirk he flashes when he knows he’s pushing every one of my buttons.

“Yeah,” I mutter, voice lower than I intend. “I’m gonna have to have a serious conversation with him. This can’t carry on. And thanks, Paul… I know you’ve gone easy on him. I understand this is his last warning.”

“See you soon,” Paul says, and the line goes dead.

I stand here for a long moment, keys biting into my palm, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. Another night at the station. Another bail to post. Another ride home where I’ll have to fight the urge to shake some sense into the boy who’s been testing every limit I have left.

I grab my jacket and head for the door. The engine of my truck roaring to life a minute later as I pull out into the night.

The road to the station stretches dark and familiar, but tonight it feels heavier, charged with the kind of tension that’s been building for months.

Andrew’s waiting. And this time, when I get him home, things are going to be different.

…

The station lights buzz overhead as I push through the glass doors. Even for a small town, the place is busier than it should be on a Friday night… phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and the low murmur of voices that never quite settle. It doesn’t stop the criminals, apparently.

A guy in his fifties is slumped against the front counter, embarrassingly drunk, slurring vile words at a female officer who’s trying to keep her professional mask intact.

Before it escalates, the captain steps in, voice sharp and final.

Off to the side, a young woman covered in tattoos sits handcuffed to a desk, staring blankly at the floor like she’s already accepted her night isn’t getting any better.

I hate coming here. It’s been too much lately, too many trips that blur together.

Andrew didn’t used to be like this. He was a decent kid when his mom was still around, quiet, almost sweet in that awkward teenage way.

But the day Lorna packed her bags and left without so much as a backward glance, something in him cracked.

He’s been slowly unravelling ever since, like he’s decided there’s no point trying anymore, or maybe that he’s not wanted by anyone.

Well, what the hell does he call me sticking around year after year, cleaning up his messes, paying his way, refusing to walk out like she did?

I spot Paul near the back and give him a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Well… I’m here.”

Paul pats my shoulder with that sympathetic grip he’s perfected. “You’re not alone, Slade. Unfortunately, we see a lot of teenagers like Andrew these days. And… you and I both know this is because Lorna left.”

I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah. Well… can’t change the past. But I plan to change his future.”

Paul nods back, respect flickering in his expression. “You’re a good man for sticking by the kid, Slade.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, nodding respectfully as the weight of his words settles uncomfortably on my chest.

The bail process is routine by now, almost mechanical.

I hand over my card at the window, sign the paperwork without really reading it…

another five hundred dollars gone, just like that.

The clerk slides the receipt across the counter with a sympathetic glance I don’t want.

I tuck it into my wallet and step aside, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, the air too thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation.

I pace the narrow hallway while Paul goes to fetch him, boots echoing against the linoleum. My hands flex at my sides, irritation coiling tighter with every step.

Paul finally appears with Andrew in tow, like he’s handing over a lost puppy. “Here you go, Drew.”

I turn, and the sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

Andrew looks like hell… black eye already swelling, a nasty cut on his cheek still crusted with dried blood.

He flashes that idiot grin anyway, the one that says he thinks I’m his personal get-out-of-jail-free card, like none of this really matters because good old Slade will always show up.

“Thanks, Paul,” I say, voice clipped .

Before Andrew can open his mouth, I grab the front of his collar and drag him through the station. Everyone’s too busy to notice or care, and Paul knows damn well the kid deserves a lot worse than a rough escort out.

Andrew stumbles along beside me, sneakers scuffing the floor. “What the fuck, Slade!”

I round on him the second we’re outside, face inches from his, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and the way his breath catches. “I don’t want to hear a single word out of your fucking mouth, Drew. I swear to God.”

He swallows hard, searching my angry face for a long beat before giving a small, reluctant nod.

We reach my truck in the lot. Andrew automatically moves for the front passenger door, hand pulling the handle like it’s any other night. I slam the door shut with a solid thunk, eyes sharp as I gesture toward the back doors. The message is clear: I’ve really had enough this time.

Andrew doesn’t meet my gaze. He just drops his eyes to the pavement and climbs into the back seat without another word.

I slide into the driver’s seat, lock all the doors with a decisive click, and turn the engine over. The truck rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the dark as I pull out of the lot.

The drive home is thankfully quiet… no smart remarks, no music, no nothing.

Just the low growl of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights across the da sh.

But my irritation only grows with every silent mile.

His stupid behaviour, the fighting, the stealing, the way he keeps testing every boundary like he’s daring me to finally snap…

it’s all piling up inside me, hot and heavy, refusing to settle.

When we finally pull into the driveway, I kill the engine and unlock the doors. I don’t even have to tell him. Andrew climbs out on his own, quiet for once, and follows me up the walk to the front door. I click the truck fob twice, the locks chirping behind us, before stepping inside.

The house is dark and still. I lock the door behind us with a heavy deadbolt click, then turn slowly, arms crossing over my chest as I stare at Andrew standing there in the entryway…

black eye, cut cheek, shoulders tense, that rebellious spark still flickering somewhere behind his guarded expression.