19. Arsen
19
ARSEN
Progress.
That’s what I tell myself as I drag myself away from Laila’s door.
This is progress.
I want to go inside with her, strip away all the bullshit that has built up between us, and lose myself in her for a few hours. Days. Weeks, if not more.
But considering I’m currently celebrating the fact she didn’t kick my ass to the curb when I placed my hand on the small of her back and led her into the house, the marathon makeup sex will likely need a raincheck.
I could go work out some of my extra energy on my own, but the idea of getting myself off without Laila around seems like three steps backward, so I decide to let off some steam in a different way.
Which is how I end up outside a shady-looking motel just off the highway. I stalk down the peeling beige walls to Room 24. All it took was one stern look at the strung-out man manning the front desk before he coughed up Charles’ room number.
I could have gotten a key from him, too. But I like the idea of a grand entrance.
The door splits nearly in half when I drive the heel of my boot into it. The chain lock shatters away from the wall, leaving Charles framed in the shredded wood, his pale lips hanging open in wordless horror.
“Arsen…?”
I kick in the rest of the door so I can step into the dank room. “We really should stop meeting like this.”
He trembles as he backs into the furthest corner of the room, which isn’t saying much. This place is a shoebox.
“I didn’t go near her!” Charles blubbers. “Not since the funeral. Not since?—”
“Since you wanted to pay your respects.” I nod. “And what do you call stealing the house that Marie left to her daughter before her body is even cold in the ground? Is that respectful?”
His neck stiffens. “That’s my house now.”
“The house was Marie’s, to do with as she pleased. She wanted her only child to have it. I would have thought you’d want the same thing, being the loving father that you are.”
“She doesn’t need the damn house!” he exclaims, his voice rising. “She has money, a nice home. She has you !”
“And you have debts. You owe more than that house could ever begin to cover.”
He drops his gaze to the floor. Nice to know the man still has a modicum of shame somewhere in that shriveled heart of his. “It’s a start.”
“It’s a waste of time. You have no case.”
“My lawyer doesn’t think so,” he insists.
“Which bargain basement did you find this lawyer in?” I shove my hands into my pockets, and Charles flinches. “Don’t worry—I didn’t bring my gun. I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you even if I did have it on me.”
The smell of his sweat is beginning to invade the room, mingling with whatever cheap disinfectant they used to scrub the last customer’s remnants out of here. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks.
“I’m simply here to tell you the facts, Charles.” I advance into the room. “Your lawyer may not have been honest with you, but I will be. You tried to sell a house that wasn’t yours to sell—not once, but twice . I believe that even your cut-rate lawyer would call that ‘fraud.’”
Charles’s knees buckle. He slides down the wall with a sweaty squeaking sound that’s almost as pathetic as he is. “I was desperate. I am desperate.”
“No need to tell me. I smelled it on you the moment we met.”
“Then help me!” He literally drops to his knees. “Please. Laila may be mad at me, but I’m still her father. I’m the only parent she has left. If she hated me, she wouldn’t be so angry with me.”
For my own sake, I hope he’s right about that. Hate is closer to love than apathy is.
“So settle my debt for me,” he pleads. “Settle the whole sum and you’ll never have to see me again for as long as I live.”
“I’m guessing that won’t be very long. So why should I bother?”
His mouth trembles. “Please.”
“The sad part is that I would have settled your debt,” I admit. “But you shot that option to hell when you went to Alessandro Calcagno.”
“I didn’t?—!”
“Spare me the lies, Charles. I have it on good authority that you floated the idea of a hit on my wife—your own fucking daughter —to the Italians. There’s no coming back from that.”
His whole body is trembling now. “I’m dead. You’re going to kill me.”
“I would. God, I’d love to, actually.” I flex my hands at my sides, knuckles cracking. “But the daughter you tried to have killed has decided to spare you. Now, you have two options: see this lawsuit through and land your ass in jail. Or leave and try to outrun your creditors. Your choice.”
“They’ll kill me if I run.”
“I’ll kill you if you stay.”
He presses his forehead to the floor, shaking all over, and I can’t watch this. Killing him would be a mercy at this point. One he doesn’t deserve.
“I’d leave tonight if I were you,” I add. “Clock’s ticking.”
With that, I leave. The musty smell of him and his room lingers in my nostrils far longer than I’d like.
But even when I get in my car, I don’t pull away quite yet. I idle down the block, watching the motel. After fifteen minutes, Charles slinks out with his few belongings strapped to his back. He catches a bus and is gone.
I should probably leave it at that and hope he doesn’t come back, but I find myself with my phone in my hand, typing out a text.
ARSEN: Your father is dropping the lawsuit. He won’t be a problem anymore.
I see that the message is delivered and opened.
Seconds pass, and I can feel the little bit of progress I made today slipping away. I’m about to throw my phone into the backseat and find somewhere to drown the ache in my chest when my phone buzzes.
Her reply is a simple, red heart.
Progress.