39. “Gives You Hell” - The All-American Rejects
“Gives You Hell” - The All-American Rejects
Heath
It feels weird to not be going to the Archives with Walker. I’ve spent the majority of the past few weeks next to her in that room. Going to work today feels like coming home after a long vacation.
Not that I have much experience with vacations myself. My dad doesn’t believe in relaxing when you could be making money.
I grab a knife and stick it into the jar of mayonnaise before spreading some on my bread. Tonight is poker at Pierce’s place. It will be the first one without Walker since she returned to Wesbourne. How mad will Maeve be if I skip out?
I have no desire to sit there while the four of them discuss Walker as if they didn’t just pretend to be her friend for an entire month while plotting to sabotage her behind her back. If their plan had worked and Maeve had sent that paper in, Walker would have been expelled.
Besides, sitting there and imagining her in the empty chair across from me sounds like a brand of torture even I wouldn’t choose. Before I can change my mind, I text Pierce.
Me : Hey, don’t think I’ll make it tonigh t
He responds a few minutes later.
Pierce : What’s up, mate?
Me : I caught a bug over the weekend
Seems like a rock-solid excuse, one not even Maeve can argue against. But I’m wrong again, because a few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text from her.
Maeve : You can’t skip poker just because the Walker scheme is over.
God, does Pierce keep anything from her?
Me : This has nothing to do with her. I’m sick
Maeve : Come on, Heath. I’ve known you for ten years. During that time, you’ve been sick once.
Maeve : I know you two were hooking up.
How the fuck could she possibly know that?
Me : Is that what Walker said?
Maeve : Nobody needed to say anything. It was blatantly apparent every time you two were in the same room.
Me : Is now when you lecture me about sleeping with the enemy?
Maeve : Nope, but I’ll see you at 8. x
Fuck. I can’t go to poker night and not set the record straight. I thought I could buy myself more time. Maybe with another week to think, I could come up with an explanation that doesn’t make me want to hurl myself from a building every time I think about it.
Given the way Walker responded to my latest betrayal, I have no idea how the rest of them will react. Losing her was hell itself, but I never believed for a second I deserved her. My friends are all I have left. If I lose them too—
My dad walks into the kitchen. He takes one look at my half-fixed sandwich and smirks. “Packing a brown-bag lunch?”
“Yeah, Dad.” I grab the mustard and squirt it onto the bread. “Want me to make you one?”
He laughs and drapes his suit jacket over one of the barstools.
After rooting around in the fridge for a few seconds, he retreats with a premixed protein shake.
“Sure, son. I’d like a slab of dedication between two pieces of ambition.
Think you could fix something like that for me?
” He closes the fridge door and leans against it.
“Sorry. We’re completely out of asshole sandwiches.” I tear open a package of salami and plop the entire stack onto the bread.
The veins in Dad’s throat bulge as he drinks his shake. His eyes have that crazy, maniacal look they get right before he punches someone. For some reason, I don’t care if he hits me this time. I kind of hope he does.
I have a hankering to take an old man down.
The nonchalance comes easily to me. It’s the one thing I know gets under his skin with alarming speed. He equates it to not giving a fuck, and there is nothing worse in my dad’s book than a fucker who doesn’t give a fuck.
I reach for the cheese. “Hey, Dad. Do you know where the closest bus stop is? I was thinking about riding it to work today. Trying to save fuel and the economy, you know.”
I don’t get to see the sour expression on his face, because I’m dutifully focused on my sandwich. But there is no mistaking the cold tension radiating from him.
Scratch what I said earlier. There is nothing worse than a fucker who doesn’t give a fuck about anything but the environment.
He slams his empty shake bottle onto the counter. “You care about dolphins but not this family?”
“I’m not the one who goes around smacking everyone that gets in my way.”
The slap spins my head and causes bright starbursts to flare across my vision. I blink to clear it.
“I don’t know what you think you’ll ever amount to, working in that stupid shack and turning your back on everything I’ve built for us.” Dad steps closer, wheezing slightly. “But if you think you’re getting a dime from me when I’m gone, you can forget it.”
A smirk desperately wants to take up residence on my face, but I keep it neutral. “You don’t know me if you think I have any interest in your fraud money.”
Several blood vessels in his eyes have burst, giving him a serial killer look. He could murder me if he wanted, especially since I refuse to hit back, which only infuriates him more. “Your little girlfriend might think differently.” He sneers, and my mind reels.
How could he possibly know that Walker’s back? And if so, has he talked to her? Threatened her? Shit. The possibilities are endless, and if she’s not talking to me, I have no way of finding out what he’s done.
“That little surf shack of hers can’t be a huge moneymaker, especially if she has you on payroll. We both know that bike of yours is above your pay grade.”
I hope the relief that floods my body isn’t visible. He’s referring to Seeley, who knows how to take care of herself.
“Haven’t you heard?” I take a big bite of my sandwich and chew while I talk. “Your fraud money is already supporting her. She’s going to have my bastard children, so it’s only right that I give her something. That’s what you always taught me, right, Dad?”
This time I dodge the blow. The man is as predictable as the tide. Crafting the exact phrases that will bring him to the edge of his sanity is like child’s play.
“If you think I’m going to let my son shack up with a woman like that—” He lurches for me, but I skirt around the kitchen island. He grabs at nothing but air.
“A woman like what? Is she really that different from all of your mistresses?” I bounce lightly on my feet so I can be ready to dodge whatever he does next.
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!” He runs at me, but he forgets that I’m thirty years younger and in the best shape of my life.
By the time we make it around the island twice more, he’s panting.
He bends over and rests his hands on his knees.
“You’re nothing but an ungrateful twat. I ought to throw you out on the street and see how you survive without my cash keeping you afloat. ”
“You could, but then what would all of your friends say?” I take another huge bite of my sandwich.
“You pathetic little cunt. You’re a disgrace to the Lawrence name.”
I gesture toward him with my sandwich, mouth still full because I know how much it bugs him. “This may surprise you, but you don’t get to determine my worth.”
He gives me one more seething look, nostrils flaring, before turning and leaving the kitchen. My body relaxes in his absence. Whoever thought that douchebag deserved to walk the planet was clearly high at the time.
The idea comes to me so quickly and vividly, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before. All these years, I’ve helped carry out a multitude of revenge plots against strangers and randos from the street, when right in front of me was the perfect scheme to take down my own dad, once and for all.
I perform a quick Google search to find the phone number for HMRC. Within seconds, an automated answering machine is asking which option I’d like to choose. I opt to speak to a representative. I’ve never trusted those creepy robots.
After a few minutes on hold, a brisk female voice answers. “Welcome to Her Majesty’s Revenues and Customs. How may I assist you today?”
“Hello,” I say. “Who do I need to speak to about reporting tax fraud?”