32 Jamie
I’m in the kitchen grabbing a snack when my phone vibrates.
Dad: Come here. I know you’re over there.
I close the cabinet harder than necessary and stare at the screen. His last words to me were that he wanted me out of his sight and that he never wanted to see me again.
He’s on the porch, leaning against the railing, a cigarette glowing in the dark. The ember flares brighter as I cross the street.
“What do you want?” I ask when I’m close enough.
He smirks. “Having fun playing house with your boyfriend?”
“What do you want?” I repeat.
He takes a long drag, then flicks the cigarette toward the yard. It lands near my feet. I don’t flinch.
“Just thought you should know,” he says casually, “your girl’s dad is back.”
Something cold slides down my spine and my jaw tightens.
He shrugs. “Seems like he could cause problems for you…” He trails off, letting the implication hang.
I hold his gaze. “What do you want?”
“You owe me.”
“For what?”
“For the jobs you ruined. The deals that went sideways because you decided to grow a conscience overnight.” He names a number. It’s high. Intentionally so.
I let out a short breath. Nothing like being extorted by your own father. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
He smiles like he’s been waiting for that. “Your boyfriend’s rich, isn’t he?”
“And if I don’t pay?”
He shrugs again. “Then things get… complicated. Be a shame if trouble showed up at your door.”
Rage burns hot and fast, but I force it down.
“I’m not working for you again,” I say flatly.
He snorts. “Not asking you to. I don’t need you.” He takes out and lights another cigarette.
Silence stretches between us. I don’t owe him a fucking thing and we both know it. But we both also know he could make things complicated for us. For Frankie.
“Figure it out.”
I turn without another word and walk away, my hands clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.
Behind me, his voice follows.
“And Jamie?” he calls. “When your boyfriend dumps you, don’t crawl back to me. I don’t want people like you on my crew.”
I don’t look back. I walk in the house, going straight to my bedroom. I don’t turn the lights on, don’t do anything. Just sit there in the dark, fighting the urge to go get high or drunk or to do anything to drown out my father’s words.