Chapter 30
THIRTY
Jesse
I close Ford’s office door behind me and lock it. Ford’s brow lifts. “Well. That’s never good.”
He’s sitting behind his desk, Wes and Noah are in the chairs across from him. All three are looking at me. The office feels like a pressure cooker.
“So,” Ford continues. “What’s up? Why did you tell us to meet you here?”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “Before anything else, you should know that Madeline and I are together. Officially.”
None of them look surprised. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it was obvious from the photo of you two on your lock screen,” Noah says with a smirk.
I take a breath and then drop the rest. “Okay. I need you all to know what’s going on,” I say, looking between them. “And Wes, I’m fucking sorry in advance.”
He sits forward in his chair, nodding. “Noted. What the hell is happening?”
“Madeline’s family is wealthy. Not just wealthy.
Her dad is a senator, he’s very connected and powerful too.
They have this…plan for her, for her life.
And it definitely doesn’t involve me. Anyways, her mom showed up yesterday with an ultimatum for her.
Do what they say or there will be consequences.
Wes, they’re threatening to go to the press with what happened to you senior year. ”
The entire room goes still. Wes doesn’t move. Doesn’t jump out of his chair. Doesn’t pace or swear. He just sits there, staring at some fixed point out the window, tension rolling through every inch of him.
Ford straightens behind the desk, fury flashing through his expression. “How?”
“Her dad has people,” I say. “Diggers. Strategists. Whatever the hell you call them. They went looking, and they found it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Noah mutters.
I swallow hard. “They told Madeline they’ll leak it unless she goes to some event with a future senator who they’re trying to set her up with. Total political power-play matchmaking bullshit.”
Ford laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I was.”
“Do they know that you’re a self-made millionaire? She’s not exactly throwing her life away on you.”
“They don’t care. They want her with a future prime minister.” I roll my eyes. “Someone who will carry on their political dynasty. It doesn’t matter to them if she’s miserable.”
Noah shakes his head. “God forbid she dates someone who actually gives a shit about her. These people are psychotic.”
Ford’s jaw tightens. “Back to Wes. What exactly do they know?”
“I’m not sure. Madeline doesn’t know. But her mom said they have something on Wes, and it’s pretty clear what that must be.”
“And they’re willing to use it?” Noah asks. “After all these years?”
Wes finally turns around. He looks remarkably calm. “I knew it would come back eventually.”
“There’s no fucking way in hell any of us are going to allow this to hit the light of day,” Noah snaps. “We’ve got your back. We’ll figure this out.”
“And what if you can’t?”
Ford shakes his head. “Wes, whatever happened then—whatever they think they can use—it’s not who you are now.”
He exhales slowly. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll twist it however they want. They always do.”
He means the town. The media. Everyone who fed off the rumor mill back then.
“Madeline is sick over this,” I say, needing them to know that. “She told me as soon as it happened. She’s really sorry, Wes.”
Ford’s jaw ticks. “We’re not letting her family dictate a damn thing. If they come for Wes, they come through us first.”
Wes looks up, and the expression on his face says that the past is right there, clawing at him again. I want to say something—to take some of that weight off him—but Ford beats me to it.
“We survived worse than this growing up,” he says, quieter now. “We’ll handle this too. Together.”
The second I step out of Ford’s office, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I look at the screen to see a text message from my dad’s friend, Andrew.
“Friend” may be too strong a word. Andrew is a guy who plays cards and drinks with my dad on the weekends.
But he’s not a bad guy, and he knows to call me when shit goes south with my father.
My gut churns when I look at the message.
Andrew: Jess, you need to call me. It’s your dad.
Andrew: He’s real bad this time. Drunk out of his mind. He walked out of the grocery store with stuff he didn’t pay for, and the clerk is losing it. He’s going to call the cops unless you get here quick. I told him I’d call you.
Dammit. Of fucking course he’d pull something like this today.
I shove the phone in my pocket and head toward the parking lot, but when I round the corner, I spot Madeline sitting at the worktable. She’s leaning over her laptop, hair tucked behind one ear.
I don’t have time to stop, but my body moves toward her anyway, the pull toward her stronger than anything else.
She looks up the moment I’m close, that soft warmth filling her expression. She’s happy to see me. It kills me that I’ve been lying to her about my dad.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, eyes flicking over my face.
I lean down, close enough that only she can hear me. “I have to go,” I murmur. “Something came up.”
Her brows pinch together. “Now? What happened?”
“Everything’s fine, Mads. I promise. I just have something I need to take care of,” I say. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”
She softens, worry mixing with trust, and fuck, that look almost ruins me.
“Jesse…”
Her hand lifts like she’s going to reach for me, then hesitates, remembering where we are. Her hand falls to her lap. That quiet hesitation makes something in me ache, but I force myself to step away.
“I want to see you tonight,” I say. “I won’t be long.”
I tear out of the parking lot, tires skidding on damp pavement. Traffic is a blur as I speed through town. I leave the windows up, the radio off. All that exists is the pounding in my chest and the awful, sinking certainty that I already know exactly what I’ll find when I get to where I’m headed.
Fifteen minutes later, I whip into the parking lot of the rundown grocery store on the east side of Deep Cove.
I notice Andrew’s truck parked out front with hazard lights blinking.
I cut the engine and jump out of the car, my eyes adjusting to the one, flickering fluorescent light overhead when I walk through the automatic door.
Inside, the store smells like old bananas and burnt coffee. The place seems empty at first, except for the guy standing behind the till, eyeing me. I scan the aisles, nervous energy pumping through me. And then I see my dad at the front of store.
My dad is slumped against a rack advertising granola bars on sale, his face blotchy with booze. His shirt is wrinkled and stained. His gray hair sticks up like he’s been clawing at it. He’s muttering something under his breath, the words angry and slurred.
Andrew stands beside him, hands raised in pathetic surrender. His shoulders slump in relief when he spots me.
“Jess,” Andrew says in a low, frantic whisper. “Thank God. He’s—just talk to him, okay? He’s been threatening to call the cops.” He nods to the man behind the counter, who has his cell phone in his hand, ready to punch in 911.
I step closer and my dad’s head jerks up. For a moment, recognition flashes in his eyes, and then the fog drops again.
“You got money?” he snaps. “Or you just here to judge me?”
I inhale through my nose, slow and steady. If I let anger lead, this will go south fast.
“Dad,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. “You know you can’t just take shit without paying for it.”
“I was gonna pay!” he barks, grabbing for a handful of mini bottles on the counter, nearly knocking them to the floor. “This punk—” he jabs a shaking finger at the clerk, who looks to be around 30 years old, “—threatened to call the cops on me. I built this damn town. And this is the thanks I get?”
Christ.
Andrew winces like he’s heard this exact rant fifty times today. Maybe he has.
I plant myself between my dad and the clerk. “He’s not calling the cops,” I say, looking pointedly at the employee. “I’ll take care of it.”
The clerk swallows. “He can’t just steal—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I’m paying for it, and then we’ll leave quietly. I’ll leave you a little extra. No harm done. Okay?”
The guy looks from my dad to me, then sighs and nods. His grip on the phone loosens.
I slide a hundred-dollar bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”
Behind me, my dad huffs, swaying slightly. “Always acting like a big shot,” he scoffs thickly, shaking his head. “Your mother would’ve been ashamed of you.”
The words slice across old wounds—ones I’ve spent years stitching shut, only for him to rip open again with one drunken swipe. But I don’t flinch. Not anymore.
“Let’s go,” I say, looping an arm around him and steering him toward the door. “Come on.”
He grumbles the whole way, cursing the clerk, the town, fate itself. Andrew trails behind us, apologizing under his breath like it’ll fix anything.
“I’m taking you home,” I tell my dad quietly. “You need to sober up.”
“I don’t need a damn babysitter,” he slurs, jerking his arm out of my grasp, only to stumble again. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I mutter, catching him before he goes down. “Get in the car.”
After a few seconds of pathetic protests, he obeys, collapsing into the seat like a sack of bones.
I close the door, letting out a breath that scrapes painfully through my chest. By the time I slide into the driver’s side, he’s slumped against the window, exhaling a messy tangle of curses and self-pity and half-finished sentences.
I turn the car on and start driving toward his house on the edge of town. Halfway there, I pull into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint.
My dad grunts. “Where the hell are we?”
“You need food,” I say, keeping my voice level. “You’ll feel better.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.”
I don’t respond. There’s no point. The speaker crackles to life, and I order a burger, fries, and a black coffee. Something to soak up the alcohol. He’ll probably have two bites and then pass out, but it’s better than nothing.
When the bag hits my hands, I pass it over to him, then carefully hand him the coffee. “Drink.”
We drive the last few minutes mostly in silence, my dad’s chin bobbing against his chest as he falls in and out of sleep. When I pull up outside his place, he squints at the house like he’s not entirely sure it’s his.
I round the car and open the passenger door. “Come on, let’s go.”
He grumbles and sways but eventually lets me help him out. The porch creaks under our combined weight as I unlock the door with the spare key he never bothers to hide.
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the couch.
He collapses into it, the fight slowly draining from him. I head to the tiny kitchen, find a clean-enough plate, and set the burger and fries on it. When I bring it over, he’s leaning back with his eyes half-closed.
“Eat,” I say.
He cracks one eye open and sneers. “I don’t need it.”
“It’ll keep you from throwing up all night.”
He takes the burger, eats three-quarters of it in two bites, then grabs a fistful of fries, leaving several scattered on the cushion beside him. When he’s done, he slumps sideways, eyelids drooping.
“Come on,” I say, pulling him up again. “Time for bed.”
He stumbles and curses but leans on me anyway as I walk him to his bedroom and lower him onto the mattress. He’s out before his head hits the pillow.
I stand there for a second watching the man who once terrified me. A man who still knows how to gut me with a single sentence. A man I keep saving even though it costs me pieces of myself every time.
I pull the blanket up to his shoulders and step back.
“Sleep it off,” I say quietly. “Don’t make me come back tomorrow.”
He’s already out cold.
I turn off the light, close the door behind me, and walk out into the silent, empty living room.
Only then do I let myself exhale.