CHAPTER FOUR #2
"I'll be right back," I huffed, turning on my heel and barreling toward the kitchenette, leaving my father waiting at the door.
As I filled the pitchers with water, my mind raced with questions and scenarios, the unlikely and the probable.
How had he tracked me down? Why was he here?
What did he want? His reasons for showing his face were always self-serving, and they usually revolved around his constant need for money or a favor.
Some time ago, he'd asked me to help break into some dude's house.
Some asshole he said owed him—for what, I didn't know.
My dad needed someone smaller, thinner, to squeeze through a bathroom window, and, stupid me, I did it, with the promise that he'd split the contents of the guy's wallet with me.
He didn’t split shit with me.
Instead, he'd called the cops, but luckily, I’d gotten away before they could take me in that time.
Is he going to turn us in now? Is he going to take me away from this place, away from Leonard?
The thoughts made my hands shake, and I smacked my palm against the tap, turning off the faucet.
I’m an adult, I reminded myself. He can’t do shit to me now.
But that doesn’t mean he won’t try. And I can’t forget about Ike. He’s only sixteen.
Gerald was still waiting for me as I headed toward the viewing room. His snakelike lips curved into a smile as he pointed his finger in my direction, as if to remind me I'd agreed to talk with him.
I wished he'd forgotten.
With pitchers in hand, I excused myself through the gathering of family and friends, all mourning Ronny Malloy. His wife thanked me. I forced a cordial smile on my way out of the room, and I almost made my escape when Whitney stopped me yet again.
"Where is Leonard?" she asked once more, her arms still crossed, pressed tightly to her chest.
"I promise I will have him speak to you the second he comes—"
"No, you will give me his phone number right now," she said, uncrossing her arms and revealing the phone she had in her hand. "I am going to call him—"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm not supposed to give out his personal—"
"Do not ma'am me," she interrupted, her voice low and angry. "My mother might be okay with this place allowing children to conduct their services, but I'm not. And I will not—"
"Hey, hey, hey."
Panicked, I turned to watch as Gerald Crowley approached with his outstretched hands.
He smiled salaciously at Whitney. "What's going on over here?"
Her frown deepened as she assessed his disheveled appearance and asked, "Who are you?"
"This boy is my son," he said, placing his hand on my arm.
I shook away from his touch.
Whitney's eyes bounced from him to me, then back again as she asked, "So, you know Leonard?"
"Ah, yeah, Leo. Sure, I know Leo."
Hearing his name come from my father's vile mouth was nearly enough for bubbling, boiling, and searing rage to paint my vision red.
Leonard was good. He was gracious, generous, and wonderful.
Everything my father wasn't.
"Is there any way for you to contact him? It's imperative that I speak to him right now."
He laid his hand on her shoulder, massaging a bit with his fingertips. "And why is that, honey?" His voice dripped with understanding and concern, but his eyes …
There was one thing on his mind when he looked at the bereaved daughter of Ronny Malloy, and he made no secret about it as his gaze fell to the deep valley between her breasts, peeking out from the collar of her black top.
"I'm sure that whatever's wrong here, we can work something out," he went on, taking a step closer.
I shot my hand out, grabbing his arm and wrenching his grasp from her shoulder.
"Excuse us, ma’am," I muttered, pulling my father down the hallway toward Leonard's office.
"Young man! Where are you going?!" she shouted after me, but I heard nothing else from behind the door as I slammed it shut.
I was screwing up, and Leonard would be disappointed when Whitney finally gave him an earful about what had gone on here tonight. But he'd have to forgive me this time.
With the door shut, I turned to my father.
His back was facing me, his hands on his hips as he looked around Leonard’s office.
There wasn’t much to swipe in here, not much was worth anything—unless you counted the antique furniture, but it wouldn’t be an easy feat to smuggle a huge desk out of here, unnoticed.
But I wouldn’t put it past my father to tuck a stapler in his pants, if only to get a few bucks on the streets for it later.
Anything to make a buck and get his fix.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him.
With a glance over his shoulder, he gave me a knowing look, even as he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“For the third time, why the hell are you here?” I asked once again, cutting to the chase. “And how?”
He sighed and turned to give me his full attention, a wry smile on his lips. “What? A father isn’t allowed to pay his eldest son a visit?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “No. Not when those visits conveniently only happen when you need something.”
He grunted incoherently. “You make yourself pretty easy to track down for someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
“What do you mean?”
He raised a brow. “Abraham Crowley,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Not exactly a name you hear every day.”
I said nothing as something stirred within the pit of my gut. Something scary and foreboding that said I might have run away three years ago, but I never hid.
Why the fuck haven’t I changed my name?
But … no. No, of course I knew why.
Anna.
I wanted to give her the option of finding me, looking me up in the phone book and finding someone who she’d know without a shadow of a doubt had to be me.
Of course, that was assuming she remembered my last name, which …
I wasn’t sure she’d ever known it at all.
I knew for a fact that I’d never known hers.
But if she ever got curious, if she ever decided to do some digging, there I’d be.
Yet, by leaving my name unburied, I remained alive for the people I never wanted to find me.
Is anyone else looking?
No. Who else even cares?
“Actually, it wasn’t you I found,” he confessed. “It was your brother.”
My gaze narrowed. “Ike?”
“The only one you have.”
I thought about mentioning Shawn but quickly reminded myself that my father never considered him my brother, no matter how much Ike and I did.
“Public schools make it too easy to watch the little kiddies,” he sneered, his smile disturbing and making my skin crawl. “Took a while, sure, but I found him. Followed him back to this place.”
I wasn’t sure I was buying what he was telling me, but I didn’t have enough reason to call him a liar.
“Pretty sweet deal you have here though. Old man feeds you, gives you a place to live, puts clothes on your back, and what? You just gotta work a couple of days a week or some shit?" He seemed to study my stoic expression for a moment before lifting a finger, wagging it in my face. "Nah, there’s gotta be more to it than that. He keepin’ you in his bed? Is that what it is? Old man’s got a thing for young c—"
Before he could speak another word, my knife was pulled from my back pocket, where it always stayed, and flipped open. As I pressed the sharpened blade to his throat, a sinister, slow-forming grin spread across his face.
"There's my boy," he muttered, dropping his gaze to the hand holding the knife. "Glad to see you're still in there. Very useful."
"What the fuck do you want from me?”
Beneath my hardened tone was a hint of frantic desperation I wasn’t proud of, but I couldn’t help it.
There wasn’t a single thing I’d asked this man for in my life, not a damn thing. Yet every time I convinced myself he was gone, that we’d finally shaken him from our scent, there he was again. Back to fuck it all up.
I should’ve changed my name and found another way for Anna to find me.
Fucking idiot. She’s not looking. She doesn’t remember me.
“How much are you getting paid around here?” he asked, raising his eyes back to mine.
So, this was about money.
It usually is.
“You’re not getting a penny from me.”
He frowned and gave his head the slightest shake. “I’m not asking for your money, boy. I’m asking how much you make.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking you to come work for me.”