Текст книги "Can't Let Go"
Автор книги: Michelle Lynn
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
The Invisibles
Bonus Scene ~ DO NOT read if you haven't read Let Me Love yet.
My Thanks
About the Author
Books by Michelle Lynn
CAN’T LET GO
Copyright ©2014 by Michelle Lynn
All Rights Reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
1st Round Editor: Liz Aguilar with Book Peddler’s Editing
Editing and Proofreading: Nichole Strauss with Perfectly Publishable
Cover photo: Shutterstock
Cover Design: Sommer Stein with Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Design and Interior Formatting: Christine Borgford with Perfectly Publishable
8 years old
HERE I AM minding my own business, playing on my new Game Boy Color that my dad brought with him today when he picked me up. Another weekend-dad guilt gift. He must have won big, because, usually, it’s just a pack of baseball trading cards or candy my mom doesn’t allow me to have. I think I damaged his eardrum when he handed it to me once we got here. When his palm flew up to his ear I felt guilty, but come on, a blue Game Boy with a 007 Bond game is an eight-year-old’s dream. Especially when I’m stuck in the dingy basement of a ‘grocery store’ for a few hours so my dad can gamble. He’s been bringing me to these underground poker games all over town every other Saturday.
So, I’m right in the middle of the game, with James Bond sneaking behind walls, killing the bad guys and stealing the jewelry, when a girl flops down next to me, huffing loudly. Not willing to lose my place in the game, since I’m about two rooms away from the next code, I ignore her.
“What are you playing?” she asks, leaning over so her blonde hair falls right in front of my screen. You have got to be kidding me. Shifting my body, I move my Game Boy to the side, continuing to play. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, and I just shake my head.
A few minutes go by and all she does is stand up, sit down, and shift her feet, moving them up on the chair, then down on the floor. She plays with her hair, twisting it around her finger and lifting it up off her neck. I swear, if her elbow jabs me one more time, I’m going to go crazy James Bond on her. I’m out of continues, and I’ll have to start all over again if I die because of her.
Then she digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out whatever is so important that she elbows my arm again, making my fingers fly off of the A button, which, in turn, makes James Bond fall off a cliff and die. My teeth clenched, I turn off the game and glare over at her for the first time.
“Can you please stop moving?” I ask as politely as I can to a girl who doesn’t care that I just lost and will have to replay the whole two levels over again.
“Please,” she says as she rolls her eyes, “it’s a video game.”
“Now I have to do two levels over again,” I whine, and she just glares at me. No blinking, no caring at all.
“I’m pretty sure you have the time,” she says, and I hate to admit it, but she’s right. It’s only been an hour. I have at least four more, unless he loses it all in one shot. That’s only happened one weekend, and I had a huge smile when my dad came out only after a half hour. Unfortunately, the excitement quickly vanished when the rest of our day consisted of him reading over the paper and me wandering around the backyard, tossing a ball by myself.
Turning around from her, I turn my game on again and begin playing. Without warning, she’s leaning over my shoulder, throwing tons of questions at me.
“Stop it,” I demand, shifting my body away from her, but when I inevitably die, she’s right there.
“You died. Can I play it now?” She puts her hand out, and I’m so annoyed, but then I look at her worn clothes. Her shoes have one small tear by the tip of her toe and jeans so thin at the knee that I can see through them.
“Okay,” I say, handing her my new gift like my mom hands me her finest china during the holidays.
She grabs it out of my hands and begins playing a whole lot better than me. She’s breezing past the level I was stuck on, igniting jealousy. Once she dies two levels up from where I did, she hands it back over to me.
Gripping it in my hands, I stare at her in amazement that this girl who appears almost homeless just beat me on my own game. “I have a friend who has one,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m Chrissy by the way.”
“Dex,” I tell her.
10 years old
I BUCKLE MYSELF into our beat-up Chevy Caprice that shows more rust than paint. Not that I should complain, it gets us where we need to be. Driving away from our one-bedroom apartment, excitement churns inside of me with the thought that I’ll spend a few hours forgetting about my shitty life. With the fact that my mom left a month ago and hasn’t returned, I need the disruption more than my next meal. Especially since if we eat or not depends on how well my dad gambles today.
His gambling is out of control, but I’ve learned my lesson on speaking my opinion on that topic. Two weeks ago, he purposely didn’t bring me, which was the harshest punishment he could have given. Hitting me would have been better, because the pain would have been brief compared to a whole afternoon thinking about what I could be doing if I would have kept my mouth shut. The funniest part about it is though, he has no idea I know where he went and what he did. He thought he was keeping it a secret that he went there, that I wouldn’t know he gambled our week’s rent away.
We always park around the corner in some off chance the place gets busted. Up until two years ago, it was part of my nightly prayers that it would. But things changed when I turned that corner two years ago and found Dex sitting in that folding chair. Although I don’t pray for it to remain open, I just leave it out altogether. My eyes glance at the diner across the street, and I imagine all the delish foods they probably make every day while my stomach erupts with a growl sure to be heard from across town. That bowl of Fruit Loops not completely doing its job of filling my stomach as last night’s dinner.
“Stop wasting time. Let’s go.” My dad’s voice booms over to me, and I start walking faster to not upset him.
Weaving through the small ‘grocery store’, we wave to the usual knowing employees and walk down a series of steps to the underground level. Once we get to the stained linoleum hallway with two chairs set outside for the only two people that ever fill them, he knocks and is immediately let in. He never looks back at me or speaks a word. For the next four hours, I don’t exist in his mind and, truth is, we both prefer it that way. It’s like a mini vacation from our own hell.
I’m not sure why my dad never shipped me off to my grandparents’ or just left me at one of the places that takes unwanted kids. The only humane thing he’s done with me since my mom left us to pursue her own dreams is keep me instead of turning me over to foster care. Not that she was much of a mother anyway. Neither of my parents have ever been very parental.
Dex and his dad interrupt me just as I’m digging further in my mind that usually I try not to do. But I like to remind myself that I will not turn into him or the other kids that wander the streets. That I will get out of this one day and live a happy life with plenty of food and kids I will always tell how much I love them.
“There she is,” Theo, Dex’s dad, says as the heels of his dress shoes click on the floor. He doesn’t fit the type from around here. Tall, blonde, scruff on his face with a muscular build. Always dressed in nice slacks, a button-down, and dress shoes. No one would ever assume he’s as messed up as my dad—well, I guess he’s not as bad, but they run in the same circles.
“Hi, Mr. Prescott,” I answer, giving him a small wave. His large hand lays on top of my head, and he messes my hair up slightly before doing the same series of knocks my dad did ten minutes ago.
“You two have fun. Love you, Edge,” Mr. Prescott says, using Dex’s nickname he earned last year when he made a pick that stuffed peoples’ pockets. Not sure why the guys trusted him for his input, but they all tossed him some bills after, which got him so excited, which, in turn, made me hate him a little.
Soon Mr. Prescott’s gone and the smell of bubble gum and boy wafts under my nostrils. A wide smile instantly crosses my lips because I’ve been waiting for two weeks to see him. “What’s up, Chrissy?” he asks and hands me a Game Boy. I’m scrunching my eyes up, getting ready to ask him what’s this when he quickly remarks, “I borrowed my friend’s for the day,” answering my unasked question.
“Thank you,” I genuinely say, and his shoulders rise and fall like he doesn’t care.
Dex Prescott and I might not have the most stellar of conversations, but, for four hours every other Saturday, it’s just me and him. We play games, always ones he brings with him. He sneaks food away in his backpack that he shares with me. He’s fortunate to only live with his father every other weekend, while the rest of the time he lives with his mom. I can’t say I’m not jealous of his ‘normal’ childhood, except for when he’s with me, but I’m happy for him all at the same time. Not sure how I can be happy for someone I feel so much jealously toward, but I do. I wouldn’t wish any other person to have the life I have.
“I have something for you,” I say, digging into my pocket. I pull out the small disk and Dex’s eyes light up, grabbing it out of my hand.
“How did you get this?” he asks. “I’ve been saving, but my mom says no more games.” He holds the newest game of Mortal Kombat out in front of him like it’s a Babe Ruth rookie card. “You play it first.” He hands it back to me, thankful he didn’t ask me again how I got it. Especially since I kind of borrowed slash stole it from another kid. Not that I would usually ever steal. I’ve told myself a million times I’d never do it. But the kid called me a dirty piece of trash right in the middle of the playground. All his damn friends laughed and chanted it back. So, when I went in to go to the bathroom during recess, I played a payback that benefits Dex. The guilt resonates pretty hard within me, so I just replay the nightmare of the playground scene in my head to justify my actions.
“No, Dex, you go first.” I push his hand closer to him, and, ultimately, he accepts it.
“Thanks, Chrissy,” he says, giving me a huge smile before inserting it into the player.
12 years old
“BYE, MOM,” I mutter while allowing her to still hug and kiss me goodbye for the weekend. My eyes find Ted’s right behind her, smiling at our affection. He’s been dating my mom for a year, and they seem to be really happy. Usually he’s still around when my dad drops me off on Sunday, so she really isn’t fooling me, thinking he doesn’t spend the night.
“Call me if you need me,” she whispers in my ear. I’ve had a cell phone for three years because my mom wants to be able to text me and check up on me whenever I’m with my dad.
“I will,” I agree, trying to get out of her tiger grips. My dad’s horn honks again and I slowly backstep, giving a quick wave to Ted.
Running out the door, I climb into my dad’s new car. When I say new, I mean five-year-old used Cadillac, but new to him. He waves to my mom and I do the same.
“Ready, Edge?” he asks me, and I cringe from the reference of my nickname. My reaction has done a one-eighty since he first referred to me as that. Remembering the happiness that swelled in me the day he called me Edge for the first time, only disgusts me now. He said it with pride, but mostly it was because of the joy I instilled in him by making him money. Now though, I wish he’d say my name at least a few times. Edge comes with an expectation that I’ll continue to make the picks that gain him money, but leaving me with the fear one day I won’t. That I’ll disappoint him and the name will be stripped from me. As well as maybe my father.
“Yeah, Dad.” I sit in the car, listening to his rock ‘n’ roll music while watching his left foot tap to the beat of the music. The minutes ticking by until I see Chrissy. Since she doesn’t have a phone; I only have these four hours every other Saturday to spend with her. Although I’d never admit it to anyone, I love when our dads win big because they usually stay longer or the four of us do something together. She understands me, and we have a mutual understanding of our dads’ shitty recreational activities. “Dad?” I ask, and he turns his attention to me briefly before directing it toward the road again. “Do you mind if Chrissy and I go to the diner?”
“No, you’re old enough. Shit, when I was your age, I went all over my town,” he agrees, and I’m glad because I saved the money my dad gave me last week so I could take her out.
“Thanks,” I say and he just smiles over to me.
Chrissy deserves so much more than her shitty life with her shitty father. In the four years I’ve known her, she’s never shown up with anything new. She puts on a good front with me, but it’s obvious they don’t have money; her clothes are always really worn and a little too small. After I heard her stomach growl that first day I met her, I made sure to grab some snacks from my mom’s before my dad picked me up the next time. Now four years later, it’s our routine. We eat, play games, and never talk about anything important, even though I’m sure we have plenty in common.
When my dad parks his Cadillac behind Chrissy’s dad’s Caprice, my stomach gets this foreign, anxious feeling. I fear I’m getting sick, especially since the feeling grows more intense as we make our way through the run-down grocery store and down the steps. When we reach the bottom, I swear the fruit scent of her soap conceals the usual mold and sour food smell. My eyes find her sitting in the same chair every time, and my stomach bursts into a zillion little fireworks. She looks up at me, a smile already in place. “Hi, Mr. Prescott. Hi, Dex,” she greets us, and my dad says his usual while my voice embarrassingly cracks.
“Um … hi … Chrissy,” I say, sounding like a complete moron. What the hell is wrong with me?
Placing my backpack on the floor, I sit there facing the cracked cement wall, trying to calm myself before I puke all over the stained floor. “Hey, Dex.” She picks her head up so she can look at my face. I muster up a smile, which seems to make her own smile widen. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks, and then her hand touches my forehead and all those damn explosions go off in my stomach again.
I inch away at her contact, and she drops her hand, a frown replacing her smile. “You don’t feel warm, but you’re kind of sweating.” She rubs her palm across her pants, causing my eyes to fixate on her bare knee peeping out from the tear on her jeans. For the first time, I itch curiosity about what it would be like to touch her.
“I don’t know.” I wipe my forehead, and sure enough, my palm is now coated with wetness. “Do you want to go over to the diner?” I ask her, changing the topic to get away from the sudden uncomfortableness in the room.
She bites the inside of her cheek and casts a glance at the locked door that we aren’t allowed to enter through. “It’s okay, I asked my dad,” I assure her and rise to my feet, shrugging my backpack over my shoulders.
We hurry out of the grocery store as the attendant eyes us warily because, for the first time in four years, we’re without our dads. Crossing the street, we finally enter the small diner with vinyl seats and metal rimmed tables. I grab a booth in the back corner by the bathrooms. She slides in across from me and doesn’t pick up her menu.
“Do you know what you want?” I ask her, flipping through the menu myself.
“Um …” She stops and then inhales a hefty breath. “Dex, I don’t have any money.”
“No need, I’m paying. The winnings from two weeks ago,” I explain and continue to study the burgers, milkshakes, and sandwiches the diner offers, like this isn’t anything unusual for us.
Her fingers wrap along the top of my menu, and she pushes it down. “I won’t let you,” she informs me and the determination of Chrissy’s eyes shows her need to never want people to feel sorry for her.
“Yes, you will.” She leans back, crossing her arms, and stares out the window.
When the friendly middle-aged waitress wanders over in her frilly apron, she smiles and giggles before asking us what we want. I order two hamburgers with fries and milkshakes. Realizing I’m ordering for her regardless, Chrissy finally chimes in. “Not chocolate, strawberry, please.” The woman notes the change on her pad with a smile.
I follow the waitress’s walk back behind the counter with my eyes, watching her whisper to another waitress, who glances our way with a small amused smirk. They probably think we’re on some kind of date.
“Thank you, Dex.” Chrissy’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn her way. Again, Fourth of July booms in my stomach.
“You’re welcome,” I mumble, and we sit there in silence again, watching the cars pass by the diner, probably on their way to somewhere that has nothing to do with the hidden life that Chrissy and I have experienced.
We eat our lunch with barely any conversation between the two of us. For some reason, watching her eat brings a happiness to me that I can’t explain. At first she was slow, taking a fry, dipping it into ketchup, and then wiping her hands on the napkin, but once she witnessed my very caveman scarfing-down mechanics of eating, she changed her course to match mine.
Sitting on the crappy, ripped, vinyl-covered benches, we watch what everyone believes is the grocery store across the street. Some men leave with their heads down and hands in their empty pockets, a sure sign that they lost. Others have wide and huge smiles showing they won.
Eventually, we leave with the realization that our dads will be finished soon. We exit the restaurant and stand on the cracked-up sidewalk in the most rundown part of town. It’s a surprise everything isn’t boarded up by now. Her hand is on my forearm before I can react and then her lips are on my cheek even faster. “Thanks again,” she softly says before stepping back, leaving me in my own personal space.
This time it’s not my stomach that’s exploding to life.
14 years old
“MIKE IS COMING with me,” I tell my friend, Heidi, who is currently packing for a trip to Cedar Point with her family. I’ll never understand why she befriended me earlier this year when we both were thrown into high school. She’s middle class; I’m poor. She’s pretty enough to be a model, and I’m girl-next-door-tomboy. The list could go on and on to our differences, but it’s nice having an escape when she invites me over to her house.
My dad moved us for many reasons, one being an eviction notice from the one-bedroom place we’d called home for years. Lucky, though, I now have my own room, well, a curtained off section. But more privacy than the bed in the corner of the family room in our last place. Not that I have to worry too much, since my dad is rarely home. You know that goes along with actually being a parent.
Since I’ve grown older, I rarely go with him to the Saturday games, and if I do, it’s with the chance that maybe Dex will be waiting there in one of our chairs. But usually a heaviness would take over my body if they were empty when I arrived because he doesn’t go much either. He has obligations like most kids our age. Sports and friends keep him busy in his big house on the opposite side of the world from me.
Tonight his dad is throwing a party. Some celebration of a big windfall Mr. Prescott was blessed to win. I say blessed, because that’s what gambling is—luck or a blessing from the heavens above. Half of me wonders if it was Dex’s pick that gave him the windfall, but I’d never ask.
Now I stand in my bathroom, applying the mascara I’ve only been using for a few months and I try to see if my butt looks big in the yellow sundress Heidi loaned me. Twisting and turning, I struggle to gather an accurate assessment in the mirror. Just as I’m about to put my lip gloss on, a knock at the door interrupts me.
Peering out the peephole, my stomach clenches and a warmth spreads up and down my body. Mike stands on the other side, suave and confident like always. He’s from this side of the tracks, so there’s no feeling ashamed when he sees my apartment while picking me up. He’s two years older and drives, which is another plus for Mike. The only stipulation his mom puts on him is that he drives and picks up his siblings from school. Ever since he sauntered over to me down at the park while I was babysitting the kids next door, he’s been my own personal chauffeur.
I open the door. His hands are tucked in his pockets, and he rolls back on his heels, that typical panty-dropping smirk across his face. His dark hair is gelled into some form of a messy look that fits him even more, while his tight grey t-shirt clings to his strong arms. “Hey, you ready?” he asks, pulling me into a hug. He’s a little handsy, but we haven’t gone further than second base. I’m pretty sure that’s because of me, not him, though.
“Yep,” I respond and flick off the lights before we exit out the door. Securing the locks, Mike links his hands with mine, and we venture out of the apartment complex. The car beeps, signaling he’s unlocked it , and instead of coming to my side first, he walks to his own and slides in. Leaving me to open my door. Gentleman he is not.
The blaring music pours out the windows of his black Nissan Altima. You’d think he was Eminem in some expensive Bentley the way he slouches back with one hand hung over the steering wheel as his head bops to the beat of the rap music. Not to say that my insides aren’t tingling, because Mike is the epitome of the hot, bad boy every girl dreams about and every dad fears. Every dad, but mine. He might have met Mike once, and Dad just nodded his head at him in the doorway.
We drive up to Dex’s dad’s house, a modest two-story on the south side of the city. Mr. Prescott keeps it up surprisingly well, showing how much more ‘blessed’ he is than my dad. Spotting my dad’s Caprice in the driveway, I instruct Mike to park on the street, so we aren’t stuck waiting for other people to leave.
Cars continue to line the street and familiar faces smile my way as they walk up to the door. I’m reminded again of this horrible life I normally don’t share with other people. I contemplated long and hard whether or not to bring Mike, but since he comes from the poverty stricken side similar to me, I figured he won’t judge. Plus, I hate being around all these men alone, but at least some brought their wives or girlfriends with them tonight.
When the front door opens, it’s a pair of blue eyes that bring a sense of belonging over me. “Chrissy,” Dex says in a much deeper voice than I remember. He’s grown, not only in height but muscles have seemed to bulge out. My stomach swarms with butterflies as his eyes hold their steady focus on me.
“Hi D–Dex,” I stutter. “This is Mike. Mike this is Dex.” I introduce the two boys, and Dex’s vision shifts to Mike. They shake hands, and we walk into the packed house full of people.
“If you guys want, some of us are outside.” He nods his head toward the back of the house. I glance at Mike and he shrugs, so we follow Dex out the doors.
A few other kids I remember from parties my dad would take me to sit in a circle around the fire pit in plastic lawn chairs. Mike sits down in the only unoccupied chair, leaving me no choice but to sit on his lap. “Take my spot, Chrissy,” Dex offers, standing, but I politely decline. Then he shifts his attention to Brenna, completely disregarding us.
Mike strikes up some conversation with a kid to our right about cars and things I couldn’t care less about. Sitting there, I survey the yard, looking at the people I want to be nothing like. People that have embraced the high and low lifestyle their parents have raised them in. Mike’s hand inches up my thigh, taking my dress up with it, so his hand can lay on my knee. Dex turns his attention to me again, staring down at Mike’s hand and then stands up, disappearing inside.
“Hi, Chrissy.” Brenna slides over, taking Dex’s seat.
“Hi, Brenna,” I respond and prepare myself to be stuck in a conversation for at least twenty minutes. The girl never shuts the hell up.
“Is that your boyfriend?” she whispers, pointing to Mike.
I nod, and a huge smile forms on her face. Nodding her head slowly, her eyes suck him in as though she wouldn’t mind a taste.
“Nice,” she mouths, and I smile back.
Then the screen door slams, and Dex reappears, glancing at me first and then Brenna. Shaking his head, he plops down in her seat and concentrates on everyone and anything besides me. Brenna continues to talk my ear off about some guy she made out with last weekend during a game of spin the bottle. Delving in further, she goes a little too far, beginning to tell me how if there was privacy they would have gone up to the bedroom, which peeks Mike’s interest.
His hand roams further up my leg, but I place my hand on his to stop him. He’s persistent and not stopping. Just as I press down as hard as I can, making his palm dig into my thigh, Dex’s vision locks with mine. Immediately, his eyes focus downward, glaring at Mike’s hand and he shakes his head. I stand up and Mike’s hand drops into his lap. “I’ll be right back,” I mumble, but Mike doesn’t say anything, much too interested in Brenna’s conversation.
I’m not in the kitchen one second when Dex grabs my wrist and swings me around. “Why the hell are you with him?” he asks, and I stand there like a moron without a voice. “Chrissy, he clearly wants more than you’re ready to give,” Dex continues, and I feel like a statue because if I move a millimeter, I’ll breakdown.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I murmur, and Dex steps closer, making my heart beat faster. “It was nothing.”
“You don’t need this—” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“What do you know about what I need? You don’t live my life. Two weekends a month doesn’t constitute living the hell I do every day. Just go back to your big house on the hill with your sweet-as-pie mom that makes your bed every morning, prepares your lunch, and buys you anything you want,” I ramble, unable to stop myself once I get going. I guess there’s always been some form of resentment hidden underneath our relationship.
Dex steps back, but it’s not anger in his face, it’s sadness. His eyes show such an enormity of sympathy, I want to slap it off his face. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t ever feel sorry for me.” I push past him, knocking my shoulder into his arm and out the screen door before my footsteps halt, making Dex stumble into my back.
Mike isn’t sitting down in the chair and Brenna’s seat is empty as well. Scanning the small patio, I notice the looks of uneasiness in the other kids’ faces. Storming down the brick steps, it doesn’t take long to find them. Mike is pressing Brenna up against the brick wall with his hands up her shirt and his tongue occupying her mouth.
“Mike?” I question as he’s lip-locked with Brenna.
“You mother fucker,” Dex hollers from behind me before storming past.
Taking a break from his game of swapping spit, Mike turns my way.
“Come on, Chrissy. You and me both knew you weren’t giving it up. She’s willing, and I’m taking,” he says, and before I can respond, Dex’s fist smashes into Mike’s jaw.
“Dex!” I scream, only bringing more attention to us.
Mike’s hand touches his lip and finds blood when he pulls it back to inspect it. “You’re a complete dipshit, because you just fucked up,” Mike counters back while swinging a fist, but thankfully, Dex sidesteps it.
The two cock their heads as their fists jab toward one another. Brenna cheers Mike on, and I scrunch my eyes on how she could be such a fair weather friend. “Just stop you two,” I scold them both, stepping in and out of their tight circle. Dex swings his arm up, and my hand flies off his flexed bicep while his cold eyes prod Mike.
“Edge!” Mr. Prescott yells from across the yard, but he disregards it. “Dex!” he calls again and Dex turns, allowing Mike to nail him in the side of the head. Dex stumbles back on his feet, but quickly recovers. His fist makes contact with the side of Mike’s face, splitting open his eyebrow and blood pours like a broken faucet down his face, dribbling red dots to the concrete.
Before the two can continue, my dad and Mr. Prescott separate them. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Mike.” My dad places his arms across his chest, intimidating as he stands two inches from Mike.
“No way. That boy needs his ass kicked.” Mike swipes the blood from his mouth and spits a glob of red saliva on the pavement.
“Now come on,” Mr. Prescott steps in, “you know as well as I do, my boy will just end up embarrassing you.” Dex’s head jolts up, intent on hearing the compliments coming from his dad’s mouth.
“Whatever. Way to let a bunch of old men be your bodyguards,” Mike sneers, cocking his head to the side to egg on Dex.
Dex pushes his body up against his dad’s back, but it’s my dad that punches Mike this time. Mike’s body crashes to the ground, and he quickly gets up and stumbles out of the backyard. A few minutes later, the sound of his tires screeching and his engine roaring down the street can be heard from the backyard.
Knowing he’s gone, the two men and one bloody-faced Dex slowly twist their bodies in my direction, scowling at me, as though I’m the one who started this.
