Perpetuate Page 5

  “Ha-ha. You’re hysterical. But as much as I’m enjoying your sick sense of humor, I have to get going.”

  “I thought you don’t have classes today.”

  “I don’t. I’m going over to my dad’s. See if he needs anything.”

  “Gemma—“

  Pushing to my feet, I begin clearing up my own dishes. “It’s no big deal. I’m only going to check on him.” But I can’t seem to meet those assessing and disappointed blue eyes.

  *****

  To my surprise and joy, for the first time in over a month my dad seems to be reasonably lucid and more like his usual self. Although it’s almost ten in the morning but knowing he probably haven’t had anything yet, I decide to make him a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. Before I can start, I slap on some gloves and spend a good twenty minutes scrubbing the kitchen sink and counters of what looks to be a mixture of vomit, vodka, and who knows what else. By the time I’m done, my dad is dressed and sitting at the breakfast bar.

  At fifty-three, Peter Warton has a head full of wavy hair, a little too long to be fashionable, but still mostly brown with only a few strays of gray. Though bloodshot, his eyes are deep hazel. It’s obvious to anyone who cares to look that I inherited my mouth from my mom rather than my dad’s thinner version, but at the moment they are smiling, even if just a little.

  “What?” I ask as he continues to look at me as though he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen me cook before.”

  “When did you grow up on me, Gemma?” His voice is raspy but wistful, almost like he just woke up from a long dream.

  I smile indulgently and spoon the eggs onto a plate. “A long time ago, dad.”

  “You were always mature for your age, even when you were just a wee thing. Watching you at that stove, it just brought back memories, except the appliance I remember was made of bright plastic with stickers for knobs.”

  “And the food was rubber.” The toasts join the eggs. “I enjoy cooking for you.” Gratingly, Brad Hawkes’s charge that I’m too alert to my dad’s needs come rushing back, but I ruthlessly shove aside all thoughts of him. Again.

  “Your mom was a great cook.”

  Peter and Paige Warton divorced when I was six. Although my dad never went into the details of why, I can guess his on and off drinking habits played a huge part. A year later my mom remarried and moved to Montana. She tried to get me to join her, but with her gone, my dad needed me more than ever. I haven’t heard from her since.

  “Yes, I remember. She made the best stuffed pork chops.” Because talking about her hurt, the only time I do is in passing. Making use of the orange juice I bought on the way here, I pour him a hefty glass. “I never could master that dish no matter how hard I tried. How’s the head?”

  At the mention of the hammering, he rubs at his forehead. “Better. The painkillers helped. And the coffee.”

  For a while. Until he goes through it all again. When does it stop?

  “Eat,” I tell him and scoot the plate and juice in front of him. “You need to put some weight back on you.”

  Obligingly he picks up the fork I set out earlier, not that he’s ever had a problem with stuffing his face. “Aren’t you having any?”

  “I already ate before I got here.” Instead of taking a stool, I opt to watch him from the expanse of the counter. “You feeling okay, dad?”

  “You know me. I always feel okay. This is really good.”

  I let him change the topic, because he won’t want to hash what’s happening to death and certainly doesn’t want me harping on him to stop. Not that it’d make a difference. “It’s just eggs and toasts.”

  “Still good.”

  “Is there anything you need for my next run?”

  It’s then he starts to stir, shifting awkwardly on his seat. Dropping the fork, he picks up his coffee and takes a loud gulp as though for courage. The porcelain meets the counter with a distinct clank as he sets it down.

  He clears his throat. Clears it again.

  “I can use a few bucks. Just… just to tie me over until I find another job.”

  Familiar disappointment weighs on me like a wet blanket, because it’s not the money he’s asking or even the lies he tells to gain it. It’s the resource to feed his endless addiction. Just two days before I’d given him whatever I had in my purse, which was seventy-seven dollars of the tips from the night before. Now he wants more. Always more.

  The hurt, the betrayal, and the helpless weariness are there, I can’t deny it. I want to scream at him at full vocal capacity to stop. Please just stop. This isn’t you. You can beat this. Don’t leave me like this. I don’t want to be by myself. I want my dad back.

  It’s my turn to rub at my head. Having been through this for years, I’m aware of the textbook characteristics of an addict, of the common behavior, thought patterns, and what family and friends are faced with, but it’s easier, less cutting, to just give in and do what he wants instead of uselessly pleading or bargaining with the gnawing monster in him. Life doesn’t happen in a classroom.

  “How much?”

  A bony shoulder lifts, returns. “Whatever you can spare.”

  Which translates to whatever I got.

  “I don’t have much. Just a few dollars. I don’t get paid until Friday.”

  His back straightens as he nods ardently and with more excitement than anything I’d seen since I walked through the door an hour ago. “That’s fine. That’ll work.”

  I give him twenty-one dollars. It was all I had. Groceries, filling up the tank in my little car that can also use an oil change, are all going into a credit card that’s practically maxed out. My dad gives me a half-hearted hug and tells me I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to him, that he doesn’t know what he would do without me, that I’m the only reason he’s survived this long.

  My eyes fill.

  Pretty words. Exactly what I want to hear.

  And all lies to get what he wants out of me.

  I’m fully aware of it. The truth of it, each lie a stab wound into tender flesh, brutally cracking my heart into a thousand pieces. I wonder, idly, how many times that muscle can be abused before it becomes numb or dead. Or just gives up.

  He knows I won’t leave him alone until every bite on his plate is finished, so he does. Even the juice is drained. I’m sure after the binges he’s been on, he’s absolutely dehydrated. The dishes and pan are washed and put away before I start wiping down the kitchen a second time. Since I won’t be able to visit for another day, I want to make sure the apartment is in the best condition it can be under the circumstances, because by the time I return, the place would look like a cyclone has been through it once again. The thought of seeing my dad live that way makes me want to weep.

  With everything in its place, I reclaim my purse and give him a hug. “Love you, dad.” It hurts to say it, to see those deep eyes process and dismiss the words of affection like it’s a casual greeting, the unnatural glint of impatience for me to leave him be so he can get on to what he does. There were times when that gleam was because he was looking at the apple in those eyes. Me. “Be careful.”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Have a good day at school.”

  I don’t remind him there are no classes today. He has no conception of what day of the week it is, much less what’s going on in my life.

  Why do I do this, I reprimand myself as I see my way out. How much more can I live like this? The anxiety, loneliness, powerlessness, it’s all too much. How much longer? Will it ever change?

  Quietly opening the front door, I nearly ram my face into a hard knuckle perched to knock. The dazed screech dies in my throat when I’m met with a pair of just as surprised green eyes. The arm is down within a blink.

  “What the hell! You almost whacked me.”

  The distress on his face would have been comical if my sense of humor hasn’t taken a hiatus.

  “I didn’t realize you were there. Sorry about that.
” When I don’t offer anything else, Brad Hawkes glances over my shoulder. “I’m here to see Peter.”

  The defenseless despair gripping me finds an outlet. “Why?” I snap. “Are you here to gloat?”

  “Peter was not only a former long-term employee, he’s also a friend.” He eyes me steadily as though daring me to challenge him further. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been here, and he’s never voiced any objections. You have a problem with it?”

  The defiant stare down lasts all of ten seconds before I glance away with a strained shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  Leaving the entrance gaping behind me, I proceed to the sidewalk to my car. A large black luxury SUV is parked behind me. In this not so glamourous neighborhood, a polished vehicle like that would stand out like a blooming rose among dying weeds, but that isn’t what stops me on my tracks. It’s the bulky man in the black pants, white shirt, and black tie just about to climb into the driver seat that has my avid notice.

  I’ve seen that man before.

  Catching my rapt gaze, he nods politely at me as he gets behind the wheel. It’s when he’s lowering himself into the car that I see the vibrant tattoo on the side of his neck left partially exposed by the collar of his shirt. It’s a dagger with green vines wrapped around it, starting at below his ear to just above the curve of his neck. The light brown military buzz, nondescript features might’ve been harder to place, but I’d recognize that needled skin anywhere.

  Well, you also don’t see a six-foot seven man every day.

  He was at Conyers last week. And he left me a thousand dollars cash.

  My lips firm. Clearly Hawkes sent his minions to Conyers to deal with his charity of the month. Well, I might be so broke I have to start seriously skipping more meals, but I still have my pride. The cash is stuffed in an envelope in my room. It would take me at least twenty minutes to get home and come back, not to mention the cost of gas that I should be conserving.

  Setting my shoulders, I advance toward the car. Watching me, the man scales back out, seemingly unconcerned with my sudden approach. Of course he is, I muse as I break in front of him, he’s easily twice my size and has nothing to fear from me. At least physically.

  “You were at Conyers Bar and Grill last week,” I begin. “You work for Brad Hawkes.”

  The white shirt strains over massive muscles when he folds his arms. “Yes to both.”

  “He told you to give me one thousand dollars.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he responds with, “Did he now?”

  Jerk number two. “Why?”

  “Why did I go to Conyers? He pays me to follow orders.”

  That wasn’t what I meant and he knows it. “Why is he scheming to pass me so much money?”

  “Miss Warton, don’t you think you should be having this conversation with Mr. Hawkes?” he suggests matter-of-factly. “His visits with Mr. Warton don’t generally take long. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”

  That has my eyes narrowing in suspicion. This hulk makes it sound like Hawkes being here is routine. “And just how often does he stop by?”

  Might have turned into stone, I figure by the way his face morphs into a stoic impression of nothingness. Now the beast decides to clam up? Where’s a chair and a whip when I need one?

  Letting the air rustle out of me, I try a different tactic. “What’s your name?”

  “Carlson.”

  “Are you Mr. Hawkes’s…” Paid thug? Avenger? Pet bear? “Driver?”

  “That is one of my duties, Miss Warton.”

  “What are your others?”

  “There are many.”

  “Like what?” I persist. When he remains mute, I begin throwing out ideas, hoping for a hit. “Running errands?” He shrugs. “Bodyguard?” Nothing. “Gardener? Manicurist? OBGYN? We can go at this all day.”

  “I shall inform Mr. Hawkes of your inquiries. I’m certain he would offer to indulge in your curiosity.”

  “Right. Just before he introduces me to the sidewalk.”

  A hint of a smile breezes by the otherwise stern lips. “I don’t believe so, Miss Warton.”

  “Well, you have more faith in him than I do,” I mutter. I rub a weary hand on my forehead. At this rate I’ll be wrinkled by twenty-seven. “Look, I want to give him back his money, but since I wasn’t expecting to see him, I don’t have it on me. And I really don’t want to drive back and forth. Besides, by the time I get back he’ll be long gone.”

  Though his expression hasn’t changed, it looks to be warning me cautiously. “I don’t recommend that action plan. Mr. Hawkes might not take kindly to that.”

  “I’m sorry if he feels that way, Carlson, but I really can’t accept it. For all intents and purposes, he’s a stranger to me. If he really wants to help, he should donate that money to a charitable cause. I don’t happen to be one, so it shouldn’t be granted to me.”

  “No, you’re not a chartable cause.”

  I whip around at the low, mildly exasperated voice. He’s close. So close I can smell the enthralling blend of clean soap and raw male.

  “What you are, Gemma, is difficult,” he continues. “And just this side of a pain in the ass.”

  I have to tip my neck back to look at him and plant my hands on my hips. “Oh really?” Great comeback, Gemma. “Well, sticks and stones… nor a pile of dough, Mr. Hawkes. So I suggest you save it. My dad and I are fine without your money.”

  That rogue eyebrow hikes up. “Do you return all your gratuities?”

  “Those weren’t tips and you know it!”

  “No?” Hands sliding into the pockets of those amazingly cut slacks, he peers down at me thoughtfully with just a trace of humor in his unblemished spring leaf eyes. “Then what were they?”

  “Buy offs.”

  “Buy offs? Interesting.” His head bobs once as if considering, clearly indulging me. “Do enlighten me, I’m a little slow today, what am I buying off?”

  “Your guilt for firing someone who’s ill. Not only is it unconscionable, it’s also illegal, Mr. CEO. You’re lucky I haven’t lawyered up.” Okay, I threw that last one in there in the heat of the moment. Considering he probably has legions of the country’s best attorneys at his ready disposal, the empty threat was downright laughable. “And the fact that you’ve been throwing money at me? That just screams of bribery. Any judge would be able to see that.”

  Take that, Hawkes.

  Not an inch of him intimidated, he rocks back on his heels. “Money?” Gorgeous features puckering, he shakes his head as though confused. “What money?”

  “What do you mean what money? The three thousand five hundred dollars you and your jerkoffs left on my tables at Conyers. That’s what money.”

  “You don’t say?” He rubs his chin for a spell. “You must be really good at your job then. Good for you.”

  I barely block the urge to stomp my foot. “You know very well what I’m talking about, Mr. Hawkes, so you can stop playing dumb.”

  “Surely you don’t mean to imply I have something to do with your earnings, Miss Warton? I have to admit, although your service was commendable, the type of food Conyers offers is not something I would frequent regularly. I do enjoy having fully functional arteries.”

  “You—“ I manage to get one step in before my upper arms are abruptly seized and wrenched back from behind by colossal, sausage-like fingers. “Hey! Get your hands off me!”

  “Carlson. Stand down.”

  The whiplash snap of the hard command has my limbs immediately freed. Rubbing at the offended parts, I toss a glare over my shoulder. The giant hadn’t hurt me, his grip ensured more for restraining than harm, most likely an automatic reaction to my reducing the proximity to his boss than anything. Seriously though, do they think I’m about to throw down? Like I scream of violent tendencies?

  But Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum isn’t bothering with me. He’s too busy receiving a dressing down from his employer. As I watch, fascinated, Carlson’s big, dark head begins to dip, inch by inch
, until his chin is practically touching his muscled neck, his XXXL frame squirming like a busted three-year old. Nervous size eighteen shoes suddenly shuffle back into the car and the door clicks gently into place behind him.

  Chastised and dismissed. All without a word.

  Amazing.

  “How do you do that?” I ask as I swivel back to eyes gone hard. Flinty and cold, brilliant cut emeralds. If his jaw gets any tighter, I’m sure I’ll be hearing teeth crack. I’d hate to be in the receiving end of that merciless face. “It’s alright.” I gentled my voice, hoping to calm the unexpected, volatile turn of the situation. And I thought Carlson was the beast. “It’s alright,” I repeat when he doesn’t appear to digest my words.

  “It’s not alright. You think it’s okay for someone to put his hands on you?” he bites out.

  “He was only doing his job,” I offer carefully. “Isn’t that what you pay him to do? To shield you from potential threats?”

  “He’s not paid to overreact.” Aggravated tension envelopes us as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his lids lowering as though he’s talking to himself. “After we’re done he won’t be doing that at all. And that’s letting him off easy.” His hand drops and those burning eyes seem to clear some. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Oh please.” I wave off the silly question. The guy hardly touched me. “He’s lucky I didn’t ninja his overgrown ass.” I lay a hand on his arm in appeal, noting the muscles promptly tightening. “Honestly, I’m okay. There’s no need to go around firing anyone. He did what he was trained to do. You should be glad of it.”

  “Are you actually speaking up on his behalf after what he did?”

  A shoulder goes up, drops. “I guess I am. I’d hate to be the cause of someone losing his job, especially when he was just doing it. He’s evidently good at it, so go easy on him, Hawkes. No harm done.”

  “Brad,” he asserts, vivid jewel eyes penetrating into me, and leans down. “Say my name. Just this once.” His unique scent captures my senses as he closes the distance further. “I promise it won’t hurt,” he murmurs a mere sniff from my ear.