Fearless Page 8

  It’s nearly forty minutes between his and my place, yet it feels like it’s gone in a moment. He turns his lights off as he turns down my street, parking opposite my house and cutting the engine.

  “Well,” I heave a deep sigh, “guess this is me.”

  “Yep.” He looks as disappointed as I feel. His eyes move past my face, a hint of intimidation clouding his features as he takes in my house.

  It’s excessive for two people, I’ll be the first to admit. Maybe if Mom were still here, and my brother wasn’t some fucking weirdo, the four bed, three and a half bath wouldn’t be so colossal.

  But it’s just me and Dad, and it’s clear Lincoln isn’t sure what to think. He works whatever job he can get, scrounges for cash and rent money just to survive in his apartment with a roommate, and here I am, practically living alone, rent free.

  And there I go. Thinking again.

  I reach out and cup his strong jaw in my palm, drawing his gaze back to me. I’ll stew on the unfairness of the world later—for now, I want to be here, in this truck, wasting my night away with this beautiful soul who simultaneously puts my mind to riot and to rest.

  How can a person be your war and your peace, your confusion and your clarity, all at one time?

  After wasting a good hour of my life making out with that man over the center council of his car, I creep through the front entry of my house on the very tips of my toes. Lincoln waits until I’m safely inside before pulling out and heading back to the other side of town. Over an hour of his night will be spent driving to and from little ole me, and it makes my stomach do somersaults.

  I lean back against the door and slide down to the floor, feeling as though I could melt right there. I wish I’d spent the night with him...surely if he could be coerced into driving after his couple whiskey shots, I could’ve convinced him to take me as his.

  He’d be the death of me at this rate. I think I’m all right with that.

  “Tell me I didn’t see what I think I just saw.”

  I leap off the floor and square off, but he flicks the light on, and I tense up for all new reasons. “Dad,” I gasp. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  He just glares at me.

  “See what?” I ask.

  “Tell me you weren’t just in a car with some dirty old nigger.”

  He’s said it so many times, I shouldn’t even register the vicious tone to his words. I know my father, I know his old hate. But tonight, hearing that slur, directed at someone so kind, and sweet, and gentle, and perfect, it sets my blood boiling. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack, Riley,” he snaps, his voice dripping with disappointment and anger. “What the hell were you thinking? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

  “He was just a ride share, Dad, cool off,” I lie.

  I don’t know why I lie to him, but I do. My mind is racing, and I can barely hear myself think over the pounding in my ears. It feels easier to formulate a story, to say I was out with the girls and time got away from us, than to admit to blossoming feelings for Linc. Especially with my dad standing statuesque in the doorway, his face chiseled into an angry sneer while he spews his swears.

  “Really?” he asks. “You let all your ride shares touch you like that?”

  How long has he been inside? Looming in the window, just watching Linc cup my neck and ravage my mouth? I itch at the violation, wanting to scrape the skin off my bones. “What the hell, Dad?”

  He throws his hands up in front of him, silencing me. “Look,” he growls. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I am willing to forget this lapse in your better judgment one time and one time only, Riley.”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” I ask. “I know you’ve got a different world view than me, but Jesus, Dad, you don’t even know him. You’re treating him like he’s some monster just because—”

  “Because I know his kind, young lady, and you don’t.” He steps towards me, towering over me in the darkness and snarls, “If I ever see that boy lay a hand on you again, I’ll kill him myself.”

  If he were to brush me right now, I’d fall to the ground. My whole body vibrates numbly at the threat. It’s empty—it has to be, right? He would never—but the venom, it chills me straight to my bones. “Dad...”

  “Go to bed,” he orders. “I never want to hear about this again.”

  And like a child, I run from him. I slam my bedroom door closed and lock it behind me, before the tremors take over and I collapse on the floor.

  The realization hits me like a sack of bricks.

  I’m afraid of my own father.

  “Long night?”

  Rhett is face down at the kitchen table, shirtless and clutching the blender. Coffee, creamer, what looks like chocolate syrup, and ice. Not blended, just filled to the rim. He does this when he can’t find a glass big enough to fuel his needs

  “Shut up,” he grumbles. “Where were you, anyway? I’ve never come home and not found you tucked in bed like the little old man .”

  I knew he snuck in sometime before I got back from dropping Riley off at home, but I figured he’d be too drunk to remember. I throw a straw in his blender. I’m still in too good a mood to find humor in him spilling his eighty-four ounces of caffeine down his chest. “Remember Riley?”

  Slowly he raises his head, pushing his deflated mane out of his eyes. His dog tags click against the counter when he moves, and I find myself staring at them hanging around his neck, as I always do. They’ve got a story, probably one I’ll never know. When I first saw them and asked what branch he was in, he took my head off. Later he admitted they weren’t his, but he kept a hold of them for someone he cared about, and that was all I needed to know.

  “Closest you’ve ever been to getting laid at a party?” he asks. “Yeah I remember.”

  I roll my eyes. “She came over. I was taking her home.”

  “At three in the morning?” he chuckles quietly, taking a gulp of his drink. “You sly dog.”

  “It was chill,” I sigh. “We just talked.”

  “Uh huh,” he says. “Whatever, dude. All I’m saying, it’s about time.”

  I go to the fridge just to get away from his smug gaze. “Have you decided what you’re doing to raise money for the Jordan family tonight?”

  Rhett groans. “It’s too early to talk about a dead fifteen year-old, Linc.”

  Phillip was another one of my piano students, and a close friend to Duke’s little sister. He didn’t have the money to pay for weekly lessons, but his Dad and I agreed if he kept his grades up, I’d keep teaching him.

  We weren’t exactly close, not like I am with say Danika’s family, but his murder shook us all through. A lot was done in the local community for his parents. I’d never seen people so distraught, so completely destroyed before in my life—and I’ve been to prison.

  A few ladies from the church put together a charity dinner. Rhett’s aunt, the only member of his family he speaks to, invited us to take part. I played piano for tips, while little girls sold cookies, and others auctioned off old furniture and jewelry they no longer needed. We all managed to pull together enough funding to give the kid a proper burial.

  When the parents were going around thanking us for helping, Mrs. Jordan said I looked like an older version of their son. I made the mistake of smiling, of saying I was sorry for their loss, and her husband buckled right there. Broke down sobbing on his knees in a room full of total strangers.

  He still flickers through my nightmares at times. I was in shock, but Rhett broke down in tears and got on the ground with him. He’d never shown emotion like that before, never been so openly torn apart by someone else’s suffering.

  He gives me shit for it whenever I bring it up, but it was his idea in the first place. A celebration of life, a protest, a fundraiser, all slammed into one gathering.

  “I thought about sending his daughter a pound of apeshit,” he says seriously. “People would pay good money for that. Did you see
the pig? He issued a public warning about leaving her alone. Made my fucking day.”

  He pulls his cell out and taps the screen until he gets the article he’s looking for. McLeon stands behind a slew of journalist microphones, his face twisted with rage over the caption: Officer warns continued harassment of daughter will result in dire consequences.

  “Oink McFuck is gonna start shooting up all the parents soon,” Rhett muses. “Probably still won’t get fired, either, ‘cause who gives a shit.”

  I barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. Behind McLeon a few paces, half hidden under a black hoodie with a square of nine black, white, and red circles across the front, a girl with brown hair and tight, peach lips lingers timidly. I yank Rhett’s phone from him and click through the links, looking for more pictures of her.

  “What is it?”

  “His kid. That’s...”

  I punch it in the search line, and her smiling social media pictures flare in the image line. American flag bikinis and a shit ton of selfies hiding behind food, and more terrifying, guns. Thrown over her shoulder, aimed at the sky, cleaning them at the table. She boasts a life of food, light, and weaponry, and it makes me sick to my stomach.

  Riley McLeon.

  “That’s Riley,” I finish. “His daughter, his daughter is Riley.”

  “What?” Rhett steals his phone back, flipping through her public posts. His jaw gets tighter and tighter until he throws the phone face down on the counter. “I knew I didn’t like her. I fucking knew you shouldn’t talk to her, dude, she’s the actual spawn of satan!”

  I open my mouth to respond, but my phone vibrates in my pocket and I rush for the reprieve. I was hoping for Duke, or Mrs. Rourke, or anyone but the girl who texted me this exact moment.

  Riley: Lunch?

  “It’s her.”

  “No,” Rhett says, eyes wide and horrified. “You’re done with her. You’ve gotta be—she’s his kid, Linc, she’s got to be just as despicable as he is.”

  “Are you as heinous as your parents?” I spit before I can stop myself. All the color drains from his face, and guilt spears through my chest. “Rhett, I didn’t mean...”

  “You don’t know jack shit about my parents, Sanders, and I’d suggest you never bring them up again.” He stands up, plucking the straw from his coffee and throwing it across the counter at me as he storms towards his room. “Do what you want, but don’t come crying to me when she wrecks you.”

  “Rhett, wait—”

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  He slams his door behind him. I’m tempted to stay, try to bring him back around, but I know him well enough to know I fucked that up good. He prefers space, and to pretend it never happened, so that’s what I’ll do.

  I look back down at my phone and my stomach knots for new reasons. Riley McLeon. Everyone knows that name around here, especially now.

  Rhett’s right. I should walk away from this girl, and quickly.

  But I don’t.

  Lincoln: Yeah. Meet me.

  Our waitress is named Shona. She’s in her late twenties, her hair is always up in two poofs on the back of her head, and she spends a decent amount of her time on the clock hitting on me. I purposefully avoid the diner on Sunday’s because of it. She has a penchant for drama, and an all-around bad fucking attitude, and I have no time for it. I’ve turned her down twice now, but she keeps popping up like a bad penny. With what I found out about the girl who’s got my heart doing somersaults, I forgot all about her today.

  Of course, she makes her way over to us and turns her back on Riley entirely, leaning over the table so her ass is on full display. Riley is still dutifully studying the menu in front of her and doesn’t notice a thing. “Hey Lincoln. Haven’t seen you ‘round here in a while.”

  “Shona,” I say politely. “We’re not quite ready to order yet.”

  “What are you doing later?” she asks, grinning down at me. “I was hoping we could revisit our last, ha, meeting.”

  Riley’s eyes move up slowly, cautious of the conversation taking place. I see the tension set in her shoulders, wondering if I’ve been screwing with her head and have had a girlfriend this whole time. Shona setting those gears turning pisses me off way more than it should.

  “We have never, nor will we ever, have a first or last fucking meeting, Shona,” I bark at her. She and Riley straighten at the same time, and I push on, “I’m clearly with someone. I’m not going to sit here and let you fuck with her head.”

  Shona squirms, her hands moving to her waist as she turns her dark glare on Riley. “And a white girl, to boot,” she spits under her breath like a curse. “You let me know when you want a real woman.”

  I roll my eyes at her and she storms away. When I look up, I find Riley’s eyes bugged and trained on the girl’s back. Right. I forgot. Uptown girl here. The closest she’s gotten to prejudiced incidents is from a Jane Austen novel.

  Well, if you don’t count the monster she calls her father.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I reach across the table and take her small hand in mine, lacing my fingers through hers and resting them comfortably on the table. I don’t know what possesses me to do so. I need to talk to her about this, about Phillip, but I can’t make the words come out for some reason.

  Riley’s eyes skitter down to our hands, marveling at how well they mold together, before looking back up at me. God, I don’t want to think about our differences right now, or how hard this will be on both of us—even a little crush could destroy us both. I don’t want to go down that path. I want to think about us. Only us. But I can’t just ignore it, either.

  “Does your dad know you’re talking to me?” I ask.

  Her eyes turn to emerald saucers. “Beg your pardon?”

  I force a steadying breath and swallow around the lump in my throat. “Your dad... McLeon. I—I saw him on the news, you were pictured with him.”

  “What about him?” she snaps, defensive.

  “Does he know?” I ask again.

  “What does it matter?”

  “What does it matter—Trouble, the reason I know about him is ‘cause he killed a fifteen-year-old. A fifteen-year-old I gave music lessons to, at that. And he’s been extremely vocal about his opinions.”

  She closes her eyes and presses her hand over her mouth. Her other hand stays in mine, fingers tapping idly against my palm, while she weighs this conversation in her mind. She pulls in a breath through her nose and opens her eyes but looks out the window. “Yes,” she admits. “He saw you bring me home.”

  I shift in my seat. “And?”

  “He told me to never speak to you again.” She turns back to me, and there’s such misery in her eyes I want to cry. I have the overwhelming need to pull her in, to hold her together before the sadness becomes too much. “Obviously, I didn’t listen.”

  I’m a schmuck. She probably didn’t intentionally hide shit from me, she just knew I’d react...exactly how I did. Poorly. Suspicious. Ready to walk away without even giving her a chance to prove herself different—better.

  “Riley,” I say, ready to apologize.

  “Have you ever traveled out of the states?” she asks suddenly.

  I pause. “I...Sorry, what?”

  “You know, like Europe, or Canada or something.” She covers our hands with her free one, squeezing my wrist like a lifeline. The lost look in her eyes is gone, replaced by that stubborn fire that makes my heart skip.

  “What kind of question is that?” I ask, laughing a bit.

  She grins. “I want to know more about you,” she says easily. “Just you.”

  Just me.

  Just us.

  I shake my head. “Never been,” I answer. “I think my mom drove me through Canada once or twice, but that doesn’t really count. It still felt like Michigan. I didn’t even see a moose.”

  She laughs. “Neither have I.” She leans against the table, her pale fingers slipping up my arm and trailing back over the goosebumps she le
aves. “We’ll have to make a plan of it.”

  “Moose watching?” I ask, incredulous.

  She smiles. “Moose watching.”

  I smile back. She’s just as selfish as I am. And I’m fine with it. “It’s a date.”

  Something was off from the moment I sat down.

  I could feel the unease pulsing off Lincoln when we met up in the parking lot. I hugged him, and he held me, but his whole body was tight. Like a rubber band that had been pulled too far, one wrong move from flying far, far away.

  A shadow passed through his onyx eyes when he admitted to knowing my name. And if only for half a moment, and he was disgusted with me. Just for being my father’s daughter.

  I should’ve told him from the beginning, about my family, about my age. And if not at the very beginning, when I decided I’d make myself a fixture in his life. But I didn’t, and I knew that put me in the wrong. But I was still upset by his questioning.

  I was hurt and offended. And then it shifted, just as fast as it came on, and I was sad. I was sad he looked at me differently just for being Martin McLeon’s kid. I was sad the playful banter got tense for those milliseconds. I was sad that I worried what my dad would do in response to me even entertaining that boy for a moment.

  If I ever see that boy lay a hand on you again, I’ll kill him myself.

  Chills trickle down my spine at the memory but I shake it off. He was lying, just trying to scare me for my own good. He had no fucking right and I won’t let him ruin this.

  I probably should’ve answered more of Linc’s questions and asked some of my own. He opened up to me, told me he had killed before, and I still kept secrets from him. And even now, I’m not telling him the whole truth.

  All my life, I have been ‘the quiet one’. Where most of my teenage girl friends can’t keep her mouth from flapping for more than thirty second stretches, I am the girl in the back of the class, biting her tongue because I’m too anxious to speak up. The fear of being considered ‘stupid’ or ‘weird’ has kept my mouth shut for most of my life.