Dirty Playboy - Alex Wolf Page 0,87

can fuck off out of my life for good.” I do my best to show him I mean every word. Why wouldn’t I tell the truth? He knows I want him gone.

He finally grins. “All right then.”

“Good.” I take a step out of the car. “Then do what I say and don’t fuck this up.”

We head across the yard, slinking through the shadows.

“Just like the good ol’ days,” Dad whispers.

I don’t respond to him. Whatever.

In a few minutes, this will all be done, and I can pay for what I’ve done and start over. Only then can I get on with life, try to mend the bridges I’ve burned. It’ll take a long time, but I’ve mentally prepared for what I have to do. He can disappear for good this time. I’ve mapped all of it out, and all the preparations have been made.

We make our way up to the door.

Dad picks the lock. “Still got it.” He grins.

I roll my eyes where he can’t see.

He opens the door and goes in first.

It’s pitch-black.

I follow in behind him.

He goes to click on a flashlight, when the interior lights spark to life, illuminating the room.

Dad stiffens in place. I can’t see the look on his face, but I don’t have to. It’s utter surprise. Then, he just glares at the scene in the middle of the room.

Wells Covington is leaned back in a recliner with his fingers steepled, grinning from ear-to-ear. Three officers flank him, knees bent, ready to spring into action. Two come at us from the hallways on each side of us, cornering us in.

“You motherfucker—” Dad tries to turn and barrel through me, but I lock his arms from behind and force him to his knees.

“You deserve this, you piece of shit.”

He grimaces as I tighten my grip. I try to snap his damn arms as the five officers rush us, tackling both of us to the ground. We both hit, face first, smashed against the cold tile.

The officers don’t hold back. They rip at our arms and tighten the cuffs around us.

My mind is transported back to my youth. Watching Dad get arrested in front of me just like this when I was eighteen.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I sat there for a moment, from afar, watching, then I took off running, thinking he would want me to escape. I can still see his cold eyes, glaring right at me the way they are now, nothing but resentment in them—pure hatred.

“You fucked me again!” he whisper-screams through his teeth.

The officers drag us to our feet, and I spit right in his face. “Fuck you!”

“You’re not my son.”

“Never was. You’re not a father!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The officers drag us outside as a squad car pulls up the block, lights flashing, the blue and red strobes lighting up the trees like spotlights.

Wells Covington trails behind us, a satisfied smirk on his face.

When they shove me in the car, our eyes lock. I stare back at him, wondering what’s going to happen next, if he’ll keep his promise. Regardless if he does or not, it’s time to get on with life, put all this behind me, one day at a time.

I’m a criminal again.

Actually, I never stopped being one.

Mary Patrick

I strip off my clothes and get ready for bed. I don’t know how I’ll be able to sleep, but I have to try. I stare in my drawer at one of Rick’s Led Zeppelin tee shirts I took after spending the night with him. I felt bad, but he wouldn’t have minded. I haven’t had the heart to wash it yet.

I shouldn’t do it. I should burn it in the sink, but I pull it on over my head, and a tear rolls down my cheek when I smell it. It smells like him and I collapse into the bed, thinking of his touch, the way his cheek felt in my hand last night, knowing there’s nothing more I can really do.

Have you done everything you can do?

Should I be out on the streets, looking for him? It’s like I’ve given up. I don’t want to be resigned to saying I’ve done all I can. I’m willing to do more, but I don’t know what that looks like—doing more. What else is there?

The Bible has always been my sanctuary when I’m in a tough spot, unsure of what to do, but I’ve never faced anything like this. I’ve had a privileged life, never really facing any kind