Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,56

combined with the completely un-

readable look on Grace’s face as she said them, was on repeat all night long. And every time I process that stupid conversation, I get more irritated. What makes her think I need her permission? And what is she doing? Rubbing things in my face? It almost feels like she’s just throwing shit at the fan to watch it fly because she doesn’t want to deal with her own crap.

I blink open my eyes wider, trying to wake up as I gulp coffee on my way to work. I’m not used to losing sleep, period. And having my eyes feel like they’re recovering from an acid wash doesn’t endear Grace to me further.

I rush up the stairs and enter the office at the same time as Mr. Parker.

His voice booms, “Morning, Ford. Walk with me.”

“Yes sir.” My left eye twitches as I follow him like a prisoner to the guillotine, my mind racing. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, we walk down the hall silently, which is more ominous to me than the eerie calm before a storm.

He opens his office door, makes two giant strides toward his desk, plops down, and motions for me to take a seat.

I pull back the leather chair and sit on the edge, ready to bolt.

He leans back in his chair like he has all the time in the world, which can’t be true. He’s still up to his eyeballs in that Thompson case. “How do you think the summer is going?”

“Pretty good, sir.”

“You keeping the guys away from my little girl?”

“Doing my best, sir.” Forget the fact that I’m burning up mad and not planning on talking to Grace for a few days at least.

He sits up straight. “Is that good enough?”

“I think so. She’s not dating anyone.”

He puts a fist down gently on the desk. “That works.” Then he looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re a pretty smooth guy. I hear you have a side project going.”

What is he talking about? Nothing’s happened with Grace. Brianna? I’m kerflummoxed, so I play it safe and wait for him to keep talking.

“Hollingsworth?”

Worried about Hien’s help blowing up, I scoot to the very edge of the seat. “Is that a problem, sir?”

He laughs. “What Hollingsworth does on his time is his business. He’s got a long way to make senior partner, and one pro bono isn’t going to change that. Just make sure when you’re here that you’re working on the things you’ve been asked to do. Anything that belongs after hours belongs after hours. Are we square on that, son?”

Doing my best to keep a poker face, I say, “Yes sir. Is that all?”

He stands up, smoothly guiding me to the door with his body cues. “That’s all.”

I exit his office fuming, but remind myself he’s helped a lot of people. A lot of my people.

Engine parts are scattered in neat piles across our garage floor. Everything has an order to it. There’s a reason for the way it’s laid out—it makes it easier when Dad needs that part later. His methodical approach to rebuilding engines extends into everyndsit. Theday life. He doesn’t say a lot, but when he does, I listen. The kickass thing about my dad is that his words match his actions.

He’s rehabbing an old Jag. V12 engine, 575 horsepower. A type-E Roadster convertible. Sleek lines. The kind of car that gives every red-blooded teenage guy a hard-on. The car is sick. In the best way.

Dad holds out his hand; I pass him a socket wrench. He leans back over the engine, finagling his hands in tight spaces because he’s a pro. Someday, I want to know engines as well as my dad. There’s something about being able to fix something with your own hands, a feeling of complete satisfaction.

Mr. Parker was a total douche this morning. The conversation with Grace last night, the way she was so upset. And the words “carried away” are etched in my brain as sure as the memory of Kahuna Pete carrying her limp body onto the beach. It’s hard to know what she meant by all that. How much she’s not saying. Yeah, her old man can certainly let people have it in court. Every word is calculated to his advantage, building his case. And then there was that morning in his office after Grace’s accident, when he had fun playing cat and mouse. Testing me. Is that what’s she’s talking about? Does he push her into verbal corners? Or