Shaken (Twisted Fox #2) - Charity Ferrell Page 0,6
heavy sigh and hesitates. A wave of silence passes, and I nurse my drink while waiting. As badly as I want to beg her to spill her guts, I stop myself from asking.
It’s her story. If she needs to take all night, so be it.
It’s not like I have anywhere to be.
“It’s daddy issues,” she finally whispers. “No one wants to hear about a woman’s daddy issues.”
She’s right. Generally, people don’t.
But tonight, for some weird-ass reason, I want to hear hers.
“Daddy issues away.” I slide my glass over, and it bumps against hers. “Look at it this way. I’m the best person to talk to. You’ll never see me again. Unleash your bullshit on me, and I’ll scrape an inch of the pain off your heart. It’ll be our little secret—a secret no one in your life will know.”
She downs her drink, and without thinking, I reach down to relax her bouncing knee, my hand resting along the bare skin underneath the hem of her dress. My head spins as I realize what I did, and I peek up at her. There’s no reaction to my touch—no flinch, no side-eye—as if it were where it belonged.
“I’ll need another drink for this.” She holds up the glass. “An extra shot of truth serum.”
Following her lead, I finish my drink, call Ted over, and order us another round. Not a word is muttered while we wait for the delivery of our truth serum. She doesn’t give Ted the chance to set her drink down before she grabs it straight from his hand and knocks it back like a pro.
Ted shrugs, hands over my drink, and wanders off to take an order.
She points at me with the empty glass. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Lay it on me.” I squeeze her knee, giving her the green light to start.
Her gaze drops to her lap, to my hand, and I wait for her to shove it away. Instead, she relaxes.
“My father left us when I was a baby,” she begins. “Six months ago, I tracked him down, and today, I mustered the courage to visit him.” She grimaces. “It was stupid to think he’d want to meet me, but he seemed like a decent man on social media. Married, tagged in pictures with his children.”
A sniffle leaves her before she inhales a deep breath, and I give her knee another reassuring squeeze.
“I felt like a lost puppy who had found its way home when I showed up on his doorstep, but as soon as I introduced myself, the excitement, the hope, it died. That’s when I realized I was the puppy no one wanted in their home. I was sent on my way, shown I wasn’t welcome. He’d changed into the family man he needed to be but for another family.”
My stomach knots at the thought of humiliation and rejection that raw.
The horror of being turned away as if you were nothing.
“I’m sorry.” Before I can stop it, I rip myself open as deep as she did. “My father went to prison today.” My tone is lower than hers. “And he took my brother down with him.”
Her mouth drops open, shock flashing in her eyes.
I relax in the chair. “It appears we both have daddy issues.”
“Your father …” She clears her throat, searching for the right words. “He’s in prison? For what?”
“Embezzlement.” I pull my hand away from her leg and scratch my cheek. “Money laundering.”
“I’m, uh … sorry about that.”
“I’m sorry about your shit.”
I hold out my empty glass. She does the same, and we clink them together.
“To fucked-up fathers.”
“Hear, hear.”
Silence makes a reappearance.
“Can we talk about something else?” she asks. “I could use the distraction.”
“We can talk about anything you want.” The liquor is changing me into a different man—one open to speaking about his problems and hearing another’s. “You decide.”
Who is this guy?
Maybe it’s the Hennessy.
The day.
The woman next to me.
She peeks over at me. “I don’t know. Puppies, sports—which I know jack shit about, FYI—the Pope. Anything but my problems.”
All those subjects sound like a damn bore. I fix my gaze on her, drinking in the view, and can’t stop myself from saying, “Can we talk about how beautiful you are?”
Fuck!
Douchebag alert.
I’m that guy now.
The one who uses a cheesy-ass pickup line.
Not that I’m trying to pick her up.
“What?” she stutters, gawking at me.
“Just needed to get that out there.” I shrug—an attempt to put off a give-no-fucks attitude.