Cherished (Steel Brothers Saga #17) - Helen Hardt Page 0,19

man who loves me and whom I love.

My eyelids flutter open. He’s blurry at first—dark hair, flesh, and the pinkness of his cheek and eye.

He’ll have a black eye tomorrow. A black eye that I gave him.

“What is it, son?”

Son.

The word cascades over me. I’m still his son. I just punched him, and I’m still his son.

“Dale! For God’s sake, talk to me.”

I part my trembling lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Never mind about that,” he says. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“You’re…”

“What? Answer me!”

“You’re concerned about what I need?”

“Of course I am. You’re my son.”

My son. Not for long. Not when he discovers who I truly am.

“But I just…”

“You sure as hell did. Where’d you learn to punch like that?”

Dad taught Donny and me how to fight. The father and son talk about how to turn the other cheek whenever possible but to defend yourself if you have to.

I gave him a martial arts punch, though. Something I learned on my own.

“An…app,” I say. True story.

“It’s a damned good app.” He loosens his hold on me. “I’m going to get up now. And then you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

I inhale and hold the air in my lungs for several seconds before I let it out slowly.

I need to regain control. Difficult, now that my emotions—which I’ve held captive inside me for so long—are running rampant, as if they’re whooshing through my veins along with my blood.

I know my father. He won’t leave me until he’s convinced he knows what’s going on and that I’m okay.

Which means I need to focus.

Focus, so I can pretend.

I’m not a good actor. I never have been. But I’ve never had to be, as long as the feelings stayed buried deep inside my soul.

I inhale and exhale several more times.

“You okay?” Dad asks.

I nod.

It’s a lie, but I nod.

“Good. We’re going to go upstairs and sit down. Then you’re going to tell me what the hell just happened here.”

I nod again.

Another lie. But at least I have a few minutes to compose a viable story.

I rise, wearing only my jeans and boots. I follow my father up the basement stairs, through the hallway, and into the kitchen.

“Drink?” he asks.

“Sure.” It’ll give me more time.

He heads to the bar in the adjacent room and returns a few minutes later with two bourbons. He sits down at the kitchen table and gestures me to sit next to him. I plunk down in the chair, and he slides a lowball glass of amber liquid toward me.

“Drink,” he says.

Reluctantly, I pick up the glass and watch the bourbon swirl.

What sounds does this color conjure up in Ashley’s mind? I bring the glass to my lips and take a small sip, letting it sit on my tongue for a moment as if I’m tasting wine.

So different from wine, yet no less alluring. This, my father’s favorite bourbon, is smooth as silk and smoky as a forest fire.

Delicious all around.

I swallow. It doesn’t burn. It simply melts my throat with its heat.

Finally, I meet my father’s gaze. I haven’t come up with an alibi, so I’m going to have to go with my gut. He’ll ask me something, and I’ll answer.

Dad takes a drink and sets his glass down. “I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“For your explanation of why you did this.” He points to his cheek and eye.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. What I want to know is what precipitated it.”

“I was working out.” I pick up my glass. “I guess I lost control. I’m sorry.”

“That’s twice now. You don’t have to say you’re sorry again. What’s going on, Dale?”

A loaded question if ever one existed.

A loaded question my father doesn’t actually want the answer to.

“I haven’t worked out in a while. I decided to today, and I lost control.”

“That was more than losing control. You weren’t punching and kicking that bag. You were punching and kicking a person.”

I say nothing. I can’t deny his words, so I don’t even try.

So much for pretending.

“I understand,” he says.

Does he? Does he really?

I shake my head. “You can’t.”

He stays silent for a moment. A moment that seems like an hour or two while I wait for the Talon Steel wisdom to cross his lips.

My father always has wisdom on occasions like these.

“As a matter of fact,” he finally says, “I can.”

Chapter Fifteen

Ashley

Brendan hands me the bottle of Latour. “Would you like to do the honors?”

I smile. “That’s kind of you, but being an almost doctor of wine doesn’t give me any