Tell Me a Truth - CoraLee June Page 0,75

left an icy trail down the drips of water coating my skin. I shivered, forcing myself to compartmentalize my emotions and convince myself that it was from the artificial chill in the air and not Decker’s lusty look. It could have been easy. I could have dropped my towel and sauntered over to him. I could have demanded a kiss, stripped him bare, and taken him in the kitchen.

But affections like ours were rarely easy, so instead, I clutched my towel closer.

“Let’s talk when you have clothes on,” he choked out before practically fleeing to the living room. I watched his back for long enough to catch him stealing another look. And boy, was it a lingering moment. I bit my lip as he glanced over his shoulder. The world stopped spinning. His eyes were hooded. I debated dropping my towel once more, but he disappeared before I could convince myself that it was harmless.

Nothing about us was harmless.

So instead of doing all the things I wanted, I slipped into my bedroom and got dressed for dinner with Dad. Decker and I wouldn’t be talking about last night.

“You look like shit, kid,” Dad said with a laugh while pouring an ungodly amount of ketchup onto his plate. We were back at the diner, with our table swimming in greasy food and chuckles between us.

“Don’t think I don’t notice that black eye you’re sporting, old man,” I replied with a wave of my hand before stealing the ketchup bottle to drown my own plate with it. “What happened?”

I was surprised to find that Dad was sporting a shiner when he picked me up. He’d always been a prideful man, so I waited until he had food in front of his face before asking. He couldn’t avoid me now.

“It’s nothing,” he gritted, but I knew a thinly veiled lie when I saw one.

“Dad, what happened?” I pestered.

“Blakely. You spent your entire life raising your Mama. I’m not going to let you wipe my ass, too. I’m a grown man; I can handle it.”

His words stopped me in my tracks. “I’m not mothering you,” I gritted. “I’m allowed to care. I’m allowed to ask about your life, Dad.”

“That’s the problem, kid. You don’t stop there. Do you know how on airplanes they tell you to put your own air mask on first before helping others? It’s been a while since I’ve flown, so I could be wrong,” Dad rambled while swirling a french fry in his ketchup. Admittedly, I hadn’t ever been on a plane, but I knew what he was talking about.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, you’re the type to give your mask away to someone that already has their own. Your mother was breathing your air, Blakely. I’m not going to do that. I’ve got my own supply. My own lungs.”

My eyes twinkled with moisture, and I swatted it away. I wanted so badly for Dad to be the one that raised me. He had his faults, but something told me he would have grown up for me. Dad would have tried for me—eventually. He was just so young when I was born, so stupid. He grew out of it. Prison had that sort of effect on a person.

Mama never did.

“Fine,” I finally said, though I was still itching to know what Dad was hiding from me. But if he wanted to prove he could handle his shit, I’d let him. I had to end this toxic cycle of feeling responsible for my parents. It was their job to feel responsible for me.

“So how is Lance? How’s the new school?” Dad asked, smoothly transitioning us into casual conversation territory.

“It’s good,” I choked out. “I really like my school. I’ve made a few friends. It’s challenging, but I really like it. I really like it. Really.” I sounded like a broken record. Dad’s face dipped, protectiveness rolling off of him in waves. His scowl highlighted the bruise on his eye and the scar on his upper lip.

“What’s wrong, Blakely?” he asked.

I almost wanted to use the same analogy, reminding him that I had my own pair of fully functioning lungs. But I didn’t say it. “I don’t really want to talk to my Dad about guy problems,” I admitted, and his face bloomed red. I wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment.

“You’re not...pr-pregnant, are you?” he asked.

“Dad. I never had a curfew. Mama gave me my first drink at twelve, and I had to forge her signature on report cards because she couldn’t

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