It’s a short and quiet ride back to my place. I don’t know what Mase had planned for the end of the night, but I’d be willing to bet it didn’t involve a sick date. I can’t bear to look at him. I feel so guilty, but I convince myself that his disappointment in my sudden illness is better than the rejection I’d dole out if he tried anything with me.
He escorts me to my door. “Hope you feel better.” His big arms wrap me in a hug. “Get some sleep.”
“Thanks for everything.” I give him a small smile and push into my house then lean back against the door and take a long, deep breath, listening to the rumble of his truck as it backs out of the driveway and fades down the street. Cameron should be here soon. I need to get ready.
I race back to my room, stripping off my shoes, dress, and jewelry. Standing in my panties and bra, I rip through my drawers and closet, looking for something that looks as if I’m not trying too hard.
Pink maxi dress, flip-flops. Done.
I’m in the bathroom, brushing my hair when I hear the knock on the door. Ponytail in hand, rubber band hanging from my mouth, I swing open the door.
My heart plummets into my stomach.
“Dad?”
Sixteen
Eve
My dad’s at my front door at almost midnight. It doesn’t take supernatural ESP to figure out what he’s doing here, which I’m sure has zero to do with dropping by to wish me a happy Independence Day. With his gambling, drinking, and mooching off me, this is more like a reminder of his Dependence Day.
He’s dressed in his usual casino slum attire: wrinkled shorts, a faded collared shirt, and a pair of scuffed Sperry topsiders. “Yvette, honey, I was hoping you’d be home.”
Yvette, honey.
There’s a tingling in my chest that accompanies his term of endearment. I can’t help it. Never have been able to. I hate the man and, at the same time, so desperately want him to love me. No matter how many times he comes looking for a handout, all it takes is the hope of a promise that he’ll change and I’m his puppet.
“Hey, Daddy.” My voice doesn’t even sound like me, but rather the five-year-old girl still desperate for her father’s attention.
“Sorry to drop in on you like this, but”—he runs a hand through his too-long salt-and-pepper hair and smooths the front of his shirt—“I’m hurtin’ for cash, honey.”
I lean into the open doorway. “I only have enough to scrape by until the next payday.”
His smile falls, but he schools his expression and throws me a sympathetic grin. “So you have some money. You said on the phone you’d part with a few bucks to help out your old man.” He goes for casual and friendly, but it’s coming off as desperation verging on anger.
A whisper of panic trickles in.
“I guess I could part with some.”
I step back to open the door, but before I’m able to invite him in, he storms past me and into the kitchen.
I press my lips together, holding back all the things I should say, but know I never will. Kitchen drawers and cupboards slam in a symphony of disappointment as my dad searches for his loot. I ignore the crippling pain that twists in my chest at watching him frenzied for money. My money.
“Help me out here, Yvette. Where do you keep your emergency fund?” He rips through my things, digging through envelopes before scattering them to the floor.
I’m on autopilot, registering on some level that this is necessary if I want to keep my dad in my life. My throat is thick with shame, and I crumple into a chair.
He whirls toward me. “Don’t just sit there. Where’s the money?”
His patience is waning, and I mentally prepare for the onslaught of verbal insults.
“Dad, I’ll get the money. You don’t have to rip my kitchen up.”
“You say you’ll get it.” He crouches down to look under the sink, pulling out and tossing aside the cleaning supplies and buckets I have stored there. “But you’re over there sitting on your fat ass.”
And so it begins . . .
I push up from my seat and drag my chair to the fridge. He’s so busy ransacking he doesn’t see that I’m reaching up into the cupboard above the large appliance to pull down a small cash box. I step down off the chair, and the movement catches his attention.
“’Bout time.” He takes the box from my hands, opens it, and his face lights up. “You lyin’ little shit.” He wraps his swollen red fingers around the stack of paper money. “No money, my ass.”
“It’s thirty-nine dollars. I needed that to last me another week.” I hold out my open palm. “I can try to get by with twenty and you can take the rest.”
He turns slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Your friend is some kind of a multi-billionaire after she blew her dad’s head off.” He points to my face. “Don’t you get any ideas. I’m broke, remember that.” He shakes the money before shoving it into his pocket. “You hit her up for a loan.”
I grind my teeth. “Give me half.”
“Ha, no fuckin’ way.”
I reach for his pocket.
He anticipates it and grabs my arm then twists it behind my back. “Tough girl, huh?” He shoves me hard.