“Peter Jackson.”
She raises an eyebrow, starting to regret even talking to me. “Peter Jackson, like the director?” She points to the door. “Get out.”
“No, I’m serious.” I start to worry when I see one of the bartenders coming over. “Please, ask anyone who’s worked here for a while. I’m not lying to you.”
The bartender approaches, eyeing me like I might cause trouble. “Having a problem?”
The girl answers. “Do you know anyone named Peter Jackson? This kid says it’s his father’s name.”
“Oh, yeah. I know Peter.” He glances over the heads of people and points down the bar. “He’s down there at the end.”
He leaves and the cocktail waitress shakes her head. “Sorry. I really thought you were making that up.”
“It’s okay. It’s not the first time,” I tell her.
She finally moves away, holding up her hand with her fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” she mouths.
Walking from one end of the room to the other is harder than it seems. With people moving to and from the bar, others playing drinking games that exceed their table’s limits, people blindsiding me on their way to the bathroom—including two girls with uncanny high heels—I’m lucky to get through unscathed.
I finally catch a glimpse of Dad.
He’s sitting at the end, his eyes staring at the television above the bar.
There’s a half-empty pint of beer within the folds of his hands. I can tell he isn’t drunk yet. It takes a lot more than a few beers to do that.
“Dad?”
His head twitches—hearing something he wasn’t expecting. When he turns around and his features soften when he sees me, I don’t know what to think.
His eyes trail down to my feet and back up again. Everyone cheers at something that happened on the television, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Like he’s afraid I’m going to disappear.
“You came back,” he says.
He doesn’t say “you’re here” or “what do you want?”—things I’d been expecting. I’d never considered hearing “you came back,” like I had no intention of doing so. It throws me off.
“Of course I did.” My forehead creases without my doing. I glance at the beer between his hands. Just when I’m about to say we should go home, everyone yells and boos at the game. Dad turns his head, looking up.
“Shit,” he mutters. He pulls a few bills from his pocket and slaps them on the bar. He stands up and takes one last drink. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”
“Dad—” I look from him back to the basketball game. “Tell me you didn’t.” His jaw tightens as he shakes his head, more to himself than to me. It’s as though the moment Bryce left, his promise to mom wasn’t valid anymore. “Let’s just go home, okay?” I tell him.
“The faster the better,” he says, moving in the direction of the door.
Halfway there, the cocktail waitress walks up, holding two beers in one hand. “Did you find him?”
I watch him walk out the door and nod. “Yeah, I did. Thank you.”
“Good. Just don’t come back until you’re twenty-one.” She smiles and moves off.
I take a deep breath and head for the door. Once I’m outside, where the noise is cut off and the smell of smoke diminished, I see Dad isn’t alone. There are two guys on either side of him, another talking close to his face—one arm completely covered in tattoos.
I stop short. “Dad?”
All faces turn to me and Dad takes a step forward. One of the men grabs his arm to stop him. “Kale, just go. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“No, no, let him stay,” the tattooed man says, eyeing me from under the dim street lamp. It casts a yellow tinge over his skin. “Kale, is it? Do you have the same bad habits as your old man here?”
The second man holds Dad’s other arm, restraining him even more. Dad says, “Derek, please, just leave him alone.”
“I don’t know, Peter.” The man—Derek—looks at Dad and back at me. My feet are glued in place. “Maybe this is the only way for you to understand how serious I am. Tell me, Kale. Do you also run away from things you can’t handle?”
The question hits me harder than if he’d hit me in the stomach. Because even though he doesn’t know anything about me—obviously referring to running away over losing some bets—he’s asking about the very thing I’ve been trying to ignore.
The fact I’ve been running away my whole life.
I catch my father’s eye over his shoulder. Unable to say anything.
I can’t deny it.
But my father hasn’t run away from me, so I’m not going to run away from him. Even if he’s made mistakes like I have.
“You don’t have to do this,” Dad says, trying to get his attention focused on him again. “I’ll get you the money.”
Derek turns his head ever so slightly, not taking his eyes off me. He steps closer to me, within arm’s reach. “I know you will. But maybe this will remind you not to make bets you can’t pay out on. You know better.”
A shiver runs up my arms despite the sweatshirt.
It’s summer.
I shouldn’t be cold.
I just got back.
Before I can prepare myself, Derek’s fist lands hard into my jaw. I stumble back with my vision dark, catching my balance so I don’t fall. Blood pounds hard in my ears, every throb digging into my head. He doesn’t stop. He brings his fist down again, hitting me in the temple and then again in my jaw.
Fight back, Kale.
Gathering every spark of anger within me is easier than I ever thought. Because it’s already there. Just waiting for me to take hold of it.
Before he has the chance to make another hit, I spin upward, catching him off guard. My fist slams into his jaw and then again in his stomach. I ignore my aching knuckles and throbbing head. I can only focus on what his next move will be.
I don’t care if I lose as long as I fight.
Just like being in the midst of war, I use my fear to make my head clear and my thoughts quick. It doesn’t help that he outweighs me by one-hundred pounds and has more experience fighting than me. It only brings my thoughts to a better place.
After I take another hard hit, I’m on the ground. My palms pressed against the asphalt with my head hanging low. I taste blood and spit it out. The edges of Derek’s boots stop next to me. I can’t breathe, so I can’t move.
He hooks one hand under my belt and uses the other to grab the back of my sweatshirt, throwing me farther into the parking lot, where I’m finally brought down.
Even though I lost, it felt good to fight back.
Over where Dad is, the sounds of a scuffle breaks the night air and he rushes toward me—one man trying to stop him and the other already bleeding—when he stops abruptly. He’s breathing heavy with rage.
I don’t know why he stopped until I look up.
Derek has a barrel of a black gun pointed at me. Only inches away from my head.