HIS FATHER

Tempest

I’ve seen pictures of his house, of course I have. We traveled together for a year, backpacking across the world. He became my closest friend and confidant. He’s the best person I know, which is what brings me to now as I stand here, looking at his bloody beach house! It’s like something Barbie would live in except it’s not pink.

How can Mad be such a cool person when he came from all of this money? It’s insane. The pictures he showed me make the place look a lot smaller than it actually is, but he’s very good at photography. I bet he did it on purpose.

“Not one to brag are you, Mad?” I grin at my friend as he climbs out of the black Uber and opens the boot of the car. “You weren’t lying when you said there’d be space.”

He nudges me with his shoulder, looking embarrassed by it all, and slings both my heavy backpack and his onto his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s see if Dad’s home.”

I trail behind a little, taking in the scenery, it’s hot here, nearly as hot as India but not quite. India’s heat is a bit dryer but more powerful. This is a bit more humid, probably because we’re on the coast and there’s a nice breeze to take the edge off.

The breezy places are killer though, because you don’t feel your skin burning until it’s too late. I need to lather on my factor fifty before leaving the house.

I can’t believe I’m staying here.

When he opens the door, I yank on the bobble at the back of his curly, dark hair. He needs a trim but he won’t. He’s growing it until he can chop it off for a cause. Nothing that Mad does is for selfish gain.

“Leave my hair, Pest,” he snaps playfully, his eyes twinkling with humor as he kicks the bottom of the door. “Get the handle.”

I yank it down, trying to peek through the glass on either side but loose voile covers them, making it hard to see much but a spacious hall. This is confirmed when we step inside.

I feel so out of place and funnily enough, I can tell Mad does too.

“Beats that shack in Cambodia,” I mutter and bend down to undo the laces of my walking boots.

“Leave them,” Mad says, dropping our bags on the floor next to a white door which I’m guessing is a closet. “DAD?”

This place is so big, his voice echoes. I’ve never seen such high ceilings in a home before. In fancy hotels and such, yes, but not homes. I bet it costs a fortune to keep cool.

“I told him we wouldn’t be here until four, so he might not be home yet.” He looks around anxiously and I can tell he’s missed his dad.

“Why?”

He scrunches up his nose, making his plump upper lip seem thicker. “I got the timeline confused.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” I laugh and grab my bag. “I really need a sho—”

“Maddox?” A deep, male voice echoes over the sound of a door sliding open somewhere beyond the long hall. I can’t wait to tour this place.

I’m anxious to meet his dad, I’ve seen a picture of him smiling with Mad on his shoulders when he was a young boy. I didn’t inspect it thoroughly and now I really wish I had.

As his father rounds the corner, where the hallway opens up on the right at the very end, my breathing stops. My eyes are likely as round as saucers and I genuinely forget to breathe.

He’s… gorgeous.

He has thick brows, those are the first thing I notice, but they’re thick in the way everybody wants their eyebrows to be thick. They shadow sky-blue orbs that have a powerful dark ring of midnight around the striking edges. I want to paint them, I want to stare into them and capture every fleck of color, every genetic imperfection of his iris and pointed pupils. Thick, long lashes cast a shade onto his lower lids which only make the color pop more. Mad has similar eyes, I think, but nowhere near as striking as this.

I’m staring. I can’t help myself.

He has dimples that are slowly vanishing as his smile becomes a frown and his frown becomes a scowl in my direction.

“Dad, meet Pest,” Maddox introduces me, placing a hand on my elbow. “Pest, this is my dad, Sargent.”

I already knew his name but I pretend I didn’t and extend a hand which could be cleaner, but in my defense, we just traveled for eight hours from Cambodia to LA and there are no showers on airplanes the last I checked.

“This is Pest?” Sargent looks at his son, his blue eyes glowing with confusion and ire as he ignores my hand and lets it hang between us. This is awkward.

Uh-oh.

“She’s a girl.”

“I did clear that up in my last email, Dad, before you said she could stay.” Maddox frowns, dropping his bag again and squaring up to his father who has maybe a hundred pounds more of muscle on his frame. He’s wearing shorts and a vest, I can see everything, including the sharp point tribal tattoo peeking over his right shoulder. I wonder how big it is and where it leads. “Did you read the emails or did you just have Marcy do it for you?”

“I didn’t read them all, I wanted you to tell me your tales when you arrived,” he snaps, giving me another look, this one even less pleasant than the last. His eyes drag from my dirty boots to my messy hair which still has mud and Lord knows what else in it.

I’m wearing a very baggy checked shirt and leggings that I cut above the knees. They’re comfy and not too warm, and cheap to replace when they are no longer wearable. It’s safe to say I look like I just crawled out of Oxfam and not Prada.

“I’m sorry if me staying is a burden,” I input quickly before the situation escalates. “If I could just get cleaned up and rest a while I’ll be on my way.” I don’t want to stay where I’m not welcome but I don’t have anywhere else to go right now. Not because I feel intimidated by this man but because I’m not a pushover and I can see me not getting on with him despite him being my host. I’ll never be anything but polite so long as that attitude is returned.

Quiet I may be, pushover I am not.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mad snaps, looking, well, mad. “Dad.” He cuts his father with a glare. “You’re being a douchebag.”

I’m glad he said it because I was thinking it.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pushes his short hair back and looks at me before extending a hand.

I take it but only after a nudge from Mad. I wanted to leave him hanging like he just did for me. I’m that level of petty.

His large hand engulfs mine and squeezes gently. “You’re welcome to stay for the length agreed.”

His meaning isn’t lost on me. He means the length agreed and not a second more.

I should have insisted on speaking with his father before even entertaining the idea of coming all the way to Malibu. I should have tried to form a relationship with him before arriving. I’m an idiot.

When he releases my hand, he turns to his son and they hug at last. “It’s good to see you, Maddox.”

“You too.”

“We’ll have dinner together tonight, I’ll have Marcy book us a table.”

“Not tonight.” Mad pulls back. “We’ve been flying for eight hours and three kids were screaming the entire ride. Plus, jet lag, you know?”

“Of course.” He smiles so warmly at his son I almost start to like him. I almost start to find him attractive again. “I’ll leave you both to rest for tonight and accost you in the morning.”

“Thank you for having me, Sarge,” I say, and his eyes narrow on me infinitesimally.

“It’s Sargent, or Mr. Wolf.”

Yikes. He’s super intense.

Though again, I’m not intimidated because I’m trying not to laugh at his name, Sargent Wolf.

“Dad,” Mad snaps, grabbing his bag and then my arm. “Come on, Pest. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

Sargent

He’s finally home, after nearly a year away. I hated the thought I’d have to share him with a friend but said yes purely because I knew if I’d said no, he would have delayed his journey longer.

Had I known his friend would be female I’d have let the journey delay. Though knowing Maddox, he would have simply shown up with her anyway. The stubborn shit that he is.

Why didn’t I read the emails? I saw the pictures but they were always group photos. I didn’t pay attention to the filthy little dark-haired harlot in his photos.

It was obvious they were close but so was everybody in the pictures he sent. He’s very good at photography. He likely did it that way knowing I’d miss it and say yes, knowing Marcy would also manipulate the situation so I can’t say no. I’m not a complete bastard, not always. I just can’t stand the thought of a woman in my house for days and nights on end. Filling the space with her things, her scent, her womanly touch.

Tampons in the bathroom, hair in the drains, nail polish on the sides of the basin. I dealt with that fucking crap once for his psycho of a mother, never again.

Nonetheless, I was raised better than how I behaved. I’m a grown man and I likely frightened the little girl to death. Not that she showed it in her defiant little shortening of my name. I loathe being called Sarge nearly as much as I loathe having a woman in my home.

Soon my son leads her away and she pierces me with a curious look over her shoulder. Those round, warm, greenish-hazel, innocent eyes narrow with intrigue.

I wait for them to enter the spare room before I follow. My apology is stuck in my throat, rehearsed and ready though I don’t mean it, not fully. I’m only saying it so Maddox doesn’t give me a hard time, which I know he will.

The door is still open, I can hear their voices drifting my way. Hers is hushed so I can’t make out what she’s saying but his isn’t.

“My dad is scarred,” he explains and I have to lean on the wall with my hand for support. “My mom did a number on us both. He never got over it. Never learned to trust again.”

“He never moved on?” Her voice is louder now and her meaning is clear. She thinks I’m some virginal little martyr, waiting for the right woman. Ha. The thought is laughable.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. He’s always with somebody, but never here. It’s always just been me and him, and his assistant, Marcy, who was originally male when my dad hired her, so she doesn’t count.”

“You’ve told me about Marcy, she sounds amazing.”

“She is, my dad would be lost without her.”

I would not.

“Just give him time and ignore him if he’s rude. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just scarred. Badly, badly, scarred.”

I am not scarred. I just can’t be dealing with the same fake bitch trashing my life day in, day out when I can have my pick, day in, day out. Who needs the rest of the baggage when you can choose between every pussy letter of the alphabet?

“You might have told me this about your dad before, though.”

I hear my son sigh and my chest tightens. “I thought he’d be better than that. His email seemed so sincere but, then, I should have known it wasn’t him who sent it.”

Fuck.

I back away quietly, deciding my apologies are better suited for the morning.

He’s also wrong, I’m not still holding onto the pain of what his mother did or any morbid shit like that. I’m simply enjoying life this way, without the influence of a woman.

I guess I shouldn’t blame my son for wanting a woman in his life. He’ll soon learn to stay away. There’s something about this girl, something in her eyes that I don’t like. She’s going to be hard work.