Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) (14 page)

He gets up and leaves the room, the door slamming shut behind him. And we stay there for another two hours at least, going over every detail, until a sharp pain starts in my left temple and nausea begins rising in my stomach.

It's dark outside by the time we finally end the meeting, and the cold air only makes my headache worse. If Mike hadn't called, Gail and me would be on some tropical beach in Thailand right now. I want that so bad I can actually smell the sea air.
 

"It's not too late for you to go see Dad now," Mike says, zipping up his leather jacket. That and the gelled back hair makes him look like an extra from some old mafia movie. I don't think he realizes how ridiculous he looks.

"Why don't you go?" I snap, my voice drowned out by the engine noise of all the cars pulling out. Greg waves to me as he drives past, but I ignore him.

"I have other plans tonight," Mike says. "But he did sound very depressed over the phone these last few times."

"Fuck that," I interrupt. "He can call me if he wants to see me."

"I think he wants to see you," Mike says. "He just doesn't know how to tell you."

And that's just another example of how well they understand each other. But I already know I'm going, since Mike's probably right. I'll have to make the first step here. Dad never calls. He just expects us to be there when he needs us. And all that's just making my headache worse.

The drive to my dad's house takes forever, mostly because, in my mind, I'm lying on the soft warm sand on a beach in Thailand with Gail. I can't stop seeing it. I can actually feel her soft skin against mine, the weight of her body pressing against mine. My cock's so hard it's pressing painfully against my pants.

But I kinda welcome it tonight, since the alternative is thinking about what I'm gonna say to Dad. Nothing comes to mind anyway. Mostly I'm just getting angry at what I imagine he'll say. Like, “Why haven't you called, Scott?’ Or ‘Why didn't you help Mike?’ Or ‘Your mom would've wanted you to help Mike?’

I knew Mike was playing some game all along. But I can't even tell Dad I was right, because then Gail will get hurt.
 

I'm just sitting in the car in front of his house now, not even sure how long I've been here. The TV's on in the living room, but that's the only light coming from the house. It's past ten. He might already be asleep. And even if he isn't, I'm not going in.
 

I don't want to see my dad. Maybe never again. If he only took my side with Mike, none of this would be happening now. And I want to believe otherwise, but we all knew Mike needed help since way back. And Dad was supposed to be the one facing it. Not me. Not anyone else. Dad.

I speed away, park by the first bar I reach. It's empty, except for Louie and a couple of his friends drinking by the bar, watching the rerun of a football game.

I fight the urge to turn around and go drink somewhere else. Louie never did press charges when I almost beat him to death. But I never apologized, so I don't think we're actually cool. I should do that one of these days. Maybe. But I'm not doing it tonight, and I'm not running away. He had it coming. I'm sure he did, from the bits and pieces of our conversation I remember, and what others told me.
 

He sees me walk in, and kinda nods in my direction, but then keeps casting me dark glances while I'm drinking at a booth by the window. His three friends are doing it too, and I suppose I should maybe be getting nervous, but I'm not.
 

After the third vodka I pay and leave. The door closing and reopening, followed by footsteps and whispers behind don't really register.
 

My shoulder collides painfully with the stone wall bordering the alley where I parked.
 

"You thought you wouldn't get what's coming, Scott?" Louie hisses and punches me in the back, his knuckles grazing my spine. The pain explodes somewhere in my stomach.

I elbow the guy trying to grab hold of my arms, making him grunt. This is exactly the kind of situation I beefed up for before going to prison. Why I took those self-defense classes. I didn't think it would be needed in some alley back home.

Louie punches me again, but this time I manage to block it so his fist collides with my bicep, jerking it painfully. One of his friends is in my face now, but that's all I notice before he head butts me and my cheek explodes in a sharp light and pain. I'm too slow to react to the two sets of arms now grabbing me from behind. A second sharp pain in my stomach joins the one still radiating in my face.

"Not so tough now all your brothers are gone, are you?" Louie breathes. I can smell beer on his breath. He punches me in the stomach again in almost the same place as before. The pain takes my breath and I can't inhale. I've never actually gotten beaten up before, apart from getting into fist fights with Mike like every other day while we were growing up.

I jerk around, trying to free up my arm, head butt whoever's standing behind me. The alley's spinning around me, my head pounding. I freeze.
 

What's the use of fighting? I could just let them beat me to death right here. Then it would be none of my fault and Gail would be safe.
 

Just thinking it erases all the pain, until all I feel are unpleasant jolts from their punches and kicks. Somehow I’m still standing, but it can't last much longer. And then it will all be over, and all my mistakes, all my bad choices will have no more consequences.
 

"What's going on here?" someone whose voice sounds vaguely familiar yells. Maybe I'm just imagining it. I don't know anyone in this area, at least not well enough that they'd come to help me. Louie was right about that.

"Stop!" the guy yells again, but if anything the two holding me grip me tighter.

A shot rings out, followed by another. And then no one's holding me up anymore, my knees throbbing against the ground. But not worse than my face.

"Are you alright?" the guy's asking me, trying to get me to stand.

I taste blood in my mouth, the cold air making my gums sting as I take a breath. A couple of my teeth are loose. I hope they don't fall out. But it's a vague thought. I don't actually care.

The guy finally manages to get me moving.

"Greg?" I ask his face finally coming into focus.
 

"What was that all about?" he asks, dragging me toward a door in the apartment building bordering the alleyway.

"Old scores," I mutter. "My car's back the other way."

"My grandmother lives here," he says. "Do you need an ambulance?"

I shake my head, making the pain worse. Maybe I do need the hospital. But I'm not getting it. I can still die from my injuries.

"You're supposed to fight back, you know," Greg says, leading me though the door. I try to stop him, but I don't have full use of my arms and legs back yet.

"Four on one, that's no kind of odds," I mutter.

The stairs are steep and narrow and never ending. I'm panting by the time he finally stops in front of a door and unlocks it. A woman with thick blonde hair stands on the other side of it, a little girl hiding behind the flaps of her robe. Her eyes go wide when she sees me.

"Jebo te, necu ja imat ovih tvojih prijatelja ovdje," the woman snaps. I have no idea what she just said, but her clipped, angry tone is enough to tell me she doesn't want me here. The little girl is shaking so hard she's vibrating.

"What was I supposed to do? Leave him there?" Greg snaps back in a similar clipped tone and leads me to the sofa. "Put Sofija to bed."

"Ne sme ona da ovo vidi," the woman says.

"Then put her to bed already," Greg answers and drags me to the living room. It's so full of furniture I might not be able to get to the sofa without knocking something over. Besides, everything's covered with intricately weaved white doilies that I'll just end up bleeding on.

Greg is glaring at his grandma now, and she's glaring right back. She finally clucks her tongue and ushers the little girl from the room.

"No way that's your grandmother," I manage once I'm sitting down on the couch and he's peering into my face.
 

"She is," he says, poking my cheek roughly, making me wince. "I don't think it's broken, but I'm not a doctor."

He leaves the room, comes back with a first aid kit and iodine. "Do you think your ribs are broken?"
 

I shrug. I'm not really in much pain. Or maybe I'm in so much pain I don't even notice it. The room's turning fuzzy and swaying a little. Maybe I'll pass out now and never wake up.

"Are they?" he asks again.

"I don't know," I manage.
 

Warm brown liquid trickles down my cheeks as he cleans the cut I apparently have on my cheek.
 

"We need ice," he mutters more to himself than to me, then leaves me in the fuzzy room again. He comes back, hands me a bag of ice and tells me to press it against my face. Does it himself when I don't do it fast enough.
 

"Was that you shooting, Gregor?" his grandmother asks in a thick accent. She's standing in the doorway to the kitchen now, her robe once again tied tightly around her waist. I still can't see any lines in her face, but maybe that's because I can't see very well at all right now.

"I want you to leave now," she says to Greg. "Do not bring your work here."

"This isn't work," Greg snaps back, which sets her off in Serbian.
 

I get up. The room lurches to the left, making me stumble into the coffee table, which knocks into another little table, sends the lamp that's on it rattling, the pool of light dancing on the floor. Greg steadies me, but I would've managed it on my own.
 

"I'm going," I mutter to him and head for the door, still holding the ice pack against my cheek.

He says something to his grandma as we pass her and then he's holding onto my arms as I'm walking down the stairs. Which is for the best, since I'd probably fall down otherwise. Or not for the best, depending on how you look at it.

"I’ll take you to the emergency room," he says once we finally reach the alley. The ice pack and the cold air work to clear some of the fuzziness, but now I feel like I might throw up.

"I'm just going home," I mutter.

"I'll take you," he says.

"I have my car."

"You're not driving."

I shrug and walk to my car anyway, pulling the keys from my pocket, scratching my hand on the zipper. He snatches them away from me.

"You're not driving," he repeats. I'm sure there are a lot of things I could say in response to that but I can't think of any. I'd probably not be able to get the keys back from him if I tried.

"Whatever," I mutter and follow him to his car.

I fall asleep on the way a few times, but he keeps waking me, which is just really annoying.

Once we finally reach my apartment building I expect him to just drop me off, but he parks in the garage and follows me inside, won't leave no matter what I say. Though I'm having trouble understanding what I'm saying too, so maybe that's why. The world's all fuzzy again, and the sharp pain in my stomach is growing, not receding. My cheek throbs, tendrils of pain snaking up to my eye and into my nose.

"Someone should make sure you don't go into a coma," he says once we're inside my apartment.

"No they don't," I counter, but it's a lost cause.

"You can sleep in the bedroom," I say and lie down on the sofa bed that I haven't put away since I moved in.
 

I'm asleep before he says anything else.