Nuclear Heat

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Nuclear Heat Page 16

by Jordyn White


  He almost looks the same as the last time I saw him. Same hard gray blue eyes, same thick arms knotted with muscle, same half-moon scar over his left eyebrow that he got in the accident all those years ago. But he looks more rough and hollowed out—most likely the result of four more years of hard drinking since I saw him last—and his two-day stubble is flecked with more gray.

  How did you find me?

  “Ah, there’s my Samantha,” he says in that harsh jovial tone I think he thinks is supposed to be fatherly. My parents are the only ones who call me Samantha and my dad is the reason I hate it.

  “Dad,” I manage to spit out. He steps across the threshold. My skin is crawling with dread as he throws a hard arm around my neck and gives me a gruff, half hug. He reeks of body odor and whiskey. I wonder if he’s homeless again. I wonder how much he’s had to drink already today.

  He lets himself in the rest of the way and I see a motorcycle parked by the curb. I hadn’t even heard him coming. I never, ever see this guy coming.

  I think about bolting and running barefoot down the sidewalk and down the street and just going and going. Instead, I slowly close the door.

  He’s walking right into the kitchen. I follow him in silence, feeling a strange mixture of pulsing fear and numbness. Maybe he’ll just talk to me for a while and then leave. I just need to not do anything to upset him so he’ll go.

  He’s heading for the refrigerator, but instead of opening it, he cranes his neck to see what’s on top.

  There’s nothing there, but I instinctively know what he’s looking for.

  “Got anything for your old dad to drink?” he asks. “I’m parched.”

  “There’s juice in the fridge.”

  He grunts and gives me one of his looks. On the outside, he tries to make it look like he’s joking, but on the inside he’s saying, Don’t fuck with me, girl. “I’m thinking something a little stronger.”

  I don’t want to tell him, but he’ll only find it anyway, and then be mad at me for hiding it. “The cupboard next to the stove,” I say, pointing.

  “Ah.” He sidles on over. As my dad opens that cupboard and appraises my stock—half a bottle of whiskey, rum for daiquiris, and the makings for margaritas—I feel dirty for even having it. “That’s more like it. I guess you are related to me.” He laughs harshly, always so amused at himself.

  A sick, crawling sensation slips down my legs.

  Okay, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this. Why is he here? I can’t do this.

  I sidestep behind the island, so he can’t see me pull out my phone. With fumbling fingers, I send Jack a text: My dad is here.

  “Hey!” my dad barks, and I jolt my gaze up to see him watching me. Even though I know he doesn’t know what I’m doing and is just irritated I’m not paying full attention to him, I hit the button on the side of my phone to blacken the screen so he can’t see what’s on it.

  “You got a glass?” He holds up the bottle of whiskey he’s pulled down as if to say, ‘Why do I even have to ask, dumb ass?’

  I quickly tuck my phone into my back pocket and get a glass from the cupboard. “You kids these days are always on your fucking phones,” he mutters. I don’t reply to this. I don’t say a word as I watch him fill the glass half full of whiskey. He doesn’t look at me as he pours. He never looks at anyone when he pours. He takes a swig then heads into the living room, starting to really look around for the first time. “So you own this place, huh?”

  Again, I’m wondering how he knows that and how he found me. Did he call mom when she was having a weak moment and make her break down and tell him? I’d love to be able to say she’d never do that, but he still has power over her too, and her weak moments are plentiful when she’s in the middle of a divorce.

  “Yeah,” I say, as he sinks down onto my couch.

  He looks around with a dismissive expression. “It’s not much to look at, is it? But it’s more than I’ve ever been able to do.” He says that as if it’s my fault. “There’s no catching a break with luck like mine.”

  He takes another swig of the stuff that’s created the shitty ass “luck” he’s got. Meanwhile, I perch on the other end of the couch and look at my house with fresh eyes. I see all the things I’ve grown used to. The dated lighting fixtures. The old blinds I’ve yet to replace. The little cracks in the wood at the base of the door. I’ve even grown used to the pink shag carpet, because this isn’t just a little house I bought. It’s home and a place I’ve felt safe and comfortable. But now I see it all through his eyes and it feels dirty and dark.

  Like I do.

  I wish I were wearing something different. I’m in shorts and a tank, and suddenly feel way too exposed. I hope he doesn’t comment on it. I hope he doesn’t say that word I hate.

  My heart rate suddenly increases because I’ve just realized Jack can’t come because he’s at a conference and probably has his phone off anyway. My dad starts telling me about the bike out front—I’ve no idea why. I take his self-absorption as an opportunity to covertly pull out my phone. I’m trying to think quick—if I contact one of the girls I don’t want anyone to come alone—but before I can start a message my dad looks at me and says, “Girl, put that fucking phone away.”

  I freeze, assessing the look on his face, hunting for the slightest sign of danger. I’m instantly regretting that I’ve put him between me and the door.

  My flashbacks are so vivid, they’re squeezing the breath out of my lungs...

  ...my mother on the floor, in her black shirt with the gold dots, curling away from him and making that high-pitched scream no human should ever have to make

  ...him straddling her body and punching her so hard in the side the sound of it reverberates through the house

  ...me huddling on the cold tile floor, under the kitchen table, hands pressing so hard over my ears and still hearing it all anyway

  ...the ceramic shards of the plate on the floor next to me, smears of spaghetti sauce on the white and blue ceramic pieces

  It had all happened so fast, too. Five minutes earlier, you never would’ve guessed.

  “I didn’t raise you to be so fucking rude,” he says now.

  “Sorry.” I slide my phone back into my pocket.

  He eyes me hard, as if trying to decide if I’m sorry enough. I don’t move a muscle. He snorts and drinks down the rest of his whiskey in one shot. “Here.” He shoves the glass in my direction. “Get me a refill.”

  I take it and go into the kitchen for more, obedient daughter that I am.

  Throughout my life, I’ve sort of against my will ended up in conversations with people who, for some reason I can’t comprehend, start telling me about an alcoholic parent they have. I’m always kind of stunned by what they tell me. One girl’s father never beat anybody or had rages or got pulled over for drunk driving or passed out in the hallway or anything. He was what she called a “functioning alcoholic,” but apparently it was still enough to fuck her up, because her boyfriends were all emotionally-distant addicts of one variety or another anyway.

  Another guy said his dad would get fun and loopy when he drank, but couldn’t hold down a job, and of course wouldn’t stop drinking, and so that’s why his mother divorced him. He said he had a “decent” relationship with his dad. They even do holidays and get-togethers.

  Fucking Christmas.

  I never say what my dad’s like. That’s locked up tight.

  Because apparently even in the world of alcoholic parents, I got the kind that makes people look at you with shock and horror and pity. There’s a very short list of people in my life I trust enough to know the truth without looking at me like that.

  And right now one of them, thank God, is walking through my front door.

  Chapter 23

  Jack

  When I open the door to Sam’s house, the scene almost looks normal at first. She’s sitting on one end of the couch, and he’s on the other. It could be any cozy family get-together, anywhere in the world. Bu
t she’s unnaturally still and slightly wide-eyed and he is a dark presence seeping through the entire room.

  She gives me a look of shock and relief, but it washes over her in the space of a heartbeat, then is gone. I’ve seen her plenty freaked out over the past few weeks, but this is fear of a different flavor. My adrenaline’s been racing since I got her text, but just the sight of her triggers that primitive thing that dwells deep inside of all decent men.

  I make my decision in an instant.

  “Get your purse, Sam,” I say. Head down, she hops up. Arms tight by her side, she hurries past me and down the hallway toward her bedroom. I set my eyes on the man on her couch.

  So this is Sam’s dad.

  Here’s what I know about this guy. When he was still married to Sam’s poor mom, he got busted for his first DUI and spent a few months in the county jail. Sam was only seven. When she was ten, he got into the kind of one-car accident only drunks are capable of, securing himself his second offense. Except this time, Sam was in the car with him. She has a scar on the backside of her left arm from getting gashed by the window that busted out during the crash. She was lucky to walk away with no more than that cut and a handful of bruises. Having his ten-year-old daughter in the car while driving drunk bumped up the charges from a misdemeanor, second-offense DUI to a felony with child endangerment. Instead of the county jail, he went to prison for six years. It isn’t half of what he deserved.

  Sam hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him for most of her adult life, and damn near half of her childhood, too. But every time he shows up, it’s some sort of shit storm. There was an incident her senior year of high school, a few months after he got out of prison, that I’m not too clear on. He got into an altercation with Sam’s mom, apparently, and Sam was there to witness the whole thing. Thank God her grandmother came home. Sam’s take-no-shit-from-nobody grandmother called the police, but it sounds like she kicked his sorry ass out herself so the police didn’t have much to do once they got there. I have no idea how she did it. Sam’s mother apparently could’ve, and should’ve, pressed charges, but refused. Sam won’t talk much about that day—one of the few things she doesn’t discuss with me—so I can only imagine what the fuck really went down.

  Then there was the time he showed up when we were all still in college. I wasn’t there for it, but the girls saw. Isabella ended up escorting Sam to class with her asshole father following along, acting like he thought he had a right to be there. Then he disappeared like he does and that’s been that. Isabella told me how Sam had reacted to the whole thing, but I couldn’t for the life of me picture the frightened, intimidated Sam that Isabella had described.

  As far as I’m concerned, the only thing this sorry excuse for a man did right was this: he brought Sam into the world.

  Under normal circumstances, that’d be enough to deserve my respect. I’ll make an exception in this case.

  “Who are you?” he asks, scrunching his face into a look of detached derision. He strikes me as one of those guys whose default facial expression is to look at you like you’re an idiot.

  “I’m here to pick Sam up,” I say calmly. So get the fuck out.

  He gives a harsh bark of a laugh. “Yeah? Where you kids think you’re going?” He’s slurring his words just slightly. He’s taking in my clothes. I’m in slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie. I left the conference right in the middle of a session about hackers and firewalls.

  “We’re going to dinner.”

  “Doesn’t that sound nice.” The glass in his hand is half full of what looks like whiskey, but he throws it back and it’s gone in two seconds flat. Then he looks at me levelly. “I’m hungry. I could eat.”

  But he doesn’t move and I don’t think he really wants to come. Based on his hit and run actions of the past, I think all I need to do is get Sam away from him and he’ll slink back into whatever slime hole he calls home and she won’t see him again for a while. No, I think he’s just trying to measure me up.

  I debate whether it’d be better to try to get him to leave, or just get Sam out of here and be done with it. I don’t know if he’d get into anything with me—weak men who abuse women and children don’t always have the balls to stand up to anyone else—but he looks like he might.

  He’s a short guy, maybe five foot six. I can see where Sam got her height, or lack of it. But he’s one of those little guys who try to make up for it in muscle. He’s scrappy and tough-looking. He probably knows some good holds, and I imagine he had plenty of opportunity to polish up his fighting skills in prison.

  But I doubt he’s half as pissed as I am, so I still think I could take him.

  The bigger issue is what that would do to Sam. She doesn’t need another high-octane experience with this guy. As she hurries back down the hallway, looking for all the world like a terrified little girl, I realize I just need to remove her from the situation as quickly as I can.

  The best response to this guy’s needling is no response. I maintain eye contact and hold my ground. “Sam, come on.” I hold out my arm and gesture with my hand. She hurries to my side. I put my arm protectively around her, but my eyes are on her dad, who’s giving me a hard look now.

  Yeah, he’s definitely not a guy who’s afraid to get physical.

  “Hey,” he says, gruffly, apparently realizing I’m taking Sam whether he approves or not. “I came here to see my daughter.”

  Too fucking bad. “We’re meeting some people.” I open the front door and hustle her out in front of me.

  “She ain’t dressed for it,” he says snidely, but I don’t respond.

  I don’t say, ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  I don’t say, ‘You can talk to her later.’

  I don’t bother trying to mask the situation with any bullshit pleasantries because I realize it’s pretty obvious I’m escorting her away from him. I can’t stomach even pretending it was nice to meet him or that it’s okay for him to contact her later. It’s not. He needs to be out of her life forever, as far as I’m concerned.

  He’s starting to get off the couch, and I’d fucking love to have a go at him, but my priority is Sam. I shut the door hard and follow her, catching up with long, smooth strides.

  She’s hurrying down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched. I put my hand on her lower back. We’re almost to the truck when the front door opens behind us.

  “Jack—” she says, and my heart breaks at the terror in her voice.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Hey!” her dad hollers. I open the passenger door for Sam while giving a quick glance over my shoulder. He’s hovering in the open door, scowling but not coming after us. That’s a good sign, but I keep my eyes hard on him anyway as she scrambles in and I shut the door.

  I go around to the driver’s side, and before I get in I hear his parting words: “Fuck you, hot shot!”

  Nice.

  Clenching my jaw, I start the truck and peel away. Now that we’re out of the worst of it, my heart’s banging so hard against my ribs it’s painful. I’m gripping the steering wheel and wishing I had something to pound. Fucking asshole.

  I glance over at Sam. One look at her, and I start to soften, my anger slipping away in hot rivulets as concern for her takes over. “Hey.” She’s clutching her arms in front of her chest and staring out the windshield with a far-away, frightened look.

  “God, you’re shaking.”

  She doesn’t respond at all. I examine my rearview mirror to make sure Sam’s dad isn’t following us, then turn onto a side street and pull over. “Come here, honey,” I say, sliding over. She instantly comes to me, crawling right onto my lap and clinging to me.

  In the next instant she’s sobbing, tearing my heart right out of my chest. She clings to me like she’s drowning. Panicked cries shudder through her body.

  “You’re safe, honey,” I say, cradling her. “He’s gone. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

  But nothing seems to soothe her. Cars rush by, shaking the truck as we’re mome
ntarily caught in their airstreams, and Sam just keeps crying. All I can do is hold her. There’s nothing I can do to make her pain go away. It’s the most helpless feeling I’ve ever experienced.

  After what seems like forever, she starts to settle. Her muscles aren’t clenched as tight, but her arms are still hard around me and her head is tucked firmly against my chest. Her crying has settled into sniffling and the occasional, shuddering breath.

  Suddenly she lifts her head. “What if he’s still in my house?” She’s breathing hard, starting to panic again.

  “Shh, shh. Let’s have someone go by and see.”

  “Not the girls,” she says quickly, as if she’s terrified he’d do something to them.

  “I’ll send Shane, okay? All he has to do is drive by.”

  She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t protest either, huddling back against my chest. Keeping one arm around her, I make a quick phone call to Isabella, but I ask to talk to Shane. Once he’s on the phone, I divulge as little as I can while still explaining the situation.

  “Tell him not to take Bella,” Sam says urgently.

  “Sam would rather Isabella not go over there.”

  “Is he dangerous?” Shane asks, surprised.

  I glance at Sam, watching me. “I’d steer clear of him to be safe. Just let us know if he’s left or not.”

  We sit there in silence, waiting, cars still whizzing by. Part of me thinks we need to get back on the road, but the rest of me knows I need to wait. Sam’s still clinging to me. She’s not going to even begin to unclench until she knows that asshole is out of her house.

  And if he’s not? I start running through the options. I’m pretty sure he’ll leave, but if he’s decided to wait around, we may have to take other steps. I think about what that additional drama would do to Sam, and pray he cut and run like he usually does.

 

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