The court was on the second floor, so as I make my way down to the main floor, I barely place my foot down on the third step when I hear my father's weakened voice.
"Baby girl."
"Dad!"
I run into his arms like I did when he picked me up from overnight Girl Scout camp the first and last year I ever attended. He holds me tight then grabs me at the shoulders and moves me back so he can look at me.
"You okay?"
"Yes, just tired."
"They let you off?"
"I had a public defender, and I plead guilty to the charge."
He makes a face. I can tell he's disappointed in my decision. My father is a big believer in fighting for what's right, so he probably wanted me to challenge the charges.
"I'm sorry, Dad, but a hot shower and a half decent toilet were calling me. I didn't realize how dependent I am on the creature comforts of life. Like privacy and running water and not having to eat bologna sandwiches."
I kiss his cheek.
"You ate a bologna sandwich?" He chuckles.
"Absolutely not. Luckily for me I just had dinner out before my arrest. So, I skipped the sandwich."
"Whores and bologna." He shakes his head in disgust. "Jail is no place for you, baby girl. You're my little princess. This is definitely not a place that I ever thought you'd see the inside of."
"I wasn't in Alcatraz. It was literally just four hours of my life spent with some prostitutes and drug addicts. Relax." I smile. Trying to put him at ease even though it was actually the scariest four hours I think I've ever spent. Not because of the women I was in there with (because a few of them weren't that bad), but simply because I didn't like the feeling of being powerless and waiting for the unknown.
"Joanne is probably turning over in her grave."
"You cremated Mom," I deadpan.
"You know what I mean."
My dad tries to hold back a couple more deep coughs, but I can hear the mucus rumbling around in his chest and his skin looks sallow.
"You don't look so good. Let's get you home."
"Yeah, I'm a little tired. I parked over there, hun. Maybe you should drive."
Now I know he's sick. He never lets me drive the Chevy.
"Where's your car by the way?" he asks.
"They put it in some police impound lot that's five miles away. It's closed now, so I'll have to come back and get it tomorrow."
"What a pain in the ass. Do you have to work tomorrow?"
"Nope."
"Good. So, once you pick it up tomorrow, bring it by the shop. I can get one of the techs to fix the light. In fact, I'm going to have them give that car a thorough work up. Not sure how I missed your taillight being out."
I interlock my arm with my father's as we walk side by side to the truck.
"You're not responsible for everything, Dad. You're my superman, but you're not the superman."
"When did you find me out?" he jokes.
"So, where's this infamous son of Jack at? Why didn't he come with you?"
He smiles. "I dropped him off at the mall on my way here. The boy needed some toiletries, fresh underwear, and things like that. Had to twist his arm though. He doesn't like to accept help. I can tell it's going to take him some time getting used to kindness. Probably hasn't seen that in a very long time."
Probably not, I think. Even I have to admit that if I had to endure five years of what I just did for four hours, I would be crawling up the freakin' walls.
"Do you think he's dangerous?"
"Anyone has the capability of violence, baby girl."
"I'm not talking in abstracts. I'm asking you if he did time in prison for more than drugs. Five years is a long time for just possession."
"What do you know about any of that?" he asks somewhat visibly shaken. Sometimes he treats me like I'm still a naïve teenager.
"I watch the news, Dad."
"Drug laws are often enforced arbitrarily and vary from state to state. I don't know the details about Stone's case, and honestly, I don't need to know. It's over and he's home. That's all that matters."
Home? This isn't his home.
"Correction, that's all that matters to you. I just spent four hours of my life in a cell with eight lightweight criminals. So, excuse me if I'm not so keen on sharing my house with a potentially dangerous one."
* * *
Eleven
TINY
As soon as we get home, I practically shove two Motrin down my dad's throat and order him to get into bed. Then I make a beeline for the bathroom.
I take the longest pee ever. You know how when you hold your urine too long and then when you finally go it takes forever to trickle out? That was me. Next up was a shower. I felt gross. After a long day at work, dinner, and an arrest by Philadelphia's finest–I was more than ready to wash the day away and binge watch a Netflix series.
I'm sitting on the couch with my legs bent underneath me and a pint of pistachio ice cream in hand when Bottle runs toward the front door, hearing a stranger's car pull up way before I do. Bottle is my chocolate brown, seventy-five pound, rescue Labrador retriever named after her number one obsession. Crushing plastic water bottles with her jaws.
"Who is it, Bottle?" I ask her in my soft, baby-like voice. "Is it the guy who's going to smother us in our sleep tonight?"
I have to laugh at myself. Maybe I'm being too hard on this son of Jack. Maybe he has some redeeming qualities.
Bottle's tail wags and she begins jumping up and down. Circling around and around in front of the door. Excited that someone is coming to visit. Actually, a little too excited. Neither of us have ever been really good about training her not to jump on people or furniture.
I stand on my tiptoes, and peek through the door's small glass window pane. I want to get a glimpse of him before he comes inside.
Stone.
What kind of a name is that? I think my dad mentioned once that he's had that name since ever since he can remember. Did Jack name him that when he adopted him? Or was that his name before. I mean who nicknames a kid Stone? Only a parent who thinks that their child is destined for a life of crime or maybe a boxer or even a rapper. Definitely not your average term of endearment.
Bottle starts scratching at the door as I watch a silver Honda with an Uber sticker in the window come to a complete stop in front of our driveway. I reprimand her for jumping, mostly because my anxiety is feeding off of her frenetic energy.
"Shh, Bottle. Sit!"
It's dark out and the glare from the glow of the light post prevents me from clearly seeing Stone's face while he's still seated in the car; but when one of the back doors open and a large booted foot lands heavily on the concrete, I inhale a quick breath.
He's definitely no longer the boy I remember from an old picture my father has of him in one of our family photo albums. The young boy in a transformers T-shirt with a permanent scowl etched across his face.
That boy is gone and has morphed into a man.
A mammoth of a man.
When he completely exits the car he literally takes my breath away.
He's tall.
He's got to be at least three or four inches over six feet tall.
And he's wide.
Like a Mac truck.
He looks like he could swallow me whole.
Sheesh, maybe they sprinkle their food with Miracle Gro in prison.
Bottle can no longer contain herself as she starts barking as he begins walking toward the front door. She's very excited about the new human entering her domain. Bottle loves people. Other dogs not so much.
The unexpected noise of her bark startles Stone, and he glances toward the window. When he does I move quickly away from it like the weirdo that I am. Obviously I don't want him knowing that I'm peeping through the window like a creeper. I'm not sure whether or not he saw me. I didn't see any sort of look of recognition pass across his face.
"Quiet, girl."
I shush my dog and run into the kitc
hen, pretending like I'm working on my dad's soup which is actually already finished. I knew he had already dozed off after my shower, so I was going to wait to bring it to him later.
The doorbell rings.
Damn, didn't Dad give him a key?
"Baby girl, I think that's Stone," My father calls out.
"I thought you were asleep," I fuss back.
"Can't sleep until the house is settled."
My heart is racing and I feel jittery. I take a quick look at my reflection in the refrigerator, smooth a bit of my curls behind my ear, and then the realization hits me. My anxiety is not based in fear, but because I'm actually nervous. Nervous about what this strange felon is going to think about me.
Will he remember me?
Will he think that I'm pretty?
Am I losing my damn mind?
The bell rings again.
Oh crap, now I hear my father around.
"Never mind, Ariana. I'll get the door," he says grumbling. "You're always so slow."
Yeah, slowly losing my common sense.
He beats me to the door, so I just stay in the kitchen. Suspended in motion. Using a wooden spoon to stir a pot of my homemade chicken and rice soup that's already finished cooking.
I can hear the two of them clunking around the living room moving toward the enclosed deck. Carrying what I suspect are Stone's purchases to his new abode. Dad has spent the last seventy-two hours getting what was once a neglected pet project of his into an actual livable space for Stone. It looks really nice now.
He installed insulation and drywall and painted it a soft sugar cookie batter color (my paint selection). He also bought a dark brown sofa bed on clearance, which will be great if Bottle decides to lay on it, because you won't be able to see her hair on the couch at first glance (another one of my bright ideas). Vacuuming Bottle's fur is definitely one of my least favorite chores to do. Pretending that it's not there because it blends in with the couch is a much better plan.
"Sit, girl!" I hear my father reprimand Bottle. I can hear her claws clicking and sliding across the floor. She's definitely jumping all over the place.
"Sorry, Stone." I hear him apologize. "She's just excited."
While my dad has never said the words, I think that he is the one who's beyond excited that his dear deceased friend's son is coming to live with us. My father loves to live his life swaddled in the memories of the people he loved. Jack included.
"What's taking you so long, baby girl?" he asks from the other room. I can hear him settling into his recliner. An ugly piece of furniture that he refuses to donate or toss or preferably burn.
"I'm fixing your soup."
"Smells good but give it a rest, and come out here to say hi to Stone."
I plunk the wooden spoon down on the counter and take a deep cleansing breath as I wipe my clammy hands on a dishtowel.
"Coming."
I'm being silly. If my friends Sloan and Elizabeth could see me they would smack me into next week. I give myself an inner tongue lashing in honor of their absence.
I take a final breath and walk into the living room with a wide smile and my boobs pointed high.
He's just another man.
His opinion doesn't matter.
Let me just get this introduction over with.
* * *
Twelve
TINY
I make a memorable entrance just as I feared I would.
Slipping and falling straight to the floor.
I polished the wood floors two days ago with the wrong cleaning product making the floors slippery as an oil slick. That's why Bottle is slipping all over the place, and that's exactly why I too fall straight on my ass.
Landing right on my tailbone, I feel a sharp pain that shoots up my spine and makes me want to burst out in tears. Not just because of the pain of the fall, but because it's simply icing on the cake of a shitty day.
"Shit!" I exclaim.
When I look up from the ground, I realize that I've fallen down in front of the most spectacular man I've ever seen in my life.
Stone looks like every bad boy fantasy I've ever had since I was fourteen years old. Even dressed in a burgundy colored hoodie that looks like it's two sizes too small for his sinewy body–he looks delicious. Delicious in the most imperfect way you can imagine.
Slightly bowed but muscular legs.
A strong but crooked jaw.
Crooked nose.
Piercing gray eyes.
Upon first sight, it seems that most parts of him are covered in rough edges, scars, and hard lines, yet my gut tells me that there's something much softer inside. Something deep buried underneath a lot of coarse layers. A vulnerability that he's probably never revealed to anyone. I don't know exactly how I know that. I just know that I do.
"Hey," he says with a basically unreadable expression. "You all right?"
He shoves one of his sleeves up and then offers me his hand. I've never seen a sexier forearm in my life. Muscular and strong and covered in ink and prominent veins fighting for their place under his skin.
"Hi." Is my simple response. Doing my best to close my mouth as I accept his help off the floor.
"Not sure if you remember, Stone, but baby girl can be a little accident prone."
"Dad–"
"But she's a great cook. That more than makes up for it."
It's a simple thing, but it doesn't escape me how he doesn't have to exert an ounce of energy to pull me off of the floor. He just does it with virtual ease.
"So how was the ride down?" I ask Stone as I wait patiently for some of my dignity to reemerge.
"Uneventful," Stone answers and he looks as if it pained him to utter even that single word. I'm thinking that small talk is not his thing.
"Hey, I'm starving!" My dad interjects. Coughing only seconds later. "How about you go wash your hands and get ready for the chicken soup, Stone. Smells damn good doesn't it. She makes it with wild rice instead of noodles just like Jo used to make. It's going to fix me right up."
Stone gives my father a quiet nod in agreement, then he turns his head around as if he's looking for something.
"The restroom is upstairs right next to Ariana's room," my father says. Making an educated guess at what Stone was looking for. Beats me how he figured that out. I have zero idea what's going on behind those piercing cold eyes of his and that flat affect.
Yeah, he's going to kill us in our sleep.
"Go show Stone where it is, baby girl, and I'll keep an eye on the pot."
"Just don't eat it yet," I warn my father. "There's a way I like to serve it."
"Then make sure you hurry up." He chuckles. "Mmm, it smells almost as good as your mom's. Can't wait to taste it."
I start walking toward the stairway and can feel my heart literally trying to pound its way through my breastbone. Beating in tandem with each step I take.
Up left. Up right.
Up left. Up right.
Stone is keeping pace directly behind me, and I feel super self-conscious about it. I don't like for people to walk directly behind me. Especially men. Mainly because I'm not a small girl. There's nothing petite about me. Hence the nickname, Tiny. An obvious play on words. Even my fingers are the sizes of Vienna sausages thanks to some sort of recessive trait that my maternal great-grandmother passed on to me.
It definitely doesn't help that I'm wearing my weekend leggings. You know the pair. Not the ones with enough firm spandex to suck you in all the right places, but rather the super comfy pair that you wear around the house to watch TV in. The pair I have on right now are boring, blue, cotton ones that I picked up from Walmart on clearance. They do absolutely nothing for my butt, but they sure feel good when I'm binge watching Supernatural.
Stone doesn't say a word as he follows me up the stairwell. He's either transfixed or grossed out by the gelatin-like jiggle of my butt cheeks. I must admit that they can be a startling sight. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my ass in the mirror when I'm getting dre
ssed in the morning and wonder when did all of "that" jiggle happen to me. It just kind of appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe years of eating brownies and vanilla ice cream for dessert have something to do with it.
As I move closer to the top of the second floor, the quiet between us becomes so unsettling, that I feel the need to fill the empty space with words.
"Do you remember visiting here as a kid?"
I realize how stupid the question is after it flies out of my mouth, but I didn't know what else to say, so I wait patiently for his response. Dying for him to talk to me about anything at this point. Distracting him from my gelatin butt.
"I remember."
"I kind of remember too. I think our parents made you babysit me a couple of times. What are you four or five years older than me?"
That was dumb to say too. Do I really want to remind him of the nerdy kid I used to be? No, I want him to see me as the woman that I am today. Smart. Accomplished. A good daughter. Actually, scratch all of that.
He's been in jail for five years. Who am I trying to impress? Plus, I'm sure that Stone doesn't give two craps about anything right now except for a hot meal and a warm bed. Hell, I was in jail for four hours and that's all I seem to want. I'm sure he has a lot more things on his mind that are way more important. Struggles that I can't even fathom.
"So here it is," I say stopping in front of the bathroom. "I left a clean towel and washcloth for you on the counter. I'm pretty much a neat freak, so don't worry about having to clean or anything," I say babbling like an imbecile. "And I'm sorry about the flower wallpaper in here. Maybe Dad can change it to something more neutral when he gets a chance."
Stone stares at me with the oddest look on his face. If I had to guess, I'd say it's a cross between wanting to puke and wanting to shake me senseless.
"There's nothing that you need to apologize to me about."
"I'm sorry–"
"I asked you to stop apologizing." His voice grows deeper and firmer.
Broken By A King Page 5