by Aven Jayce
“You fuckhole! For the past year they were our trucks. Now they’re yours? Screw you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, I know. And you didn’t mean anything you said during dinner either, right?” She dashes to the bathroom and grabs a handful of items, tossing them into the bag. She zips it and rushes down the stairs.
“Freakin’ A, Jules. I let your little ‘makeup artist’ fib slide so cut me some slack. You’re no sweet angel. And your fucking parents could’ve been a hell of a lot nicer to me.”
“No, they were our guests. They didn’t have to be nice.”
“What? So everyone gets to beat on Mark Jameson? That’s the game we’re playing now?”
“Stop referring to yourself in the third person!” she screams.
“Mark Jameson disagrees.”
“My god, is there anyone you like? Anyone you get along with other than yourself? Fuck, and what are we, some white trash couple who can’t have a nice meal and a decent conversation with another couple without getting into a brawl? Reaching for a gun? Were you going to shoot my father?” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “I know I had my moments and was a total bitch, but I sure as fuck didn’t start the evening out that way until you and my dad went after each other like a couple of wolves. And believe me, I’m peeved at him, but you? I was hoping for more. You know? Seems like all you need is my pussy to be happy. That’s what your life is about. You fuck and fall asleep, then tomorrow you’ll get up and work all day, then fuck, then you’ll smoke, then fuck, then sleep, then fuck, then work, then smoke, then fuck again, and sleep.”
“Holy hell,” I mutter.
“Yeah, Mark, holy fuckin’ hell! It was one fucking dinner!”
“You’re really pissed at me.”
“Uh!” She throws her arms in the air. “No, I’m not angry. The evening was satisfying and pleasant. It was fan-titty-tastic. Can’t wait to do it again. How ‘bout tomorrow? Now fuck off!”
“Hey, wait!”
The door slams and I quickly rush over and follow her out, catching her down the corridor.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I ask casually, smiling at guests as I walk by.
“Gee, there’re two hundred twenty-two rooms in this place, see if you can find me.”
“Two hundred twenty-one minus ours.” I let her go, watching her drag the suitcase toward the elevator. “Two hundred twenty, minus Jack’s suite,” I say.
A woman in the hall voices her support with a, “you go girl,” after Jules holds her head high and her middle finger higher.
“Oh, and minus your parents’ room, that would be two hundred and nineteen, darlin’. And I’ve got cameras. I’ll find you,” I shout, no longer giving a shit if I’m heard. If I want to profess my love for her, so be it. “You’ll fucking miss me!”
The elevator dings and she vanishes inside, not responding to my loving words.
“Fuck,” I say under my breath. “Shit.” I turn and head back to the suite. “What a nightmare.”
Tap, tap.
No, damn it. That fucker, he’s my nightmare. I spin around, only the corridor’s empty. I swear I heard that fucking cane again, but the interior corridors of my hotel have carpeting, so that’s impossible, unless it echoed from the lobby... no, it was too close.
I take a slow stroll around the second floor, stopping every twenty feet, listening to the gentle holiday music, smelling the pine branches outside each room, listening for the cane, walking, listening, walking... reaching the opposite end of the hotel and smelling... yep, goddamn patchouli.
Jack and Emma were sitting in the lobby when I left the restaurant with Jules and her parents. He smiled at the four of us, then I’m sure he brought Emma upstairs the moment we were out of sight. I was a complete fucking idiot not to realize this was going to happen.
“Well played, son. Well played. Get ready for a new approach from your old man.”
I swipe my key card and quietly enter the suite. It’s pitch black, darker than a moonless night, and as motionless as a frozen lake. Slowly, my eyes adjust and I’m able to make my way through the living room, up the stairs, and to the master bedroom suite where I’m overcome by the smell of pot. It floats out the open door, overpowering the patchouli I’ve been following to this point.
A popping noise comes from the bed. It sounds like he’s either cooking bacon or has a fire burning under the sheets. Which I suppose isn’t far from the truth when you’re about to get laid.
I lean against the dresser with my arms crossed, watching a bowl burn red before someone lets out a hoarse cough. That’s Jack. I follow the trail of the lit bowl to the side table, unable to see his arms or face, but hearing the popping noise continue.
“Incredible,” he moans, then laughs hysterically and coughs again. “That’s wicked good. I can’t believe I haven’t tried this before.”
“Jack,” I say calmly.
“Oh, fuck. Dad. Get real! You can’t bust in on me like this. Not now.”
There’s a rustling movement in the bed and a crunching, popping, crackling noise. I turn on the light and see Emma’s head emerge from under the sheets. Her hair’s messy, lipstick’s smeared, shoulders bare, and she’s holding a package of Pop Rocks.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask gently, trying to stay calm. She opens her mouth and the candy pops wildly.
“You just ruined what was going to be the best night of head, ever!”
I raise my hand, breathing in, closing my eyes, and trying my best not to lose my shit in front of this sixteen-year-old girl. But who am I kidding? If I lost it in front of Jules’ parents...
“Emma, I’m going to say this one time, and one time only. Get dressed and wait downstairs. Do it quickly. Do it now.”
“I thought you said your dad was cool,” she whispers, giving him a kiss on the cheek as he hands her a wrinkled dress.
“The man’s jealous.” He tugs her back for another kiss. “Make sure you save some of that candy for next time.”
I turn away, allowing them to dress in private, using the time to bring up security on my cell. When her footsteps reach the stairs, I turn back to Jack while speaking to my staff.
“Joe, that you?” I ask.
“Yes, everything good, Mr. Jameson?”
“I need you to come upstairs to escort a young girl to the lobby then wait with her until her mother arrives. Can you meet me in the corridor in a few minutes?”
“Be right there.”
I end the call and approach Jack with hesitation. My intent’s unclear, and after an already fucked up night, I’m debating if this shit is worth my time. It should be. Right? I’m supposed to be a Dad.
“Wipe the foolish grin off your face.”
“That’s gonna be tough since I’m kinda stoned.”
I look down at him, knowing I need to remain in control, verbally and physically in control. You can do this, Mark.
“For some reason, you think it’s alright to abuse the few rules I’ve set for you. I asked you not to fuck, drink, or smoke on my property, and tonight you’ve done all three. You’re underage and jeopardizing my business and my life.”
“You’d make a good politician. Always promising, never delivering, saying one thing, yet doing something else. Flip-flop, flip-flop.”
“Stand up,” I request.
“Hey buddy, do this illegal thing for me, oh, but don’t do anything illegal on your own. So, Dad, what are you gonna do, cut me again? For fuck’s sake, did you see the chick you forced out of my bed? What would you have done with her? Shake her hand goodnight or fuck her? Come off your high horse. You were so cool earlier, now you’re acting like a fucking reserved businessman again. You’re full of empty threats and empty promises. And look at your face, I bet your girl even smacks you around. Ya pussy. And fuck, you’re ruining my high! I’m furious you came in here and fucked up my night!”
Oh, it’s time. This l
ittle shit needs more than a small nick from my blade, he’s getting his ass kicked. I’m not taking a step back, but a step forward—his life’s about to crumble. After clenching my fists and feeling the anger and frustration exploding inside... fuck, I hit my son. And it’s not a pussy slap either. He gets a hard smack across the top of his head then a fisted strike to his jaw before his neck’s held tight. I want to choke the life out of him.
His mouth drops open and he cradles his face with an expression of total disgust. After my release, an attempted retaliation swing ends in failure when his wrist is caught, body turned, and his face shoved into the bed.
“Stop kicking your feet like a madman.”
“You bastard!” he shouts into the sheets.
“Jack.” I grin in victory. “Do you still think I’m full of empty threats? Well here’s another. You’re grounded for the weekend. I’ll give you three minutes to gather what you need and then you’re coming to my suite.”
“Grounded? No one’s ever grounded me before.”
“I’m fine with hitting you again if you want to disobey. Keep mouthing off. Just try me.” I release his head.
“I’ve never been grounded,” he repeats, with a hard kick to the mattress.
“Good, I’ll throw a party and we can celebrate, and Jules will bake you a Happy Grounded for the Weekend cake. Now get up, get your things, and come downstairs.”
I head to the living room and see Emma waiting patiently by the door. “Empty threats,” I mumble. “I’ll show you what an empty threat is.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jameson,” she whispers.
I open the door and she scurries out with her tail between her legs.
“Was that your pot?”
She nods as we walk down the corridor.
“Do you have it, or did you leave it with him?”
“I took it,” she says in a mousy voice.
“Don’t bring drugs into my hotel again.”
“But Jack said you smoked.”
After I present her with my best side-eye, she hustles into her coat with sealed lips, smart enough not to argue back.
“Joe.”
I shake hands with my security guard then introduce him to Emma, repeating my instructions and emphasizing not to let her out of his sight until her mother arrives. As soon as they disappear, Jack emerges, making his way down the corridor with a bag in hand and animalistic grunts spewing from his mouth. He reaches my suite, types the code, then stomps inside, slamming the door in my face. His actions, like Jules, make me smile madly. I mean, how could someone not love me? The people in my life have some serious personality issues.
He’s already in the upstairs bedroom when I enter. “Jack! Come down and let’s talk. I wasn’t serious about the cake. How ‘bout brownies instead?” I smirk. “I heard that! Don’t break my stuff!”
Sounded like a table lamp was smashed against the wall. “Clean it up!” I yell. “And don’t cut yourself!”
I’m tired of yelling. I’m tired of being disrespected. And I’m just plain tired.
“My kid’s a fucking asshole,” I sigh, running a finger slowly along the liquor bottles in my cabinet. “Let’s see.” I scan the labels. “What’s it gonna be tonight... eenie, meenie, miney... Jameson. Jameson Irish Whiskey.”
I pour a shot, wishing I were the one who had thought of such a great company. I suppose then I’d be copying Cove. I have to admit, his Dark Scarlett wine is some of the best I’ve tasted.
My cell rings as I’m pouring a second shot... incoming call from the front desk.
“Mr. Jameson?”
“Yeah, go ahead, Chloe.”
“Vanessa from the restaurant mentioned we should keep an eye out for an older gentleman... like, in his eighties, with a cane?”
“That’s him. Is he there?”
“He was. He tried to check in, only he wanted to pay cash and he didn’t have a driver’s license or a credit card. He showed me a birth certificate instead.”
The whiskey shot is downed, the glass slammed on the counter, and I want answers. “Who is it? What’s the guy’s name.”
“Well... it was a bit odd.”
“Yeah, my whole fucking life is odd. Just say it.”
“You. The birth certificate said Mark Jameson. Were you born February second to Elizabeth and Paul?”
I rub my forehead, trying to reduce the ever-growing stress in my life. Dear fucking lord, what the fucking hell is this old fuck doing?
“He still down there?”
“No. I told him he needed a credit card, but it was obvious by the cab waiting outside that he already knew that. He hobbled off, got in, and was driven away.”
“When?” I ask, heading for the safe in my office.
“Like, a minute ago.”
“Don’t hesitate next time, call if he returns.” I hang up and open the small steel door under my desk. My birth certificate is in my possession, plain as the light of day, along with all my other important papers. It must’ve been a copy.
For fuck’s sake, what gives? My family’s all dead except for my mom and Sophia. I wonder if this is a company man. One of David Rosen’s or my father’s heavies from back in the day, coming around to collect an old debt, or revenge for some shit I know nothing about. Whoever the fuck he is, he’s taunting me, but he’ll find out soon enough I don’t play well with others. As a matter a fact, in high school I was voted most likely never to play well with others. So back off, shitfuck. I have no reservations about killing a guy who can barely walk. Just like the joke about the kid in the neighborhood who loses his legs. You don’t feel sorry for him; you ask his parents if you can have his bike—it’s not shameful, it’s life. Okay... maybe that analogy doesn’t work well in this instance, nevertheless it’s funny as fuck. Yeah, go ahead, be a dick to me, see what you get, whether you’re sixteen like Jack, or eighty, I don’t care.
I look upstairs, thinking he’s been quiet for some time. “Hey buddy, why don’t you come downstairs so we can talk.”
No answer.
“Jack!” I listen by the stairwell, but besides the sound of a ticking clock and the furnace kicking in, it’s uncomfortably quiet. I walk upstairs and slowly open the door. He’s on the bed curled into a tiny ball, wearing a pair of black sleep pants with a hoodie pulled over his head. There’s sniffling and a soft cry, and when he hears me enter, he covers his face with a pillow.
“Hey,” I say gently, sitting next to him with a hand on his side. He rolls over and pushes me away, repositioning the pillow so I can’t see his tears. “You pissed at me or did I really hurt you?” I exhale, noticing the pocketknife I gave him earlier on the side table. Since he’s not leaving my suite for a few days, I take it back. There’s no point in him carrying it around.
“I suppose I’d be angry too, but that doesn’t mean you’re right and I’m wrong. Although if you’re hurt, then I fucked up and maybe we should talk it out. So which is it?”
“Mom,” he says in a soft, tearful voice. “I miss mom. I want to see her. I need to talk to her.”
“Oh,” I breathe out, looking around the room for some magical instructions to appear. “I don’t, I don’t know what I can—”
“Leave me alone,” he sniffs.
I pause and fiddle with my watch then check that my gun’s in place while trying to think of something to say. An apology won’t do shit, but I don’t have any other words at the moment. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Just go away. I seriously don’t care anymore.”
I nod and look at the floor with clasped hands. It’s amazing how quickly you can feel in command of a relationship, having total power and control, only to realize those things can just as easily turn to regret. Feeling remorse is something I never admit to, and maybe it’s all the alcohol that’s fucking with my emotions, but right now I just hit a ten on the guilt meter.
I untie and slide off my shoes then lie next to
him with an arm raised, hovering, debating, then slowly lowering it across his body. “It’s okay to cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he sniffs. “I’m not a wuss.”
I move closer and surprisingly, he submits, taking my hand and bringing it closer to his chest. “I hate that she’s not here, especially at night when I’m all alone and have nothing to do except think. I can’t turn off my brain. Sometimes, her scent is on my clothing, or I find one of her hairs in my things.”
“Is that why you slept in front of my fireplace the other night?”
He says ‘yes’ with a heaving chest while he fights to hold in his sobs. “I wanted Emma here tonight. It wasn’t about fucking; I just didn’t want to be alone. The pot I asked you for could’ve blocked my thoughts about her suicide, and the alcohol from that guy in the restaurant would’ve done the same, and then Emma... I just don’t want to think about what happened. She left me. Mom left me.” He starts to cry.
“She didn’t have a choice, Jack,” I say softly. “She wanted you to remember her before...” I can’t believe I’m choking up. God, I wish I hadn’t done those shots. Whiskey unlocks the loving creature in me.
“I’ll take anything right now, any drug, any girl, I don’t care as long as I don’t have to think about her. Why don’t you go ahead and hit me again. It took away a lot of the other pain I was feeling. Just fucking hit me!”
“You’re describing how addictions start. You want a fix to stifle something in your life instead of facing it head on. I’m not sorry I took those things away from you tonight. I did it because of your attitude and because you’re underage. I’m the one responsible if the shit hits the fan and the cops show up at my door. But also, I did it because I care about you, whether you realize it or not. This bullshit at your age is normal, but I didn’t... there are other ways... you can’t... you need to...” What the hell am I doing? Jack’s a mini me and for fuck’s sake, why is there anything wrong with that?
“What?” he asks.
“I don’t know anymore.” I rise and sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, and feet tapping the floor. I’m useless when it comes to dealing with grief, and I’m screwing his life up worse than my dad did mine.