Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Bracing myself for the latest load of crap he’s about to spew, I slowly approach. “Dad, I really wanna go to bed…” My eyes anxiously glance back at the house in the near distance. It would be so easy to just turn around and go inside without having to deal with him. “I've got school in the morning.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he effortlessly brushes off. “Get over here. We wanna talk to you.”
To me.
At me.
He doesn’t know that difference.
I growl under my breath, shove my hands into my jean pockets and reluctantly arrive where I was summoned in a couple short strides. “What’s up, Dad?
“Don’t be a dick,” he grunts, beer coated on each word like he’s been marinating them for hours. Wouldn't be surprised if he had. For a man who likes the finer things, he loves his import beer way more than the expensive liquor I’ve been known to siphon into a flask to add a little fun to a late Friday night movie. “Say hi to Mikey.”
I greet my dad’s best friend, his number one hype-man thanks to the amount of money he’s always borrowing, with a small chin kick. “Mike.”
He tips his beer at me, and then has another swig.
Dad’s expression darkens at the same time he begins his line of unnecessary questioning, “And where the fuck were you tonight?”
With a heavy internal sigh, I clench my fists tighter in my pockets. I don’t wanna play this fucking game. I especially don’t wanna play it after dealing with Pres’s random blurt of “not enough” bullshit. I have no fucking energy left. I’m in no mood to verbally bob and fucking weave like I’m Tyson in this shit. You know once in a while I think he pushes me to see if I’ll push back. To see if the biggest pain in the ass will go down easy like his beer or swinging back, risking the chance to let his abuse land on my fucking face for the whole world to see. Most of the time, I just fucking take it. He’s an asshole, yeah, but he’s still my dad. What else am I supposed to do?
In a much too hopeful tone, he asks, “Strip club?”
“I’m eighteen, not twenty-one.”
“You can get into the strip club at eighteen,” Mike pipes up.
“Not the good ones,” I playfully point out.
“True,” Mike immediately agrees between sips.
“So then where were you? Crashing a sorority shindig? Helping judge a wet bikini contest?”
“I was with Pres.”
His disappointment is impossible to miss.
“Study sesh, dinner, and ice cream. Normal ‘ish for a weeknight.”
“You mean boring.”
Responsible would be a better fucking word. My girl prefers shit that way, and I just sort of follow her lead. Doesn’t bother me. Plus, my grades are the best they’ll probably ever be due to her staying on my ass about it. First week of senior year and our teachers came out of the fucking gate ready to flunk whoever didn’t do their summer assignments.
“And of course you were with lady boring, doing boring shit.” He points at me with the beer bottle. “You always fucking are.”
“Always…” Mike quietly echoes.
“You two are inseparable.”
“Inseparable,” Mike repeats once more.
“Okay…” my voice trails off, knowing not to engage, yet incapable of stopping myself from doing just that. “Maybe the shit is boring sometimes, but whatever, ya know? I love her. I wanna be where she is. I wanna do what she’s doing. What’s the big deal?”
In a mocking voice, he squawks, “You don’t know what the big deal is?!” He teasingly elbows Mike in the side. “He doesn’t know what the big deal is?!”
Mike merely chuckles and shakes his head.
Dad returns his glare back to me while obnoxiously reciting, “You don’t know what the big fucking deal is?!”
I only blink. I don’t give either of them the satisfaction of seeing how his words are unwelcomely rattling the ground beneath me.
“Son,” – the term he really only uses when he’s fucking hammered –, “the big deal is that there are millions of fish in the pool.”
Fuck. Me.
This isn’t going to end well.
“You need to start dipping your damn fishing pole in other scuba tanks.”
His misspoken metaphor makes me roll my eyes.
“Hey! Don’t roll your goddamn eyes at me!”
I swiftly surrender my hands. While he doesn’t typically leave bruises on me, the beer in his system messes with his restraint. Sober or inebriated, verbal assaults are always in season – how else is he gonna make a “man” out of me –; however, his fists only come out for assistance after beers nine and ten. And since I’m pretty sure that I could get tipsy off his fucking breath right now, my guess is he’s either got beer nine in his hands or will be reaching for it when he’s chugged what’s left in the bottle.
“Son, all I’m trying to say is that you’re sixteen years old-”