Page 78 of Hollywood

“Okay, spill it. What happened with your dad?”

Joyride sighed heavily. “Nothing that hasn’t happened a bunch of times before.”

“Which is?”

“He wants to control all my decisions.” He grimaced. “I know I’ve made mistakes. Bad ones. But I don’t want to work for him and live with him and let him decide where I go or who I go out with. It’s suffocating.”

I kept my eyes on the road, but I could hear the frustrated tone in his voice.

“You’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“But—”

He groaned. “Nooo. No buts.”

I chuckled. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”

He slumped in his seat. “Something about me showing I can make good decisions by actually holding down a job and not staying out till 3 a.m.?”

“Pretty much.” I shot him a look. “You stay out till 3 a.m.?”

“Well, not every night, but it takes a while to drive back from Omaha after a night at the clubs, so…”

“You’re going clubbing? How often?”

“Most weekends. I don’t know. It’s not like Riverton is overflowing with single gay dudes to fu?—”

I slapped a hand over his mouth before the curse word could slip out. He mumbled asorrybehind my fingers and I lowered my hand.

“Okay, I get that you’re young and want to have fun. But if you want your dad to treat you like a responsible adult, you’ve got to show him something.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…I can’t get with these jobs, you know? They all just feel like a road to nowhere.”

“So, go to barber school. You can come work with me.”

He chuckled. “Really? Clint would let me?”

“He’s going to retire, eventually.”

“Nah, I don’t think messing with hair is for me. And I can’t draw for shit, so don’t suggest tattooing with Knight.”

“What did you want to do before?”

I didn’t have to explain before what. Our lives were all divided into before prison and after prison.

“I don’t know. My parents wanted me to go to college, but I wasn’t ready. I was going to take a gap year. Eventually, I figured I’d give in and do whatever my dad wanted.”

I took the turn into the rehab center parking lot and swung into a space. “And now?”

He shook his head. “I just can’t see it. I can’t seeanything. It’s like, I just keep thinking about what I did, who I hurt, and I can’t move on. I don’t want to just forget and be happy. Not when the other driver is in a wheelchair because of me.”

Joyride had shared a bit of what happened with me. I knew he’d taken his parents’ car without permission. That he’d gone joyriding. He wasn’t drunk or high, or he’d have probably spent a lot longer in prison. He’d been young and stupid, though, and another driver had been seriously injured when he lost control of his car.

He’d taken a plea deal for five years. He was a privileged white kid with a father who had influence with the judge, and it was his first offense. But for the first time, I wondered if getting off with a light sentence was really the best thing for Joyride.

“We’ll figure out something, okay? You can’t give up on your life.”