Page 9 of Louder Than Words

I peer over the steering wheel, seeing a junction loom on the horizon. I don’t even think, I just gun it off the slip road, and into the nearest car park. I slam the gear a little more forcefully than I mean to, and pull the phone to my ear.

“What?” I bark, my hand already tightening around the steering wheel.

“Hey, slow down, son. I just wanted to check in, since you never call your old man. You’re a tough guy to track down these days.”

The word son rolls off his tongue like it belongs there. Like he has a sliver of a right to call me that after everything he’s done—or everything he hasn’t done, for that matter.

I scoff loudly and push my fingers so hard into my eyes everything goes black.

“Why would I call you? And don’t call me that, Dick. You know you lost that right when—”

“Well, why wouldn’t you call your father? Especially with you living so close now, Jackie.”

God, it’s like he’s using every word in the dictionary to get under my skin. Every single word, but especially those two. The nickname. The titles. As if we were ever just a big happy family and I’ll remember all the good times.

But there were never good times. Not withhim,anyway.

I don’t say anything. Instead, I sit in silence, listening to the background noise on the other end of the line, which I’m willing to bet is a pub—shrill laughter, glasses clinking, and whooping echoing in the distance, and the fact that it’s my DNA contributor? All pretty solid clues pointing to where he’s at.

Good to know some things don’t change.

“What do you want?” I finally ask, slamming my head back against the seat.

“Well, if you’re wondering—”

“I’m not. But the faster you spit it out the faster I can hang up.”

He laughs. The noise spilling through the line, making my veins run cold. “I just wanted to see if my son would help his old man out—”

“Not interested.”

He’s silent. Maybe finally learning to shut his mouth, but I know that’s wishful thinking.

Richard Owens always gets the last word.

“I don’t need much. A few hundred and I won’t bother you again. I won’t call, I won’t text—”

I cut him off with a barking laugh. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

I start to hang up, but his voice stops me.

“And maybe I’ll even think about not showing up in Boston like I planned. I’m just so proud of my boy, figured I’d see him in action. Big city, big party just for him. Plus a little birdie told me you’re seeing a new girl now. I’dloveto meet her,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.

My grip tightens on the wheel, the blood quickly draining from my knuckles.

That’s the fucked-up part about all of this. If he really wanted to, he absolutely could, because the universe decided to really fuck me by giving me a Welsh mum and an American deadbeat, who just so happens to be only a few states away.

I shouldn’t even care. If I send him a few hundred bucks, maybe he’ll finally kick the bucket. Sounds like a no-brainer, but I’m still weighing it heavily.

If I send it, he could end up hurting someone.

And if I don’t, he’ll never let me live it down. Plus he’d just track me down and take it anyway. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.

So, what the fuck do I do now?

After a few moments of silence, and enough time to actually think, I do what anyone would do in my situation.

I hang up.