Chapter 13

13

B rock had turned into a wuss around Jayda. Again.

Avoiding her for four years during uni had nothing on the way he’d hightailed it to the western suburbs now to put some much-needed distance between them.

She’d wanted to make a time to start work on her website today, so he’d headed to the last place on earth he wanted to be—his father’s car yard—which proved the lengths he’d go to in order to avoid any kind of emotional entanglement.

Because that was exactly what was in danger of happening if his breakfast with Jayda this morning had been anything to go by.

He’d agreed to her breakfast request because they had a great night together and he’d wanted to prove to himself that he could spend time with a woman beyond sex and not flee. So when they’d started talking about uni days on the drive back to her car and she’d invited him to share a dawn breakfast, he’d agreed.

And regretted it since.

Something had shifted between them during breakfast at that damn university quadrangle. Their connection had been palpable.

Ironic, considering he’d avoided it for four years during his undergrad degree yet all it took was a few hours and he fell for its charms; more to the point, Jayda’s charms.

She had a talent for making everything special. He’d eaten from a million food trucks over the years, usually grabbing a quick bite between jobs. He’d also eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants with exquisite degustation menus. But nothing had tasted as good as that brekkie burger from some old dude named Merv. He didn’t blame the pop-up cook for not forgetting Jayda’s standard order. She was pretty memorable.

He’d also seen his fair share of dawns during the early months of his start-up company when he worked all night to get ahead and establish himself in the IT mosh pit. He might not have pulled all-nighters during his uni days but launching his company had meant many sleepless nights. But today’s sunrise had been spectacular, and he owed it all to her.

Which was why he needed a big distraction and checking on the car yard’s accounts would provide exactly that.

He indicated left and pulled off the highway onto a side road. The car yard’s signage hadn’t changed in twenty years, the tacky red and white faded bunting dangling limply in the breeze, while neon lights, some broken, signalled his impending entrance into G.O. Second Hand Cars. How his father proudly put his name to this shithole, he’d never know. George Olsen should swap the initials to N.O. because who in their right mind would buy a lemon from his dad?

Brock’s gut churned with trepidation as he parked out the front. No way in hell would he take his gleaming ebony baby into the yard with its rust buckets. Not because he was a snob, but because he knew the kinds of people his dad employed and he wouldn’t put it past them to do something to his car out of spite.

Pocketing the keyless remote, he strode into the yard, ignoring the memories assaulting him. Most kids loved school holidays, he’d hated them because he’d been dumped here too often. He hadn’t begrudged his mum doing part-time work to help make ends meet but he’d resented being treated as slave labour here by his dad when she had.

How many times had he dragged the signage out to the side of the highway, earning cuts on his palms from the jagged metal edges, washed cars that wouldn’t look new no matter how many coats of wax he polished, and scraped stickers off windscreens when his father discounted his shit boxes to bargain-basement prices? Too many times to count and he thanked God every day that he’d earned those scholarships and worked his ass off at school and uni to ensure he never had to set foot in this dump again.

Until now.

He couldn’t ignore his mum’s plea for help when she rarely asked for anything. She hadn’t wanted to accept the house he’d bought for them—and put the title in her name so his father couldn’t sell it and squander the proceeds on his ailing car yard—because she’d known how his father would react. But to Brock’s surprise his dad had thanked him. Reluctantly, but he’d thanked him all the same, and that had gone some way to broaching the yawning gap between them.

That had been two years ago, when his company made its first million-dollar profit, and he’d seen his folks a grand total of eight times since. Two Christmases, their birthdays, and his. He should feel ashamed, but he didn’t. He’d figured out a long time ago that they viewed him as an obligation they had to endure rather than a son to love. It used to bother him. It didn’t now. He’d grown up early. Guess he had them to thank for that.

He strode through the deserted car yard. George always ran on a skeleton staff, preferring to deal with the occasional customer himself. The yard was clean but the cars still looked like higgledy-piggledy rows of metal destined for the scrapheap. He’d always wondered how many cars his father actually sold. He’d soon find out once he delved into the accounts.

When he entered the small ‘showroom’—a two-room shack housing his dad’s office, a kitchenette, and a two-by-four space used as storage for paperwork—the septuagenarian receptionist, Glenda, glanced up from a computer screen that probably featured Solitaire.

Her wrinkled, overly made-up face eased into a smile. ‘It’s good to see you, young man.’

She’d called him young man from the time he’d toddled in here at eighteen months of age.

‘You too, Glenda. Had any big wins at bingo lately?’

Her smile faded. ‘Would you believe I’ve been one number off the five-hundred-dollar jackpot eight bloody times in the last month?’

‘Hang in there, you’ll win it one day.’

‘Yeah, and my no-good, son-of-a-bitch husband will stash his horns and pitchfork and come up to haunt me from down there.’ She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the floor. ‘Your mum said you’d be stopping by to look over the books?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You’re a good boy…’ She trailed off, as if unsure whether to proceed, before determination lit her eyes. ‘Have you visited your dad yet?’

Hating the squirm of guilt in his gut, he shook his head. ‘No. Mum only told me last night what had happened.’

‘And the first place you come is here?’ Glenda’s pencilled brows arched in disapproval.

‘I’ve been busy.’

The excuse sounded lame even to him and Glenda’s brows knitted further.

‘He talks about you, you know.’

‘All glowing, I’m sure.’

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘He’s proud of how hard you work. Says you get that from him.’

That was news to him, his dad being proud. George never said a good word to him ever and hearing it second-hand only accentuated the yawning chasm between them.

‘Speaking of work, I better get stuck into those accounts.’ He shot Glenda a half-assed smile but she didn’t lose the disapproving frown.

‘He’s your dad. Go see him,’ were her last words before he shut the door to his father’s office, the chastisement from someone who’d known him since he’d waddled around in diapers not helping his mood.

Taking a look around the small room didn’t help either. It appeared particularly dilapidated, from the filing cabinets with drawers that didn’t close properly to the tears in the faux-leather pseudo-ergonomic chair behind a desk littered with documents.

For a highly organised Type A personality, this place was his biggest nightmare.

Kicking a half-empty box out of the way, he sat behind the desk and turned on the computer. At least his dad had the sense to invest in good electronics, because if his online records had resembled the rest of this shithole Brock would’ve been tempted to walk out and not look back.

Nothing was password protected despite his initial efforts to educate his old man on the importance of online security, but it made his job easier now. He’d pulled up the business’s financials within seconds and cast a critical eye over them.

Only to be blown away.

His dad actually made a profit, and had for the last five years.

A combination of canny discounting, fair pricing, and minimal overheads meant if his father sold forty cars a year, George made more than enough to live off.

Another stab of guilt pierced Brock’s resolve to stay the hell away from his father. For all George’s faults, he made enough money to care for his wife and that was all Brock cared about. His mum had stuck it out in a dead-end marriage because of the kid she’d never wanted, the least he could do was ensure she didn’t have a hard life now.

A cursory glance at the invoicing showed he had a bit of work to do, along with paying some bills, but all in all he’d stay on top of things if he visited twice a week while his dad recuperated.

His gaze drifted away from the computer to a filing cabinet opposite the desk. Tucked between two towering stacks of boxes, it had a few photos on the top. Photos of a their family.

Brock stood and moved around the desk for a closer look. There were three photos in total, all in tarnished bronze frames. The first showed his newly-wed parents looking way too young in their late teens, his mum with a bulging belly. He’d been born three months after their wedding. No surprise why they got married in the first place.

The second photo depicted the three of them around the car yard’s front sign, staring up at the neon lights as if it were the greatest thing they’d ever seen. He’d been about five then, when he’d still viewed his dad as his hero.

The third photo shocked him the most. Him, in a cap and gown, at his graduation ceremony. A slight frown dented George’s brow, and his mouth had a decidedly surly twist, but there was no hiding the pride.

Brock remembered that fateful day six years ago; and what had followed that night. But discovering his father had a picture in his office of something he barely acknowledged…it blew Brock away.

On graduation day, George had shaken his hand, clapped him on the back, and left after sharing a beer at the pub near uni where all the students and their families had gathered. Brock had been bitterly disappointed at the time, that even on the most important day of his life his father couldn’t bear to spend more than a few minutes in his company.

But then he’d discovered Jayda sobbing near the toilets and he’d forgotten all about his dysfunctional family and focussed on her.

His father had never been demonstrative. But seeing this photo perched in his direct line of vision every single day rattled Brock and made him realise something. No matter what he thought of his father, no matter how shitty their relationship, his father was injured and lying in a hospital and he should be ashamed of himself for not wanting to at least visit.

Hell, when his mum had called with the news he hadn’t even picked up the phone to speak to his dad. Instead, he’d been a selfish prick, only thinking about himself. Guess he had more in common with dear old dad than he liked to admit.

Shutting down the accounting software and the computer, he glanced at the time. Visiting hours varied at hospitals…that was when it hit him. He didn’t even know which hospital his dad was in.

Yeah, he was a shitty son. But he knew this unexpected attack of guilt prompting him to go visit the old man would do little for their relationship in general. He would never understand how his dad could treat his mother so badly, with the constant insults and put-downs, just as he would never understand how she put up with it.

But for now, he’d do the right thing.

Time to extend an olive branch, no matter how short, to his father.