38. Chapter 38

38

Wren

T he hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Something's off. D's got his hand on his piece, ready to blow some poor fucker's brains out. But the shadowy figure stumbling toward us ain't no hitman.

I grumble, squeezing my eyes shut for a split second just to make sure I'm not seeing things. Sure enough, there he is… the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing, lurking in the shadows.

It's dear old Dad in all his piss-soaked glory.

"Un-fucking-believable," I spit, my mind racing as I try to make sense of his presence. If he's here, it can't be good. Not by a long shot.

D's still on high alert, muscles tense, ready to pounce. I grab his arm. "Stand down, Rambo. It's just my dad."

I look up at D, suddenly aware of how fucking tall he is without my heels. Shit. Has he always been this… imposing? My eyes trace the hard lines of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. There's something different about him today, something that makes my skin prickle.

His eyebrows knit together, a deep furrow forming between them. He doesn't relax, not completely, but his hand moves away from his piece.

My shoulders stay tense, muscles coiled tight. Part of me is itching for a fight, hoping some of D's enemies might show up and liven things up. Anything's better than dealing with John's bullshit.

Now he's crossing his arms over his chest, biceps bulging under his shirt sleeves. His eyes narrow as he watches John stumble closer.

I yank my hair up into a messy bun, my fingers rough and impatient. Strands escape, tickling my neck. I brush them away, irritated. My eyes never leave John as he weaves his way toward us, each step a fucking insult to the concept of walking.

The fucker staggers into view, and I feel my gut clench. I'd know that shit-faced shuffle anywhere—left foot dragging like it's trying to escape, shoulders hunched like he's waiting for the next sucker punch from life.

I recognize that walk. It's the walk of a man who's spent more time horizontal in gutters than vertical on sidewalks.

I'm not surprised that John's looking like something the cat puked up after eating roadkill. His once-white shirt is a Jackson Pollock of stains—piss yellow, blood rust, and fuck-knows-what brown. It hangs off him like it's trying to break free, showing glimpses of skin that's more bruised than not.

His face is a road map of new bruises and old scars.

"Wrennie!" he slurs, arms wide open for a hug I sure as hell ain't giving. "My little girl!"

I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my skull. "What the fuck do you want?"

He stumbles closer, and the stench hits me like a freight train. Booze, piss, and something worse. My stomach churns.

"Just… just wanted to see my baby," he mumbles, swaying on his feet. His bloodshot eyes dart to D, suddenly wary.

"So," John slurs, "who's the gorilla?"

I snort. "Someone you don't want to fuck with."

John actually looks scared for a second. Good.

D watches the whole shitshow like a goddamn hawk, his blue eyes ice-cold and merciless. Wheels are turning behind those eyes, calculating every move, every word.

I can tell that he's taking in every juicy detail of the clusterfuck playing out before him.

John's bleary eyes narrow, darting between me and D. A nasty grin spreads across his face, revealing yellowed teeth. "He your new sugar daddy, Wrennie? Didn't know you were into the mob type."

My fists clench so tight I can feel my nails digging into my palms. "None of your fucking business," I snap. "Go home, John. Sleep it off."

But the thought of him being at home with us… It's repulsive.

The old man's face crumples like a used tissue. "But… but I need…" He trails off, fumbling in his pockets.

I know what's coming. Same old song and dance.

"Money?" I finish for him. "Tough shit. I'm not your fucking ATM."

His eyes narrow, that familiar rage bubbling up. But then he looks at D again, and it's like someone let the air out of him.

"Please, Wrennie," he whines. "I just need a few bucks. For food."

Yeah, right.

I'm about to tell John where he can shove his pathetic plea when something catches my eye. His hands are shaking like a junkie in withdrawal. There's crusty blood under his yellowed nails. And those bruises… Fuck, they're fresh.

Goddammit.

I can't dump his sorry ass on the street. Much as I want to. That's not me.

I glance at D. He's still watching this shitshow unfold. "Gotta deal with this train wreck," I mutter, jerking my head toward John.

D nods. "Want me to get rid of him?" he asks.

For a second, I'm tempted. So fucking tempted.

But… "Nah," I grunt. "I got this clusterfuck." I pause, hating the words even as they crawl up my throat. "Thanks… for offering, though."

D's eyebrow twitches.

"Offering to get rid of him? " he says, cracking his knuckles like he's warming up for a beat-down.

D's eyes zero in on John like a fucking sniper scope. The old man practically pisses himself, scrambling backward like his ass is on fire.

"Seriously?" I scoff, shaking my head.

I watch D stroll over to where my heels are lying on the grimy sidewalk. He bends down, scooping them up. What? He thinks I can't pick up my own damn shoes?

But he doesn't give them back. Just stands there, holding my shoes hostage.

I rummage through my bag, pull out my backup flats. Always got a Plan B. Unlike some people I could name. Cough John cough .

"Yeah, well, some of us can't solve all our problems by burying them in shallow graves."

D shrugs, his massive shoulders rolling under his jacket. "Your loss."

John's bleary eyes dart between us, fear sobering him up faster than a pot of coffee.

I slip my flats on, ignoring the way D's watching me. His eyes feel like a physical weight. It's… unnerving.

I start walking toward my apartment, not bothering to check if he's following. The sound of his heavy footsteps tells me all I need to know.

Can't help but sneak a glance, though. And fuck me if he doesn't look different tonight. Maybe it's the streetlights or the adrenaline from dealing with John's bullshit. But there's something about the way he's moving, all coiled power and watchful eyes.

My heels swing from his hand like some fucked-up pendulum. His fingers are huge, wrapped around the thin straps. It does something to my tummy.

Ew. Stop it, Wren.

I drag a deep breath in. Suddenly, John's bony fingers wrap around my arm. His grip's about as strong as wet toilet paper, but it still pisses me off.

"W-Wrennie," he stammers. I freeze.

John's hands shake as he paws at his pockets. Probably looking for his dignity. Good fucking luck.

"I just… I need a little help, baby. Just a few bucks for food," he says again.

"Bullshit. You need alcohol."

John's face crumples like a used condom. "But… but I'm your father. You can't just—"

Before he can finish, D materializes in front of him. He bends down, voice low and dangerous.

"Do what she says, John. Walk away. Now."

"I…" John's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Realization dawns in his bloodshot eyes. He ain't getting shit tonight.

He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Fuck you, Wren," he slurs, spittle flying. "I'm your fuckin' father." His face twists, ugly and mean. "You're a fuckin' whore, just like your fuckin' dead mother."

His words sting like a goddamn whip, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I keep my face hard as granite as he stumbles away, shooting one last poisonous glare my way. As soon as he's swallowed up by the night, I exhale a breath. But I know it ain't over. Not by a damn mile.

My fists clench tightly. There was a time I'd have worried about him, run after him. But John had never been a real father. Just a walking, talking disappointment.

Something hot and wet pricks at the corner of my eye. Fuck . Not now.

Before I can swipe it away, a warm hand catches my chin. D tilts my face up, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a big guy.

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.