Page 22 of Beast

“Is that supposed to be comforting? How much debt do you have?”

“Forty-seven thousand dollars.”

Forty-seven thousand dollars? We were screwed. Royally screwed. I could never come up with that kind of money, unless I went back on Dancing under the Stars for a season. And that was completely out of the question. I hadn’t danced in years and was completely out of practice. There had to be another way.

“We can’t lose this house, Dad. We have so many wonderful memories here. Do you remember the time that Mom found that white bunny in our backyard? Our neighbor wanted to feed it to the coyotes. But Mom nursed him back to health. She loved little Latte.”

My dad’s eyes narrowed and a vein popped in his neck. “I hated that rabbit—another one of your mom’s projects that she started but then abandoned when she lost interest. I ended up taking care of that thing.”

I slammed my coffee mug down. “Why do you do that? Every time I mention her, you either dismiss me or get enraged. We had good times, happy times. Why can’t we talk about her?”

“Because she left us! Suicide is selfish. She didn’t care about or love us or she wouldn’t’ve done it!”

I raised my hand and slapped him, the tight sting of my palm shocking me. “How dare you! She was not selfish. She was sick! How can you not see that? She did love us—she probably thought we were better off!” I was completely stunned by how ignorant people were about suicide. I admit I’d thought the same things my father just said, that she didn’t love us, that she was selfish. Thank God I’d educated myself. I just wished my father would try to understand. Try to forgive.

My father didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t need to. He exhaled and his hand started shaking.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

“It’s okay, I probably deserved it. I just miss her.”

And that was the first time my dad admitted to me that he missed her.

I didn’t know what to say. The intersection of anger, hurt, and resentment brewed inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house sooner? Can’t you take another job? Anything?”

“You don’t think I’ve applied for everything? No one wants to hire a middle-aged man. I just need a chance and I can turn this around. Just one more hit.”

Could I dare ask Grady? He would say no, and he didn’t seem to want anything to do with me. He hadn’t even asked for my number. What was I going to do? Stop by his apartment?

Maybe I could contact him through Facebook, though he didn’t even have a searchable profile, just a page.

No, I couldn’t do that. I didn’t even know Grady. And I’d ran out on him.

There was one other person I could ask.

“Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll work out. I’ll pray for a miracle.”

He exhaled and his eyes looked up. He hugged me. “Thank you. I’m really sorry I took your money.”

I racked my brain. I could apply for a school loan. Or take a one-quarter leave to figure this out. But one thing was certain—I could only rely on myself.

13

Grady

All fucking day I couldn’t get Isa out of my mind. How she sucked my cock, the image of her ass as I took her from behind, the expression on her face when I licked her pussy, the sweet sounds of her moans as she came.

Remembering how it felt to be inside her numbed my pain. The throbbing from my skin graft was intense, like being dragged around on a carpet until my skin melted off.

I sat down to my computer and Googled her.

Bella Applebaum—Dancing under the Stars.

Her face lit up my screen—hair darker, skin tanner, and body skinnier. I thought she looked way hotter when I’d met her than she had on the show—I liked my women with curves.

She’d danced two seasons, then left mid-season. No reason why. She’d obviously changed her life—instead of dancing with losers she now was sleeping with monsters.

A few pics with her ex-partner—Pasha, a fellow dancer on the show. I wonder if he ever fucked her? Looked like a pansy. I mean, the guy fucking waxed his chest.