Page 87 of Play Dirty

“We confronted your father.” He says it in a very low, even tone. Smith pivots his head to look at me now. “And that asshole didn’t have a regretful bone in his body. Fuck him. Fuck all of them. Why are people so uptight about this shit? I mean, good God, dude. He was afraid you were gay so he bought you sex at twelve? How does that even make sense?”

“I dunno,” I whisper. “It doesn’t. I think that’s why it bothers me so much. Like… what was he thinking? How could he be so… I dunno. Careless with me?”

“No,” Chella says. “No, it bothers you because it was wrong. It bothers you because he’s supposed to love you unconditionally. It bothers you because he was your father and in his eyes, you were less than perfect. And I know I’m going to make mistakes with Daniel. We both are. But we will never make him feel bad about being himself. Ever.”

Smith just looks at her. He looks at her like she’s a goddess. Like she’s an endless fountain of wisdom and strength. Like there is no love greater than this love he feels for his wife. And then he gives her one of this infamous Smith smiles and nods. “Ever,” he echoes.

I end up staying the night in one of the second-floor guest rooms. And in the morning Smith hands me a suit from his closet and says, “Gotta run. But we’re pretty close to the same size, so have a suit on me. Coffee’s in the kitchen, Chella’s sleeping, and if you need to sleep here tonight too, just… you know.” He shrugs. “Show up. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Hey, I once spent years bouncing around from friend to friend, making them support me because I refused to own anything, that’s how afraid I was of turning into my father. I get you,” he says, pointing at me. “We get you. And we got you, too. You need someone to kill your old man?”

I laugh, I can’t help it.

“I’m your guy, Jordan. Just say the word.”

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the suit. “I needed to hear that. But,” I add quickly, just in case he’s serious, “I’m gonna pass on the offer.”

He shoots me with his finger. “Offer stands. Forever.”

It occurs to me, as I drive into work, that I have a lot of pretty cool friends.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I want to avoid my father today, but of course there he is standing at the reception desk talking to Gail, who outs me with a cheery, “Hope you’re feeling better today, Jordan.”

My father turns and smiles. Because he has no clue what’s inside me. None. I mean, why should he? It’s been more than fifteen years since that night at the cabin. If it ever bothered him, that passed. Long ago. “Sorry to hear you were sick, Jordan. Why didn’t you call your mother? She’d have brought you some chicken soup. You know how good it is.” He chuckles, squeezing my arm as we walk into the private reception area and head down the hallway to our offices.

“It wasn’t that kind of sick, Dad. I just needed a break, that’s all.”

“Oh. Things come up in your little”—he cups his hand to his mouth and whispers—“game?”

“No, Dad. No. I was just overworked, I think. I just needed some time.” And this is something I don’t get either. The fact that he kinda knows what I do on the side. I mean, he doesn’t have details or anything, and he certainly doesn’t know anything about killing Chella’s father or taking down a couple of corrupt FBI agents, but he knows I run this little fantasy game.

He claps me on the back and says, “I’m back with you. So where have your friends been, Jordan?”

For a second I think he’s referring to Augustine and Alexander. But then I realize he’s talking about Finn and Darrel. “They’re not friends, Dad. They’re business associates. And we’re…” I shrug. “Not very busy at the moment, so I dunno where they are. Doing whatever they do.”

“Good,” he says. “Good. Is there a new girl in your life?”

I stop in the hallway just outside my office. “Why are you asking me all these questions?” It comes out haughty. Because I am. Being haughty, that is.

“You caught me.” He laughs.

“Caught you doing what?”

“Your mother. She’s been after me to get you over for dinner because she wants to set you up with the daughter of one of her friends.”

“No,” I say. My mother pulls this at least twice a year. Most of the time I successfully avoid the painful blind date, but every once in a while, she sneaks one in on me and then pretends she didn’t have anything to do with it.

“I told her you wouldn’t be receptive. But she wants to ask you herself. So I told her you’d come over for dinner tonight. Be there at seven.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, reaching out to grab his arm. “I’m not coming.”

“Oh, tonight is not the date. There’s no surprise girl jumping our from under the dining room table, I promise you. Now I gotta go. First day back after the tests—”

“Hey, how did that go?”