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Her cheeks flush a rosy, pink color at the mention of his name, and my curiosity from earlier is piqued.
“He’ll take care of you. That’s all he’s ever wanted. To be there for you the way you needed. I’m sorry for the part that I played in keeping him from you,” she says, apologizing again.
“I know, Mom. We’ll work everything out, I promise. But for now, I need to get back to the hospital.”
“Of course,” she smiles. “Go be with Keaton and give her my best.”
“I will,” I say, turning to step out of the room. “Please don’t say anything to Dad. I need to tell him myself,” I say, turning to look back at her.
Her eyes go wide, and a chill races up my spine.
“Tell me what?”
Bodhi
“Tell me what?” my dad says from behind me.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and chills break out over my arms.
My younger self screams inside of my head: danger, danger, run away. But I don’t. I’ve taken enough shit from this man to last me more than a lifetime. While I still consider him my dad in the sense that he is the man who — well, not raised me, but close enough — he never truly did enough to earn the title. Or to gain my respect.
I turn slowly to meet his gaze, cold and bored, like my very presence annoys him.
“Thompson—” my mother starts, trying to defend me against whatever he’s planning to throw my way, but he cuts her off like usual, which really pisses me off.
“Quiet, Lydia. No one was talking to—”
“I came to tell you that I quit,” I say flatly, keeping the emotion out of my voice.
Two can play this game.
This isn’t a personal attack, or about the sport at all. This is about me. How it should have been for a long time now.
He stands there, as close to stunned as I think I’ve seen him, one eyebrow arching in challenge.
“You quit what?” he questions, but I’m sure he knows the answer.
“Kane’s,” I answer simply.
His sardonic chuckle is the only response he offers, like he’s waiting for the punch line. Only it won’t come. I’m not joking.
When he seems to realize this, his expression drops, and he squares his shoulders to me.
Here we go. Classic Thompson bulldoze. He thinks he can run over me until he squashes me back into submission like he has so often before.
“You better explain yourself, boy,” he demands, face turning redder by the second.
“Pretty self-explanatory if you ask me,” I shrug.
“Listen here, you little shit,” he says, drawing in closer, finger poised to my face. “We have a race this Sunday. Your new sponsor will be there, and I have a press junket all lined up. You can throw your tantrum some other time, because we have business to attend to.”
He says, with no room for argument. Good thing I hadn’t planned on arguing.
“I don’t know what to tell you other than to find someone else. I’m not driving for you anymore.”
He splutters, the vein in his forehead bulging.
“Why, you selfish little prick. All of this because of the dinner the other day?” he says.
