Chapter 2

 

Dylan Rider was trying desperately to keep his temper in check and calm his itchy fingers, which right now prickled with the urge to clout his seventeen-year-old son.

“I’m warning you, Henry, any more drugs and I swear you’ll be out of here on your arse. I’ve paid a ridiculous amount of money for the clinic to get you straight, but that’s it. No more.” He glared, “Do you understand?”

His son, sitting opposite him looked as sullen as ever. Despite trying not to raise his voice, Dylan couldn’t help it. “Well, do you?”

“Yes,” Henry grunted, contempt etched all over his acne-covered face.

“It would help if you looked at me when I was speaking to you.”

Henry never looked directly at him, or anybody for that matter, unless he was forced.

He waited until he did turn his face towards him.

“I’ve provided you with a car, and I expect you to use it to find work. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to go to college, despite what I want, so you need to get a job. Tomorrow, go down to the job centre and speak to someone, to see if you could be considered for some sort of apprenticeship. There must be something you can do along those lines. Look at,” he hesitated trying to think of something that might be suitable, “engineering or plumbing . . . anything that might be useful?”

His son’s whole persona smacked of boredom, and his tone was insolent as he sneered, “Have you finished?”

What was the point?

“For now, yes, and remember what I’ve said, no more drugs. Not even cannabis. If I as much as suspect you’re going down that road again, I mean it, that’s it. You’ll be out.”

Henry got up, and even after he’d left the room, Dylan continued to stare.

Why is he so bloody awkward?

He blew out a frustrated breath and went to the drinks cabinet. He selected a Glenmorangie whisky and poured a generous measure. He could do with some ice, but couldn’t be bothered to go to the kitchen to get it. The thick amber liquid burnt his throat as he gulped a mouthful, and he savoured the heat as it travelled down his chest. He sat down on the sofa and flopped his head back onto the headrest, perching the crystal glass on his abdomen.

How had he ended up with a delinquent son? Plenty of kids had divorced parents and made something of their lives, Christ he’d had to. Okay, so nobody expected Henry’s mother to die at thirty six, and he had to take some responsibility for not being the best father in the world, but whose fault was that? What bloke wants a kid at twenty? He was just having a good time with Alicia. Marriage and kids was well down the line, if ever.

He recalled with clarity the night she dropped the bombshell she was pregnant eighteen years earlier. It was etched on his mind as one of the biggest shocks of his young life. Until then, he’d been footloose and fancy free. Her announcement changed all that.

They were in a trendy cocktail bar and he’d asked her what she wanted to drink expecting her to go for an expensive cocktail, and she asked for a lime and soda. His antenna went up straight away. Alicia could drink, she was a good match for any bloke.

“Lime and soda?” he’d asked, “What’s up with you?”

“Get the drinks while I grab a seat, and then I’ll tell you.”

He honestly thought she’d eaten something and felt queasy. What a bloody shock when she told him she was eight weeks pregnant. He’d prayed it might be a false alarm, even though she’d done a test and it was positive. She’d given him some mumbo-jumbo about the contraceptive pill she’d been taking not working, but his cynical mind knew that wasn’t the case.

Alicia had trapped him.

He recalled the shame he felt when his father raged at him for being such a bloody fool for not wearing a condom, and did he not realise that women like Alicia would see the bigger picture. Wealth.

They’d hurriedly married, and on his wedding day he wanted to turn around and run. It felt like the biggest mistake of his life, and that had quickly become apparent during their first year of marriage. They were only kids themselves and certainly not ready to deal with the stresses of living together in the same house with a child. Prior to that, they’d only dated and hadn’t spent much time in each other’s company. They were so young.

The marriage must have been the fastest one on record, and the only good thing that had come out of their union, was the absolute certainty he was never going down that road again. So, since the divorce, women were compartmentalised in his life and that’s the way he liked it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it and saw his brother’s name come up.

“Hi, Vic.”

“Hi. I’ve had J on the phone.”

Dylan knew who he meant. He and Vic never discussed names of anyone on the phone. Their business was too delicate for intruder’s ears.

“What the hell’s he doing calling?”

“Getting twitchy.”

“What’s new?”

“Yeah, I know. He wants the merchandise offloading sooner rather than later.”

“Did you tell him we’re not ready?”

“I’ve told him exactly that.”

“Why’s he getting twitchy now, for Christ’s sake?”

“He just is, but don’t worry, we’re not going to be rushed.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“We call the shots, not him. I’ve warned him not to ring anymore, and I’ll be in touch with him when we’re ready.”

“Too bloody right.”

“We can talk more on Friday, are we still on for dinner?”

“Sure.”

“Good. How’s Henry?”

“Sulking.”

“You collected him then?”

“Yep. Tempting though it was to leave him at the clinic, I didn’t fancy paying another grand for his so-called in-house therapy.”

“I don’t blame you, at least he’s home.”

“Yeah, and I’ve given him the gypsy’s warning, any more crap and he’ll be out on his ear. And I mean it, Vic. He’s bloody stupid getting involved in drugs.”

“Hopefully he won’t anymore. He’s been through a lot with his mother dying; it’s not been that long.”

“Yeah, well, we all have shit to deal with.”

“Cut him some slack, Dyl, I’m sure he’ll behave himself now.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ve told him to try and get some sort of apprenticeship. He refuses to discuss college. Come to think of it, he doesn’t discuss very much at all.”

“Give him time. He’s got his autism to deal with, it can’t be easy.”

“Autism? As far as I can see that’s just bullshit for being a sullen and awkward little git.”

“Yeah, you could be right,” Vic sympathised, “but he does have some odd tendencies, and his behaviour is strange at times.”

“You’re telling me. He gets on my bloody nerves skulking around the house all the time.”

“Give him a break. Can’t you remember being an awkward seventeen-year-old and not really fitting in? I can.”

“I tell you what, Mr Sympathetic, how about he stays at yours and you can parent him?”

“No thanks, matey, kids have never been on my agenda.”

“No, me neither, but it looks like I’m stuck with one.” He checked his watch. “Listen, I’m going to have to get off, Vic, I’ve got a date.”

“Probably just what you need now, to relieve some of that tension.”

“You could be right there, bro,” he laughed, “cheers, see you Friday.”

“See ya.”

 

Dylan drained the last of the whisky and made his way upstairs to his bathroom. He discarded his clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the therapeutic massage jets on, welcoming the warm water cascading down his body.

Right now, a fuck was exactly what he needed to relieve the tension, and he’d get a good one with no-strings-Ingrid. It suited him that she was married as he didn’t need to engage in all the usual clap trap of wining and dining her to get her into bed, or spending heaps of money on her. They met occasionally for a drink, but being married meant she couldn’t get away that often. And he saw her at the gallery every day, so they had plenty of opportunities to screw.

Guilt wasn’t an emotion that affected him, he was an opportunist, and it wasn’t his fault her husband couldn’t get it up. He was more than happy to oblige. Ingrid was fit for her age, and always gagging for it. In fact, he hardly had to work at it, she was like a dog on heat.

But even with on-tap sex, he was bored and yearned for something different. A contrast from his usual choices, maybe a woman who wasn’t fixated on how she looked, how much food she ate, or if she was wearing the latest designer outfit.

What would it be like to have a decent conversation with a woman not fawning over him because he was Dylan Rider.

Did such a woman exist?

He vigorously rubbed the shower gel over his torso and underneath his arms.

Nah, they were all the same.