Chapter 46 (Breslin)
My nostrils fill with the unpleasant odor of what I know is a filthy and unkempt trailer and I hold my breath, knowing the worst is yet to come.
Hands shaking with both rage and sadness, I muster up some tenacity and push open the front door. The fact that it's almost midnight and he didn't even bother to lock it speaks volumes.
When I finally step a foot inside, I see it's even worse than I thought it would be. Empty beer cans and liquor bottles litter the already dirty floor and when I swivel my gaze around, I see a few broken crack pipes and used needles covering various tables and chairs.
If hopelessness and despair were tangible manifestations. It would be this.
The thought is almost enough to make me forget why I came here. Almost.
“Virginia,” my father's slurred voice bellows from the back of the trailer. “Get your ass over here. I'll pay Johnny what I owe him tomorrow. Unless you want half of this here eight-ball.”
Wow, he must have a fondness for her. Lord knows he never shares his stash. Something I know from all the countless times I've had to clean his cuts and scrapes after his drug buddies beat the shit out of him for hogging the party as they called it.
My stomach rolls as I start walking toward the bedroom. I wish I could say it's the first and only time that my father's mistaken me for one of his hookers, but it's not.
Deciding it's better not to walk in given he's waiting for his whore, I still myself. “It's Breslin.”
There's nothing but silence for the better part of a minute and then, “Breslin?”
“Yeah, Breslin. You know, your daughter,” I say through clenched teeth.
A sigh of frustration passes my lips and I suddenly regret coming here. I mean, what was the point?
The point is to stand up to him—I remind myself. Confront him and move on with your life.
“Quit your hollering,” he grumbles, staggering out of the bedroom. “I know who you are.” His bloodshot eyes narrow. “Someone who can't bother to pick up the phone for her father anymore.”
“Me? You were the one who blocked my number.”
He barges past me, heading for the kitchen. “I did not.” He opens the fridge and grabs a beer. “Tried calling you a few times when I was late on the bills.”
All I can do is stare at him. It's like watching a car crash happen right before your very eyes...only I've watched this same car crash so many times I've practically become desensitized to it.
And for the first time in my life, I don't want to be the good Samaritan who tries to help him. I want to walk on by without a second thought.
God, I used to feel so bad for this man. My heart hurt for him because I knew how much he missed my mother after she left us. But now I'm realizing that heartbreak and bitterness can only excuse so much bad behavior.
As much as I hate to admit it, I know Preston was right about my father leaking Asher's video, and holy hell that hurts, because why in the world would he ever do something like that?
Not to Asher...but to me? His own daughter.
My body shakes with nerves but I steel myself. I need to hear him admit it or I'm afraid I'll keep making excuses for him instead of doing what I came here to do.
“Dad?” My voice cracks because it's the last time I'll ever utter that name again, and after this conversation; I'll have lost both my parents.
Who am I kidding? I've had a ghost for a father for as long as I can remember. I'm just finally acknowledging it.
He pauses mid-sip. “What?”
I draw in the biggest breath that I can...and then I rip the bandage off. “Did you or did you not help Kyle Sinclair set up Asher Holden?”
For a fraction of a second, I see surprise flash in his eyes, but then he just shrugs. Shrugs like it was no big deal that he wrecked Asher's life and mine. “Yeah, but I done fucked that up. Should have brought the dang video to that big wig father of his like we were supposed to. Would have gotten more money from him instead of that loony Kyle.”
I don't even know where to begin with that statement because all I can feel is my blood boiling like a volcano.
I take a step toward him, limbs trembling because I need someplace to put all this new-found rage that I have for him. “How could you do that to me?”
He leans against the counter, scowling. “Stop being so dramatic. I was doing you a favor.” His scowl grows. “Turns out an even bigger one than I thought on account of him turning out to be a fag and all. Least you can do is say thank you.”
“You want a thank you for ruining my life?” I slam my hand on the countertop, the anger simmering beneath the surface bubbling. “You know how much I loved him. You know how much it destroyed me when we broke up. How could you stand by for years and watch me spend every ounce of energy hating someone who didn't deserve it?” I swallow the lump forming in my throat when it hits me. For over three years I've been capsuled in acrimony because I couldn't let go of all the pain and bitterness. “How could you let me become you?”
His expression is so malevolent I rear back in surprise. This is the most emotion this man has ever shown me.
“Like I said, I was doing you a favor. That boy was gonna leave your ass the second they put a diploma in his hand and he found out there were better things out there than you. Just like your mama left us.”
I can't help myself, the words are already rising up my throat in one big swell of indignation. “My mother didn't leave us...she left you.”
The blow from his hand across my cheek has me stumbling back. “Don't you ever say that again,” he grunts, right before he deals his next blow. The sting from that slap is even sharper this time around, but I stand tall and look him right in the eyes. I've never felt so resolved about anything in my life and I'm done being his punching bag. I'm done with him blaming me for why she left when the real reason is looking right at me.
“She gave me her paint set,” I say, jabbing myself in the chest. “She left me a note telling me to always chase my dreams. She cared about me. She didn't love you anymore.”
His mouth drops open but I'm not done yet. Not even close. “And why should she, huh?” I look around the trailer. “You're a pathetic waste of a human being. You were a shitty husband, a horrible provider, and the world's worst father.”
I get close to his face, the stench of alcohol and rotting teeth permeating my nostrils. “You didn't deserve her love and you sure as hell don't deserve mine anymore. As far as I'm concerned you're dead to me.”
It all happens so quickly I don't even have time to process it. In one fell swoop, my back is smashed against the dirty counter, sending a slew of empty beer bottles crashing to the floor.
“You fucking bitch,” he sneers, squeezing my throat so hard white spots form in front of my eyes. I try and push him off me but I can't, his grip is too strong and I'm becoming lightheaded.
Oh, God. This is it. I'm gonna die right here in this godforsaken trailer by the hands of a man who never once loved me.
I scratch and claw at his fingers, desperate for oxygen but that only makes him tighten his hold. “I kept you when she didn't want you. I—”
He doesn't get to finish that statement because Asher yanks him off me. I briefly wonder what the hell he's doing here but I'm too busy taking air into my lungs and watching him beat the living shit out of my father.
My father tries to shove him off, but it's no use, Asher's not letting up. He rams his fists into his face, throwing so many punches that if I blink I'll miss a few.
Finally, he pauses, but only so he can sneer, “I swear to fuck I'm gonna kill you, you worthless piece of shit,” before he punches him so hard my father spits out what's left of his teeth.
I've never in my entire life seen him or anyone else so angry. But as indebted as I am to him for coming to my rescue, I can't let Asher kill him. My father's taken enough from him already, I won't let him ruin his future.
“Asher, stop,” I yell, when I see the blood pouring down my father's face and hear him start to gurgle.
Asher doesn't hear me, though. Or if he does, he doesn't care because he keeps at it, making my father his personal piñata.
I have no choice but to grab one of his arms and scream his name at the top of my lungs. “Asher, it's over. It's done.”
He shakes his head, his breathing erratic, his knuckles oozing. The look in his eyes is so disturbing and maniacal it sends a shiver up my spine.
“Asher, please.”
We stare at one another for several heart stopping beats and I silently plead with him, until, at last; he stands up—but not before giving the man who's curled up in a fetal position on the floor one last glance. “You ever contact her again...I will finish what I started.”
With that, he takes my hand and leads me out the front door.
For the first time in my life...I don't look back.