Waiting at the train station was like waiting for my court hearing all over again. I was nervous to the point of almost being physically sick.

Mr Barese had very generously loaned me his car. His face when I’d asked, when I’d told him why I’d needed it, was enough to break my heart. He’d frowned and nodded without so much as a word.

He knew how I felt about my old man.

He knew how much I never wanted him to come home.

But the thing was, it was his home. He’d said Pops’d be able to claim a better pension if the house wasn’t in his name, and so in good faith, Pops’d signed the deeds over to him. As it turned out, he did get a better pension, my father didn’t lie about that. It just meant Dad held all the cards.

He owned the house, which in his sick and twisted way of thinkin’ meant he owned us. And if I was bein’ honest, I guess he did.

I wasn’t like my brothers, though. Where they’d all jumped when he said how high, they did it out of respect. They idolised him. Thought his words were gospel, thought his way of living was the only way.

The reason I obeyed every order wasn’t out of respect. It was fear. As much as I tried to pretend otherwise, I was shit scared of my old man.

Him being out on parole put a stop to everything I was trying to do. All I wanted to do was keep my head down and stay outta trouble. I wanted normal. Not that ‘normal’ was a mould I’d ever fit into, given the fact I wasn’t ever gonna find myself a girl and settle down. A guy, maybe . . .

And that was the root of my problem with my old man. Not that he knew I was into guys, not that he could ever know⁠—no one could ever know⁠—but with him being home again, I was back to being someone else. I’d always had to pretend around him. Pretend to be tough like him, pretend not to care like him. I just had to pretend to be like him. Jesus, if he ever found out that the only bar I went to was HQ . . . well, let’s just say it wouldn’t end well for me. It’d be a beating I doubt I’d survive.

So, with my father out of jail, I was forced back into the Davis frame of mind. To act like, to be like everyone expected a Davis to be like. That fucking name followed me around like a cursed shadow.

I just hoped he wouldn’t be out long. It was, after all, only inevitable that he’d get tossed back in jail at some point. The question was, how miserable would he make our lives in the meantime? And for how long?

The train pulled into the station and my stomach curdled. There was no putting this off. I strode over to where other people were waiting, and a few people got off the train first. Happy, normally dressed, clean and tidy, greeted by smiling family and friends with hugs and warm hellos.

I watched them and wondered what it was like to be normal. To have a happy family. None of these people seemed to be dreading their family or friends’ arrival. I watched them as they laughed, linked arms, and walked off to a life of happiness.

A life so very different to mine.

A thud at my feet made me turn. And there he stood. My father. God, he looked old. It’d been four years since I’d seen him, but those four years had not been kind. His hair was now more grey than black, his face was drawn and hardened. His eyes were still the dull black they’d always been, and his smile was more menacing than kind. He had even less teeth now, and his dirty white singlet did little to hide his prison tattoos.

“Hey boy,” he said, punching me on the arm. He kicked the small bag he’d dropped at my feet. “Pick that up, will ya?”

I grabbed his bag and turned toward the car park. “This way.”

“Man, it’s so fucking good to be out,” he said, way too loudly. A woman close-by with a small kid shot me a dirty look, and I cringed. I swore every now then, but never in front of kids or ladies.

“Keep your voice down,” I said.

Now, four years ago, I’d have never questioned him or spoke out of turn. Ever. But I wasn’t that kid anymore. Sure, I was scared of him, of the meanness he was capable of, but I was older now. Things were different now.

He clearly didn’t like it. He slowed his strut and tried to bore holes into the side of my head with his eyes. “I can say whatever the fuck I want.”

“You want the cops to come?”

He grumbled something I couldn’t make out and then, “Fuck the cops.”

Just great. This was going to be bad. On the bright side, with this fuck-everyone attitude, he wouldn’t be out long.

I stopped at Mr Barese’s car. “Del loaned me his car to come get you,” I said, throwing his bag into the backseat. “On the condition that no one smoke in it.”

My father looked at me like I’d told him he had to donate a kidney. “Don’t see no bars on the windows,” he said, tapping the passenger window. “It’s not a fucking jail, is it?”

I sighed. “If you want a cigarette, have it now before we get in. It’s no big deal.” What I wanted to say was ‘show some goddamn respect,’ but I kept that to myself. My father respected nobody and nothing.

He held his hand out over the bonnet of the car. “Gimme your smokes. If you won’t let me smoke in the car, the least you can do is gimme a fucking cigarette.”

I fished out my ciggies and considered throwing him the whole pack, but I knew I wouldn’t get them back. So I walked around to his side and offered him a single cigarette, and needing one myself, I leaned against the car and had a cigarette with my dad.

Nothing like quality family-bonding time.

“How is Barese going anyway?” he asked, looking at the cigarette like it wasn’t good enough for him. “The fat old fuck.”

“He’s going good. Business is a bit slow though.”

He took a harsh drag and blew it out his nose. “How many days you doin’ there now?”

“Three.” I don’t know why it bothered me to tell him that. Probably because his first thought would be how much money that worked out to be, which to my old man, equalled cigarettes and alcohol. Before he could ask me to buy him either, I quickly changed the subject. “Pops isn’t doin’ so great. His lungs are shit.” Not that he’d even asked about him.

“Ah, the old bastard’s too miserable to die.”

Nice. Really fucking nice.

I took a final drag of my cigarette, dropped it to the road, and trod on it. “You good to go?”

“Yeah,” he said brightly. “Can’t wait to get home.”

I walked back around to the driver’s side thinking home was the very last place I wanted to take him.

He spoke nearly the whole way home, telling stories of his time inside, making out like he was some kind of hero. I didn’t believe a word of it. When I didn’t laugh at something that wasn’t funny, he whacked my shoulder. “What crawled up your arse and died?” he asked.

“What?”

“I’da thought you’d be glad your old man was home, but you ain’t even tryin’ to smile.”

“Nah, it’s all good. Course I’m glad you’re home,” I lied.

Easily pleased, he smiled out the window. “Jesus, this town hasn’t changed.”

Well, the town hadn’t. But I had. At least I was trying to. “Some things are different,” I hedged.

He shot me a look. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“You can’t smoke in the house.”

He stared, that cold, hard glare.

“It’s no good for Pops. His lungs can’t handle the smoke.”

My father stared at me all the way from the railway lines to the house. I could feel his stare burning into the side of my head. But I wasn’t turning to look at him. No way. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when we’d been inside the house long enough for him to grunt a hello at Pops when he took out a cigarette and put it between his lips, stared at me like ‘whatcha gonna do about it?’ then lit it.

“I asked you not to do that,” I said.

He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and smirked. “It’s my house. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do in m’ own house, boy.”

Anger bubbled in my chest, but just before I could speak, Pops put his hand on my arm. “It’s fine, CJ. Not worth fightin’ over.”

“It’s not worth you gettin’ sick over either.”

Pops waved his hand like it didn’t matter. When really, it mattered a whole lot.

“I gotta get Mr Barese’s car back to him,” I said, walking out. Goddammit. He’d been home less than a minute, and I already didn’t want to be there.

“Bring me back something t’ eat,” my old man called out.

I pretended not to hear. It was better than telling him to fuck off. Safer, anyway.

* * *

Mr Barese took one look at me and sighed. “I take it he’s home.”

I nodded. “Yeah. And he hasn’t changed. If anything, he’s even more of an arsehole now than he ever was.”

“You come and stay with me,” he said, concern on his face.

“I can’t leave Pops.”

Mr Barese sighed heavily. “I figured you’d say as much.”

“Anyway, thanks again for the loan of the car.” I handed him his keys. “I really appreciate it.”

“I know you do.” He looked around the shop. “Hey, can you help me for a minute? I got some paperwork to finish up and the floor in here needs a sweep and the tools could use a clean . . .” He was already walking into his office, not waiting for a reply. I knew what he was doing, keeping me away from the house for as long as he could.

I picked up the broom and swept the already clean floor, then started wiping down all the wrenches, ratchets, and sockets, and when that was done, I tidied the few spare parts we kept. I didn’t realise it had gotten late until Mr Barese lowered the old metal roller door at the front. “You right to work tomorrow?” he asked, sliding the lock into place. “We got the O’Malleys’ Cruiser in for a check-over tomorrow.”

“Oh, for sure.” I wasn’t rostered on but I would always come in if we had a car in the shop.

He nodded his head toward his car. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

The sun was getting low and I knew the house’d be getting cool, so with a reluctant sigh, I nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” I left the ‘can’t put it off forever’ unsaid.

The house looked as it always did. Silent and peaceful, though I knew that would change the second I walked through the door. Mr Barese gave me a kind smile. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again,” I said.

“Hey,” he said before I could get out. “If you need somewhere to stay . . .”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

But I got out and he waited for a long second before he drove off, and by the time I got to the front door, he was gone. Taking a deep breath, I went inside.

My old man was sitting in the comfy recliner⁠—Pops’ seat⁠—watching some shit on TV with a stubby of beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. God fucking dammit. “Where’s Pops?”

He shrugged and Pops’ answered from the kitchen. “In here, CJ.”

I headed straight for the kitchen and Pops was sitting on one of the old, hard wooden chairs at the table. He hated sitting there, even just to eat. The chairs were too hard on his bony frame. I pointed to the lounge room and whispered, “He’s in your seat and he’s smoking inside!”

Pops waved his hand. “It’s all right.” But he was wheezing, and I wondered if they’d argued.

“He treatin’ you okay?”

Pops nodded but couldn’t lie for shit.

And the rage bubbled a little bit more.

“I’ll start dinner in a sec,” I said, louder this time so Dad didn’t think we were talking about him and come in. I looked at Pops again. “Stay here. You can keep me company while I get some veggies started.”

I went into his room and pulled his pillow and blanket off his bed. I put the pillow in his seat for him, then wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Once he was settled, I went into the lounge room and opened the fire door. It had almost gone out, but with a few bits of kindling and some old cardboard, it soon took. I put a bigger piece on, opened the air vent, and shut the door.

“You could have kept the fire going,” I said, talking to my father but not looking at him. “And that’s Pops’ chair. He needs to stay warm and he watches his soaps at this time.”

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact. I just stood up and walked back into the kitchen. I thought he might follow me in and give me a touch up for telling him what to do, but he didn’t.

He never said a word. And that was kinda worse.

At least when he was yellin’ and throwin’ things and punchin’ people, you knew what was coming. But him being quiet was like not knowing. And not knowing was walking on eggshells.

Fear. The bastard thrived on it.

Once I was pretty sure he wasn’t gonna follow me into the kitchen and give me a shove for speaking to him like that, I stood at the sink peeling veggies, telling Pops how Mr Barese needed me to work for a bit, which was why I was late. I told him I had to work again tomorrow and he asked a few questions, and when I looked over at him, he smiled at me.

He was my fucking saviour.

When dinner was cooked, I plated it up. “Dinner’s ready.”

My father appeared in the doorway. “What am I eating?”

“You’re having steak. Pops and me are having rissoles.”

I’m pretty sure most people would feel bad that they were eating expensive food while everyone else wasn’t, but he just grinned. He tapped the side of my face. “Good lad.” Then he grabbed my ear and pulled it, which I’m sure was the payback for the way I’d spoken to him earlier. I pulled my head back out of his grasp and pulled my chair out. I didn’t want to fight with him, but I was done with being touched up by him. I wasn’t a kid no more. If he really wanted a fight, he’d get one.

But I sat down and said nothing, for Pops’ sake, not mine.

Dad ate his steak, though I didn’t know how he managed to chew it given his lack of teeth. He clanked his plate with his knife and fork, shovelled food in, chewed with his mouth open, and breathed through his nose while he ate. His manners were fit for a cell-block mess hall. It was disgusting.

Pops gave me a smile. “Tastes good, CJ.”

“Thanks, Pops.”

Dad grunted, in appreciation or disgust, I couldn’t tell.

We finished our dinner in silence, then to my surprise, my father took our empty plates to the sink. “S’pose it’s the least I could do,” he said, then proceeded to wash up.

I stared at Pops, he stared at me, and I shrugged. But I surely wasn’t going to argue. “Come on, Pops. I’ll get you into your chair.”

He nodded and I took his blanket and pillow while he walked into the lounge room. When he was seated, I fell into the old sofa and watched some crap on TV. Soon afterwards, Dad came back with a beer in his hand and sat beside me. “Thanks for cleanin’ up,” I said.

He grunted in reply and took a swig of his beer.

It was awkward, and I kept waiting for him to say something horrible or to punch my arm and order me off the couch. He did neither, which was unsettling.

“So, how ’bout we head into town tomorrow night,” he said after a while. “Have a few drinks, find some women . . .”

Oh God. “Uh, how will we get there?” We didn’t have a car and I certainly wasn’t doubling him in on my dirt bike.

“When’s the last bus leave?”

“Four.”

“That’ll do.”

“I work till five.”

“Leave early.”

He truly had no concept of what a job was. “I can’t.”

“Sure ya can. Just tell Barese you’re goin’ out with your old man.”

“He needs me there till five, Dad. I can’t just leave him.”

He gave me a filthy look. “You prefer to make him happy? Or me?”

“I prefer not to piss off the guy who pays me money. You know, for food and bills. That kind of shit.”

He glared at the TV like he was two seconds away from gettin’ up and puttin’ his foot through it, so I quickly tried to smooth it over. “If you catch the bus in, I can meet you later. I’ll ride my bike when it’s dark so the cops won’t see me.” And just pray they don’t catch me.

“How’ll we get home again?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. We can figure that out later.”

Finally he smiled. “All right.”

I let out a slow, relieved breath. “Okay then, well I’m going to bed. Gotta get up early.” It didn’t matter it wasn’t even seven o’clock, I just needed to get out of the room.

I almost made it to the hall when Dad said, “Gonna need some cash, boy. Just how much is old Barese payin’ ya?”

And there it was. There was no way he could ever know about the money I was saving. If he found it, he’d bleed me dry. “He pays okay, given I ain’t qualified for nothin’.” I figured that said enough without sayin’ too much. I pulled my wallet out and gave him the two tenners I had in there. “That’ll get you into town and a few beers till I get there.”

He snatched the two ten-dollar notes from me and took an obvious look in my wallet to make sure there was nothing else in it. “Gonna need more than twenty bucks,” he said, “but it’s a start.”

I bit my tongue and patted Pops on the shoulder. “You right, Pops?”

“Yep. See ya in the morning.”

“Night,” I said as I left the room. I stripped down to my briefs and undershirt and climbed into bed. I stared at the ceiling with a heavy ache in my belly for what must have been hours. I never heard a word between Dad and Pops, and I doubted they spoke at all. Pops went to bed a little while after me and I fell asleep before I heard the TV turn off. Whether Dad passed out on the couch or not, I didn’t know.

I didn’t care.

When I woke up, it was still dark. I opened my door as quietly as I could and went to the bathroom. The sound of loud snoring from Dad’s bedroom was as much a relief as it was annoying. It meant he was out cold. So, knowing I had some time, I went back into my room. Keeping an ear out for his snoring, I quietly lifted my wardrobe away from the wall far enough to reveal the hole that’d been punched through the gyprock.

Who was responsible for the hole, I didn’t know. One of my brothers, or more than likely my dad, probably during a fight with one of my brothers. I don’t remember it specifically, so I must have been young when it happened. But it left a perfect fist-sized hole, which I’d made big enough so I could hide stuff in there. Not that I expected Pops to ever go snooping or to steal from me, but old habits died hard. And now my old man was back home, I was glad I did.

A small Weet-Bix box fit just perfect and sat on the wall stud below the hole. I pulled it out as quietly as I could, stopped, and listened . . . He was still snoring. Inside the box I had money stashed. Two hundred and forty dollars. It wasn’t much, but it was my entire savings. I’d squirrelled away every spare dollar I could, not knowing what emergency might crop up. Or maybe to start life over somewhere; me and Pops could disappear and Dad would never find us.

I knew I was due to get paid tomorrow⁠—Mr Barese always paid on Fridays⁠—so I didn’t need to take any from my stash. But I would sometimes just take it out and look at it, like it was some kind of security blanket. In many ways, it was.

Dad was still snoring, so I quietly put the box back and silently lifted the wardrobe back against the wall. I pulled on my jeans and a flannelette shirt and threw a small log into the fire. There were enough embers to salvage it, so I closed the door and set about making Pops some breakfast.

The sound of the kettle whistling and the smell of toast cooking usually brought Pops out of his room. “Morning, CJ.”

“Hey, Pops. Sleep okay?”

“Yep. You?”

I let the sound of the snoring be my answer and added a shrug. Pops got it. He knew all too well. “You’re a good kid, CJ.”

“’Cause I had you lookin’ after me,” I said and handed him his cup of tea. “I’d hate to think what would’ve happened otherwise.”

“You’d have been just fine,” he answered.

We both knew that wasn’t true.

The toast popped and I buttered it and spread some marmalade on it. “Here ya go. I gotta get to work early, so at least I’ll know you’ve had something to eat today.”

“I ain’t completely useless,” he said, but he took the plate of toast with a grateful smile.

“I know. Just like to look after ya.”

“I know you do.”

I sipped my tea and waited for my toast to cook; all the while the snoring never stopped. Thank God. I was hoping to get out of the house before he woke up.

“You gonna make yourself scarce every day he’s home?” Pops asked.

The toast popped up and I took my time buttering it before I sat across from him at the small table. “I don’t wanna leave you here with him . . .”

Pops waved his hand. “Don’t you worry about me. I figure he’ll start spending more and more time in town. Nothing happens here and it’ll drive him crazy soon enough.”

“I hope so.” I bit into my toast. “What do ya make of him washing up last night?”

Pops let out a wheezy-chuckle. “Didn’t know he knew how. Must have taught him something in jail.”

I laughed just as the snoring from the bedroom became a snore-choke-snort that was followed by silence, which meant he’d be waking up soon. I shoved my toast in my mouth and washed it down with my tea. In a quick trip to the bathroom, I scrubbed my face, shaved way too quickly, sprayed some deodorant, and brushed my teeth. Then back in my room, I pulled on socks and grabbed my jacket and put on my boots.

I was going to make a dash for the front door but decided to put some more wood on the fire, and no sooner had I opened the fire door, when I heard the toilet flush.

Great.

I stoked the fire up and closed the vent, just as Dad walked in. “You’re off early,” he said grumpily.

“Yeah, busy day.” I stood up from the fire and dusted off my hands. “Uh, if you could bring in some firewood today from the pile out the back, that’d be great.”

He glared.

I tried to smile. “There’s bread for toast and the kettle’s not long boiled. Enjoy your first full day of freedom.” I was going for enthusiastic but I didn’t think he bought it. “See ya, Pops,” I called out and headed for the door.

“Leave your bike,” Dad said.

I stopped and turned back to face him. “What for?”

“I ain’t fucking walking to the bus stop. I’ll ride it to your work in time for the bus. Then you can ride it into town.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just walked into the kitchen like his word was final.

Just great.

I wanted to scream but settled for slamming the door behind me instead.

And so I walked to work, marching to the beat of ‘fuck him’ with every step. I’d burned off my anger as I walked, and by the time I got to the shop and with the help of a few cigarettes, I’d calmed right down.

Mr Barese left me alone most of the day. I guess he knew when I needed space, and he gave it. I worked on O’Malleys’ Cruiser, finding the problem was the alternator. The belt was almost frayed through, so I replaced that too, added some oil, coolant, and topped up the windscreen wiper fluid.

Mr Barese made me stop for lunch. Like every day, his wife Maria brought in some beef sandwiches and an apple for both of us. I knew he was going to ask about my old man, and I was grateful he’d left it till our lunch was done. “How’s things at home?” he hedged.

I shrugged. “Yeah, all right. Dad’s gonna drop my bike off before he catches the bus. Can you do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

“Can you not pay me till after he’s been in?”

He nodded, knowingly. “Of course.”

And sure enough, a few hours later, my old man didn’t surprise me. I heard my bike coming down the road before I saw it, and that nervous dread churned the food in my stomach. He pulled up on the bike, kicked the stand down, and swung his leg over. He wore a smile that was supposed to be friendly, but it only chilled me to my core.

“Nice ride,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Who’d ya flog it from?”

“I didn’t steal it. I paid for it.” I’d saved so hard for it too, not that he’d care.

He laughed like something was funny. “Headin’ into town early. Gotta register at the dole office. Fuckers better pay me some money.”

I looked around quickly, hoping Mr Barese⁠—or worse, a customer⁠—didn’t hear him swear. Thankfully it didn’t look like it.

Dad held out his hand “Gimme your wallet.”

God, he would never change.

I fished my wallet out of my pocket and handed it over. He was checking that I wasn’t holding out on him, hiding anything from him. He could look all he liked; my wallet was empty. For this very reason.

He slapped it to my chest and sneered at me. “Ain’t been paid yet.”

I took my wallet. “Not yet.” I nodded to the Cruiser I’d been working on. “I better get back to work or I’ll be late to meet you in town.”

He lifted his chin in some kind of nod of defiance. “Meet me at the Federal.”

“Sure thing.”

Jesus. The Federal Hotel was a dump. Full of no-hopers, losers, and druggos. I guess on the bright side, if he was gonna slot back in with that crowd, he wouldn’t be out of jail for long.

Thank God he did come in early, because not long after, a familiar government car pulled up. I stayed on the creeper trolley underneath the car I was working on and watched Noah get out of his car. I could only see his shoes and his pants from the knees down, but it was definitely him. He walked up to the Cruiser I was under, his feet just a metre from me, then bent over to look at me. He gave me an upside-down smile. “It’d help if you were trying to hide from me not to have your legs sticking out the side.”

Grabbing the undercarriage of the Cruiser, I wheeled myself out. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“Oh, really?”

“Avoiding, maybe.”

He laughed, and it was weird . . . I liked how it sounded. I dunno what it was about him, but there was something I didn’t want to examine too closely, scared of what I might find. I looked down at his empty hands. “No folder today?”

“Nah. Thought I’d give it a miss.”

Figurin’ I could use a smoke, I took out my ciggies and nodded to the back roller door. He followed and waited for me to light one up. “Nice day anyway,” he said, lookin’ upward.

I took a long drag. “Really? We’re gonna talk about the weather?”

He chuckled and his eyes did some weird crinklin’ thing that made my stomach clench in an unfamiliar way. In a good way. “Small talk. I suck at it.”

“Yeah, you do.” I took another drag of my cigarette. “Can’t you just say what needs sayin’?”

“Conversation never killed anyone.”

“Unless they died of boredom.”

“Am I boring you to death?”

I had to shove my cigarette in between my lips to stop from smiling. “Dunno. How long you plan on talking?”

He laughed and leaned against the back wall of the shop. He didn’t look like a parole officer. He looked nothin’ of the sort. He seemed kinda stuck for words for a while, then he turned to me. One eye was squinting from the sun. “How’s your week been?”

I took another long drag of my smoke. Jesus, that was a loaded question. “My week’s been kinda shit actually, thanks for asking.”

He frowned. “Anything I can help you with?”

I snorted out a laugh. “Uh, no. Thanks.”

He stared out over the creek for a bit, chewin’ on his lip and thinking. My cigarette was almost down to the butt before he spoke. “So, I uh . . . read your case file.”

I took a final drag and flicked the butt toward the creek. “And?”

“Can I ask you something?”

We both knew damn well he was gonna ask me anyway. “No.”

“Your school records show no graduation date.”

“Because I didn’t finish.” Hell, I barely even started. I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with anyone, but especially not with him. I didn’t know why it mattered, but I didn’t want him to think I was a loser.

A Davis.

“CJ, there’s nothing wrong with not being able to read.”

I stared at him. “Fuck you.”

He ignored that. “I can help you learn, to read, that is. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

What the fuck would he know? I pointed my finger at him, right in his face. “Fuck. You.”

He batted my hand away. “Stop with the attitude.”

Then it happened. I made the mistake of pushing his hand, then he grabbed mine. I never started a fight in my life, but I sure as hell knew how to give as good as I got. I shoved him, and he shoved me back. He was taller than me by a few inches, but I grabbed his arm and he grabbed my overalls, and in a push and shove, he rammed me against the outside wall. He held me with his body, rough and strong. He wasn’t a pen-pushing desk jockey. He was a brawler, he knew how to handle himself, and goddammit, he knew how to handle me. His strength, his heat, and his smell⁠—deodorant or aftershave⁠—and he pinned me against the wall. I couldn’t help it. I looked at the fire in his eyes, the pink of his lips, and I was one second away from grabbing the back of his head and kissing him.

But in that split second, I saw it, in his eyes, on his face. Recognition. His eyes went wide, he let go of my shirt, and he smiled.

Fuck! A warning bell went off in my head. Too late. Too fucking late. He knew. He knew already, and the look on his face made me want to run. The opposite of my father; his instinct was to fight. Mine was flight. I took off, running alongside the outside of the shop. I needed to escape, to get away from him and the fact that he knew.

I ran, but he was fast. Faster than me. “Hey, CJ, stop!” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. My back was at the wall and he stood in front of me, not caging me in, but not lettin’ me move either.

“Don’t run from me.”

Fight kicked in again and I grabbed his jacket, but there was no resistance this time. He let me grab him. “Fuck you.”

“CJ, it’s okay.”

No, it’s not. It’s so very far from it. “Fuck. You.”

“CJ. It’s okay.”

I shook my head and let go of his jacket. “You don’t know me.”

He took a step back and let out a nervous breath. “Maybe not. CJ, I won’t tell anyone.”

I played stupid. “Won’t tell anyone what?”

“Anything.” He let out an almighty sigh and ran one hand through his hair. “I just want to talk.”

“Well, I’m busy. I got work to do. You’ve seen me at work. You don’t need nothin’ else.” I pushed off the wall and walked back to the roller door, my heart hammering.

“CJ, stop!”

I didn’t stop.

“I’ll need to speak to Mr Barese.”

I kept on walking and said, “You do what you gotta do.” When I got back inside, I cranked up the volume on the small radio, slid back under the Cruiser, and did my very best to try and calm the hell down. After a while, I watched as Noah’s feet walked to Mr Barese’s office door. I couldn’t hear anything⁠—the music was too loud⁠—but he spoke to Mr Barese for about five minutes before he came back out. He stood at the end of the Cruiser, as though he wanted to speak to me but didn’t know what to say.

My heart hammered for every second he stood there, and I couldn’t breathe. But then he turned and walked away, back to his car. I didn’t know if I was glad or disappointed.

I had to get him out of my head.

I had four weeks of my parole sentence left. That was it. I had just four weeks to avoid Noah Huxley at all costs. The fact he was my parole officer made that damn near impossible. The fact I didn’t know what I wanted more just five minutes ago⁠—to punch him or for him to kiss me⁠—didn’t help.

God, he smelt so damn good.

Four weeks. I just had to get through the next four weeks without Noah Huxley ruining my life.