Spent - Part Three (Bad Boy Fighter Book 3) (6 page)

“Don’t worry, Richards. I won’t file any charges against your little lady’s old man. You’re lucky, really. I could probably get a nice settlement out of this all, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m such a nice guy.”

“You better get the fuck out of my way,” Luke practically growls. He’s angry, far angrier than I’ve ever seen him before. This time for once, it’s more frightening than sexy.

“Hey man,” Stewart waves Luke off, “I’m not looking for a fight. You should calm down a little. But damn, it is
nice
to see the old Luke back.”
 

He turns to face me, “You see now sweetie, the
old
Luke always had that ferocious look in his eyes, just looking for someone to rip apart. Much like an unwanted dog, really.”

For a moment, time stands still. The air around us comes to a sudden stop. Everything about Luke says he’s going to beat the living hell out of Stewart. I’ve never been afraid of Luke before, but now, I have no idea what he’s going to do. I honestly don’t know what he’s truly capable of, but I know that his body is a sheer powerhouse of muscle and anger right now, and that he could probably hurt Stewart beyond repair.

And I’m afraid. Afraid that I want him to hurt him, and I’m aware that I want to leap forward and slap him myself again like that day in the locker room, and yet I know he’s goading us on purpose, hoping we’ll commit an act he can use against us. I glance towards the arena parking lot security cameras and wonder if they are on.

“Have a good life, Stewart,” Luke mutters, as he pulls me beside him and begins walking towards our car.

I can finally breathe again, as time begins to move. My head is spinning from the intensity of the moment. Deep down inside, pride begins to blossom within me as I realize my boyfriend managed to reel in every ounce of his anger and turn the other cheek.

Turning my head, I look back to see Stewart’s expression. He looks dumbfounded, with his mouth gaping open. It was obvious he was looking for a fight and perhaps to file a criminal charge against us, as one final blow in ruining everything Luke and I have.
 

I smile at the frustrated grimace Stewart fails to hide before turning my focus back to the car. This whole night has been insane, but as we step away from the confrontation, I’m finally beginning to feel like some justice is being served against those who have done me wrong, even if that justice was conducted in the most subtle of ways.

***

“What in the hell were you thinking?” I ask my father.

“You deserve justice,
mija
,” he replies as best as he can, despite his swollen lip.

“I deserve a lot of things, but you’ve never been willing to give them to me,” I mutter, bitterness laced through every word.

“I know,” my father nods his head, “I know, Natasha. But for once, I thought I could do something right by you. I thought I could bring you justice by finding the man that hurt you.”

I shake my head, “How did you even know who attacked me?”

My father looks up at me with tired eyes, “I asked every police officer I could find to tell me, but none would. So I find out you are writing for the school paper. I read all of your work and about these men who fight. You write well. It was all very good by the way.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard a compliment from my father since I can remember but I don’t respond and he continues.

“So this Baltimore venue here appears often in your articles, and the way you had been hurt… well the person that did it was brutal like this… this kind of aggressive fighting,” Beto sighs.
 

“So I came here and asked every person I could find if they knew anything about what had happened. One man… he tells me the one who you had named was this Baptiste, but that the trainer had him placed elsewhere that night.”

I watched my father’s expression harden.

“My daughter is no liar. So this tells me everything. That’s when I found this Stewart… this
bendejo
.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, “You should have left it alone, Papa. He could have killed you. And if Mike hadn’t been there…”

A gentle smile eases across my father’s face, “It would have been a good way to die, knowing that I had finally done something good for my little girl.”

I turn back around and slump against my seat in the passenger side. Glancing over at Luke, I see his wide-eyed and contemplative expression. I realize that’s probably how I look right now as well. I have no idea how to respond to any of this. It’s as if my father has taken on a whole different perspective on life, one that doesn’t revolve entirely around him. It’s weird, confusing, and most screwed up of all, it’s planting a little bit of hope inside of me that maybe he’s actually changed.

Silence follows us for a time, until Luke takes a random exit off the Interstate 95. I look over at him, but he seems to have a plan.

“Beto, we’re going to take you to a hotel,” Luke mutters.
 

My father waves him off, “No need for that. I can sleep where I’ve been staying at.”

“Mom told me you were at a homeless shelter,” I reply.

“Yes. It’s ok, nice people. It’s near the hospital you were at,” my father says with slight embarrassment tinged in his voice.

“You’re staying at a hotel, Beto, and you’re not going to argue with me,” Luke says firmly.

I inhale sharply. Any moment now, my father will blow up at Luke. There is no way he would allow someone younger than him speak to him like that. At least, the man my father used to be wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. But as the seconds pass by, and my father doesn’t say or do anything, I begin to realize that he won’t. I don’t know what to think of all of this, but I do know that I have to tell my Mom about everything that has transpired as soon as daylight arrives.

Luke steers the car into the Laurel West Holiday Inn. We’re less than 10 miles away from our house, but I assume Luke wanted to keep my father far enough away from our College Park home that he won’t randomly show up at our door. Luke turns off the car and climbs out.

“You two stay here while I get a room,” he says without looking back at us.

Once Luke closes the door, it’s just my father and I, alone together for the first time in years. The little girl that was once deathly afraid of him begins to creep back into my body, sending a chill through my body despite the comfortable morning temperature.

My father just glances down at his fingers, as if he doesn’t know what to say. That’s a first. Used to be he would never shut up. But then again, there have been a lot of little surprises since my father walked back into my life.

“So,” I’m the first to break the silence, “What’s your plans?”

Beto sighs, “I’m dying, Tasha.”

The air seems to disappear from the car. I stare back at my father. It’s far too early in the morning for my brain to process something this deep. As my mouth opens to say something, the driver door opens.

“All set, Beto,” Luke mutters as he tosses a set of keys back to my father, “You’re checked in for a week. There’s plenty of places to eat within walking distance, or you can do delivery.”

Luke fishes out his wallet and pulls some cash out, “Here’s some money for food,” Luke hands my father the cash, then stares at him intently, “After the week is up, I want you out of town, unless Tasha says otherwise. Do you understand me?”

My father nods, “I’m glad she has you,” he opens his door and climbs out of the car, “Thank you for taking care of my daughter.”

Luke nods, but doesn’t say anything as he climbs back into the car. My father walks away from us and towards the rooms. I notice that it’s probably the first time I’ve never seen him stagger as he walked. I shake my head, unable to decide what I should think about the supposed ‘new man’ my father has become.

“You okay?” Luke asks as he turns on the car.

“He said he’s dying,” I whisper.

Luke arches an eyebrow, “Do you believe him?”

I sigh, “I think I do, actually.”

“So, what do you want to do about him?”

I turn and look out the window, “What would you do?”

Silence follows us for a few seconds as Luke tries to work out a reasonable answer. A lazy response would be, ‘It’s your dad, do what you want,’ but Luke doesn’t do simple responses. Everything comes from the heart with him and I’ve learned to just give him his time while he thinks over his words.  

Finally, his lips part, “I would do almost anything to be able to talk to either one of my parents again. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

“I guess I have a week to decide if I want a father or not.”

“Do you really think Luke will care where all those pictures go?” I grumble at my mother.

“No, but I care,” she winks at me as she returns her attention back to the picture she’s trying to hang in a particular spot.

I sigh. I had no intentions of having her come over here and help me decorate mine and Luke’s new home, but when I accidentally let it slip about the fiasco at the arena with my Dad, Mom insisted. When she finally realized I wasn’t in the mood for her interrogation, she decided to help me decorate instead. I am beginning to think that I would have rather put up with the questioning.

“Ah, finished!” Mom declares as she steps back and takes a look at the pictures on the wall, “Now, to tackle Luke’s gear.”

I roll my eyes, “Usually he just throws it all in a corner. Or he’ll leave a trail as he strips on his way to the bathroom.”

For most women, the nuisance of having your man strip all of his clothes off and leave them throughout the house would probably piss them off. However, when your man is well endowed, ridiculously handsome, and gets paid to be completely ripped, you suddenly don’t care so much about where he discards his clothes.

My mom gives me a wayward glance, “That’s ridiculous now that you two have such a big place. He can at least put his things in one of the closets.”

“But he won’t,” I mutter to myself, as I humor my mom by gathering us some of Luke’s things to put away properly.

As we make our way towards the master bedroom, I can tell my mom has something on her mind. I silently debate with myself whether or not I should ask her what’s wrong, knowing that it’s probably something I don’t really want to talk about.

“So,” she begins, “Have you talked to him again?”

“Talk to who?” I already know who she means.

“Your father,” my mom whispers, as if my father might hear her if she was to speak any louder.

“Not since the night we left him at the hotel.”

“Are you going to call him?” She asks as she places the things she was carrying onto the floor.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You know, Tash,” My mom begins as she sits down on mine and Luke’s bed, “I think he does love you. He’s just really screwed up in his way of showing it.”

“I know he does,” I sigh, tossing Luke’s gear down beside her pile, “But that doesn’t mean I have to accept him.”

“You’re right,” Mom nods, “It doesn’t. I only wish I had tried harder.”

I arch an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

My mom swallows and takes in a breath, “After his accident, he was just never the same. I should have tried harder to get him into some sort of pain management therapy,” her eyes begin to blink rapidly as she tries to ward off tears, “But he was just so damn stubborn.”

I think about this and realize that I was far too young to process much about the crash at the time. I do remember being scared and confused that my dad was hurt, the hospital visits and the difference in my father afterwards.

“Mom,” I sit down beside her, placing my hand gently against her trembling back, “You did everything you could. He could have gotten the help himself. The settlement after his car wreck would have covered it. But, instead, he chose to drink his problems away.”

“Yes, yes,” my mom nods her head, tears running down her face, “But looking back now, I know there was more that I could have done. I was just so overwhelmed and you know, younger, and I had you to care for. I couldn’t take care of him, too. I didn’t want to.”

“No one blames you, Mom,” I empathize, feeling her deep sadness and guilt, “It was a long time ago and you did the best that you could.”

“I loved him, a lot. But he started turning into someone that was not the man I married.”

“I know, Mom, I know,” I rub her back, trying my best to keep my composure, “He lost himself, and us, when he chose to not get help. He did that. Besides, you have Vince now.”

She smiles through her tears, “Yeah, Vince is great, isn’t he?”

“He is so great,” I smile.

I’ve always admired my stepdad for stepping in and taking care of us when my mom and I were at our lowest. He did his best to make me feel like I was his, but as is often the case in these situations, something was missing. No matter how many times Vince would attend my basketball games, or help me with my math homework, I still always felt he could never truly bridge the void that only my biological father could.

“I just,” Mom sighs, “I just don’t want your father to die and you two never making peace with one another.”