“I told you, my kids have a mind of their own. Their own little agendas so to speak.” I hold my hands up to block him away, ’cause he’s standing very close to me now.
“Am I such a bad father to give them what they want?” A cruciferous fishy smell fans from his mouth … pungent and fermented … as if he ate anchovies with sauerkraut and broccoli. Not something they will turn into any perfume soon.
“And what do they want?” I whisper while I try not to gag.
“You know how young people are … love drives them crazy.” I’m thinking here that in this case, they don’t need love for that … they’re deranged all by their brainsick selves – but I keep it to myself.
“My son fell head over heels for you. He’s been planning on making you his bride for years now. Nothing wrong with that, is there?” Yeah, perfectly normal. “I would love to have Miranda’s little girl as my daughter-in-law.” What if Miranda’s little girl doesn’t agree?
“He also has issues with the biker …” My heart stops. “But to me, he’s just collateral. I don’t even know his family.”
“As for my own little girl … well your brother offended her and stamped on her heart – over and over again. Fucker thinks he’s too good for her. She’s not taking it too well, so she wants him to pay.” Oh, this is just getting better and better. I feel as if I landed in some kind of overly melodramatic telenovela.
“Unfortunately my son stabbed the wrong twin.” Okay, so Enrique did the offending.
“And you’re okay with it?” He sighs deeply, piscatorial breath blowing over me.
“Not with the mistake, no. But he survived. Next time we will get it right. And I reckon sacrificing one out of five for the wellness of my daughter won’t disregard my obligation to your mother too much.” I’m wondering if everyone in this family is insane.
“You’re sick!” It seems as if his eyes flip over. He grabs me.
“I’m sick?” His nutty little laugh sends shivers down my spine – this might just be my last moment on earth.
“What do you call your father then? And the people that did this?” he motions to the scars, “See this scar here …” he points to a big cicatrix running over the whole of his forehead, “It’s where they flayed me, nearly peeling my face right off.” I’m trying to imagine how bad it must be getting skinned alive.
“Yeah, I get it. Life sucks golf balls. But you’re not the only one bad things happened to, so get over it.” I’m angry. And scared. “You already blew up my kooky grandfather … you got your revenge.”
“I wish,” he says through his teeth, his face close, too close. “Someone beat me to it. So far I haven’t killed anyone.” I can tell it’s the truth. He moves even closer, barricading me against the bricks behind me.
I bring up my leg, hard, and I get him. I get him right between his legs.
He doesn’t even flinch. WTF? Aren’t guys supposed to go down when you hit their jacks?
Well, not this guy, no it just flips him totally off his lid. His hand collides with my cheek and I fall, hitting my head against the corner of the table.
I shrink back and hunker against the raw bricks behind me. Something warm trickles down my temple. I swipe at it.
Blood.
“Don’t piss me off.” He jabs his finger in my face for emphasis. A lone tear trickles towards my chin, mixing with the blood to drip onto the gray sweater, turning it red.
Damion’s sweater. I grab the front of it, bundle it into my hand, and lift it to my nose. His scent replaces the stinky fish odor. At least I will think of him and not Nemo when I leave this life.
“Tell your uncle that I’m not playing around. He better get in touch with his brother. I’ll arrange a meeting. He will know the time and place soon.” He stretches out his hand to touch the wound on my head, but then he retracts it again.
Without another word he walks to the door, giving me one last pining look before he leaves. I lean back against the wall and pant in deep short breaths until my lungs are oxygenated and my legs can carry my weight.
The reality of what has happened hits me with sudden immorality, though it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.
I grab a cloth and push it against the wound, looking frantically around, wondering what to do. I run out and stand in the driveway, trying to think clearly while my head feels as if it’s split into two.
“Okay, Logan is with Damion on a plane, Ilkay and Axel are both working, Enrique is at the club, and Jackson doesn’t stay here – Axel uses his house while he prefers one of his many many other mansions. Which, by the way, he never invites us to. Stupid prick.
“Mel?” Speak of the devil and he shall come. I’m not sure from where he sprung, heaven or hell – I’m leaning toward the latter – but I silently thank both for hearing my prayers, just in case I’m wrong.
“Don’t look at the blood, just drive me to the hospital. I need my big brother.”
“What happened?” His gaze narrows in concern.
“Oh, Harry decided to visit.”
“Fuck!” Jackson has some anger issues, but right now, I need him not to lose it and run after Harry. ‘Cause he easily will. Probably kill him while he’s at it.
Sometimes I think he got some of the bad parts of our grandfather’s DNA. He can terrify the shit out of people.
“I’m okay. But I need you to stay calm.” He does just that. Stay deadly calm.
“Let’s go inside.” I frown. Should we not go to the hospital? “Ilkay is on his way for our date.” He chuckles. Male humor. But at least I understand now why he’s here and not in the place he calls home – wherever that may be.
“Fuck. You’re getting blood all over that hoody.” He peeps at my clothes while we walk into my house. “Is that Damion’s?”
“No,” I lie. It must have been a wild guess. It’s not as if Damion’s name is printed with large letters on the back or something.
He frowns as if he knows I’m lying. Which he probably does.
“I’m going to need some coffee for this one.” Jackson goes straight to the kitchen.
I phone Ilkay.
“Hi, bro,” I say when he answers, “Come straight to my house. There’s a cut on my head.”
“Shit. What did you do know?”
“Harry got into her house!” Jackson yells from afar as if he has sonic hearing and I cringe. Ilkay swears.
“I’m almost there.” And the phone goes dead.
“Here,” Jackson hands me a cup. “I’ve put in loads of sugar and cream.” He glimpses at the bloody rag I’m holding against the wound with one hand and goes pale.