More by Sloan Parker (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

something I never planned to give to anyone. Not ever again.

Until then, I let them distract me.

I hadn't even given my father much thought. I still surveyed my surroundings when I went anywhere. I still planned out different routes to and from work. I just didn't let it consume my every thought.

Right after my concentration recalled where I'd left off with my code review, the phone rang again. The stupid, blissful grin spread across my face. I didn't even glace at the caller ID. I had the phone in my hand in a flash. “Did you change your mind on the ravioli?”

“Excuse me?”

I held my breath. That voice. Not Matthew's. It held more familiarity. Even if I hadn't heard it in years.

“Luke, is that you?”

I gulped in a mouthful of air and forced myself to take in another before speaking. “Yeah.”

“How are you, son?” His tone belied the concerned words.

“Fine.”

“Let's not bother with the small talk, shall we?”

“Why are you calling? I already know your men were in my apartment.”

“I'd like to see you. Today. For lunch.”

“Why?”

“Can you come or not? Believe me, I won't keep you long.”

Believe me, I won't stay long. “Where? What time?”

I arrived at Seymour's Diner fifteen minutes early. My father wouldn't be there yet. The man never arrived anywhere before the arranged time— being early was for the insecure. He was never a minute late— being late was for the inept.

I gave my name to the hostess, and she seated me in the back. My father had chosen well. I counted nine patrons scattered about the retro metal tables and red vinyl booths. Most were elderly men and woman— divided into duos by fate or boredom or stupidity— who scrutinized their coffee cups and not much else. Perhaps they'd talked themselves out or covered every last possible topic years ago.

I ordered a cup of coffee and picked up a menu. Food wasn't an option, but my hands wanted something to do. I glanced over the choices and the diner lingo— items like Zeppelins in a Fog and Dough Well Done with Cow to Cover— amused me. Did people really order that way? Or was it all for show?

I tucked the menu behind the napkin dispenser, leaned back, and eyed the front of the diner.

My father strolled through the door at twelve-thirty. He skulked his way around tables and chairs and sat without a nod or word of hello. The scent of his cologne drifted across the table. Fifteen years and he still wore the same damn shit, the same style of suit, the same stupid look of arrogance.

But the man had aged. White hair— instead of the dark brown he sported when I'd last seen him— edged a pale, gaunt face. Visible lines surrounded his eyes. His legs didn't bend as they should with each step. The stiff walk gave him the look of a man who didn't trust the ground under his feet.

Did the old man sitting before me represent what I'd look like someday— hard and ragged, an empty shell of a man?

I opened my mouth, and he raised a hand to silence me. Two men in suits cleared a nearby table of an elderly couple. It took several minutes for the old man to help his wife slide across the booth and swing her legs out from under the table. Once she had her feet under her, my father's men shuffled them off to a booth farther away.

“Let's be frank, shall we?” he said.

“Fine by me.”

“I need to know what you've been up to. To be ready to deflect any negative press.”

He wasn't asking about my work or my voting record. He wanted to know about my sex life. I pressed my shoulder blades into the seat and folded my arms across my chest. My fingernails burrowed into the shirtsleeves covering my biceps. “Why now? You've been in Congress for how long? Why am I an issue now?”

“Answer the damn question. If the press was to investigate your life, what would it find?”

“Oh, Dad, the stories I could tell you. Well, this weekend, I was chained up in a basement and fucked by two guys.”

“Jesus, Luke.” He raked his fingers through his hair, and his face paled more. He glanced around the room. “I don't even want to know if that's true.”

I shrugged. “You asked. I thought you wanted to know what might cause negative press. Wouldn't me tied up, begging for sex from two guys I barely know give you cause for concern?”

“I can see there are things in your life I have to be worried about. Tell me, do you go to any clubs or other sex places? Where people might see you? Take pictures?”

“Wouldn't you love to see pictures? I could probably arrange something.”

“Don't be a shit.” He banged his fist on the table. The two sets of neatly arranged silverware momentarily took flight and clattered as they landed in disarray. The coffee in my cup sloshed and spilled over each side. “Tell me what I'm up against.”

“Well, you're the one who's having me followed. What have you learned?”

“I wouldn't have to have someone watch you if I thought you could be trusted to live a civilized life. I know about that disgusting place you go to. I know you haven't been home in several days. Do I even want to know where you've been staying?”

“Do you think I'm going to tell you? No, Dad. You couldn't understand my life if you tried. Don't worry. I'll stay off the radar. I won't talk to the press. I won't come to see you or Mom. Hell, I won't even vote in the next goddamn election.”

“I would expect nothing less. I'm more worried about something getting out you have no control over.”

“If I have no control over it, then you don't either.”

“We'll see. I warn you, son, do not mess with me. Or I'll make your life miserable.”

“How am I messing with you? I don't talk to you. I don't see