Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“Mom is dead. Will you cut me some slack?”
He yells when I abruptly pull the car over at the side of the road. Turning to him, I sit up taller, glaring down. He shrinks in his chair. He’s too tall, too strong to be behaving like this.
“What did I tell you after she passed?” I snarl.
“D-Dad…”
“Tell me,” I snap, hating the fact my own son seems frightened of me. I’ve never hit him. I’ve taken out men who’ve laid their hands on their kids many times. I’ve never bullied him. He’s just soft. “James.”
“To never use it as an excuse,” he mutters. “It will make me weak. It will turn me into a victim, and I can’t afford to be a victim. There are too many bad people in the world.”
“Exactly,” I snap.
He softens, eyes glistening. “You’re not a bad person, Dad. So why can’t I be weak with you?”
I don’t have a good answer for that. I’ve never been the lovey type. I try my best. I say the right words, but when it comes to that deep emotional connection, if anything, I try to avoid it. Feeling might mean bringing it all back, the stuff I’ve seen, the absolute inhumanity of humanity.
Ignoring his question—I’m not a good man—I pull away from the sidewalk. I turn on the radio. We drive, saying nothing else.
My mind goes to Samantha, her youthful eyes, her just-about-tamed hair, and her wide hips. My mind goes to an impossible future: Samantha waking me on a lazy Sunday morning, our children laughing from deeper in the house, and the smell of bacon tickling my nose. A life I never imagined I could have.
We’re almost home when my cell phone rings.
“Would you answer that, son?”
“Okay, Dad.”
He often does this when I call him son. Once, he told me I was trying artificially to create a father-son dynamic way too late. The worst part is I can’t exactly tell him he’s wrong. He takes my phone from the glove compartment and puts it on speaker.
“Mr. Jacobson?” the man says. “It’s Charles Malone.”
“Good to hear from you,” I tell the private investigator.
“I thought you’d want to know. I’ve got a lead on the van and a description of the driver. He pawned it off at a chop shop soon after the kidnapping. My thinking is these fellas, they steal a vehicle, use it for a few jobs, then send it to the chop shop for some extra dough.”
“How much?” I ask.
He laughs. “Beat me to it. To chase down this lead, I will need to call in some old favors with my buddies in blue. Five should cut it.”
“Half now, half after you give me something concrete.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll send the funds. Keep working. Don’t sleep if you can help it. If you need manpower, day or night, you call me.”
“Something tells me you’re not afraid of a fight, Mr. Jacobson.”
It’s worse than that, I almost tell him. I’m waiting for one.
After hanging up, James quietly says, “I hope they find him, Dad.”
I reach over, wondering if this is what regular fathers do, those without emotional holes in their chests. I touch his shoulder. “If they’d taken you, I wouldn’t stop,” I tell him. “I’d turn this city over. I’d kill an entire army. Remember that.”
It’s all true. Despite a man’s personal feelings, it’s his duty to protect his family. I’d do it for James just as I would for my and Samantha’s children.
CHAPTER FIVE
Samantha
I don’t have to wonder if I’m asexual anymore. As I drive home, my body is sizzling. My core burns hotly to the point I want to press my legs together tightly, my sex aching, my belly warm and tingly. When Fletcher walked quickly across the lot, my entire life changed configuration.
The constellation of me would never be the same again. His hair glistened as he approached. He was wearing a T-shirt and faded blue jeans; the clothes hung off his huge build. His piercing blue eyes stared deeply and protectively into me when he grabbed James and spun him around.
It was true, what I told Fletcher. I said no, and James had begun to back off with genuine concern in his eyes, but Fletcher didn’t see that or care. When he spun his son around, he looked shocked for a moment. Did he think it was somebody else? Was he that keen to protect me?
I try to tell myself it had nothing to do with me specifically. He would’ve helped any woman he thought was in danger. The conversation after, even if we didn’t really say anything, had a glow of intimacy my conversations rarely do. No, never do.
Maybe it’s all one-sided, but as I drive toward the suburbs, my clit feels crazy sensitive. It rubs hotly against my panties. I don’t masturbate much. Now and then, I will, mainly to see if I can enjoy it, but I never think about anybody specific, just vague, faceless steaminess.