Cherished (Steel Brothers Saga 17)

But those thoughts have to wait. I’m a master of burying things, and I bury this now. It doesn’t change anything.

I’m going to face Floyd alone. I’ve done enough opening up to Ashley for now.

“All right.” Ashley finally relents. “Be careful, please. Driving, I mean.”

I chuckle softly. “I’ve been driving for twenty years.”

“I know, but you’re upset.”

“I’m not that upset.” Not a lie at all. I’m feeling… I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I can’t think about my father and what he went through. As for Floyd… It’s an odd sensation to know that one of the two people who made you is dead. When it first happened, I was only ten, and I didn’t think about it in those terms. Now? My last link to my body will be gone from earth soon.

The emotion is bleak but not sad. I’d likely feel much worse if Floyd had ever been a true father to me.

“Just come back to me,” Ashley says. “Promise?”

I haven’t been able to promise her anything beyond the next two months, but I can promise this.

“I’ll be back,” I say. “Count on it.”

“He doesn’t have much time,” the nurse says. “Try not to upset him.”

“I have no intention of upsetting him. He called me here. He’s the one who says he needs to talk to me.”

“I understand, just—”

I whisk past her and into Floyd’s ICU room. An aide stands next to him, checking his vitals. I clear my throat, and she turns.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to see the patient.”

“Okay. I’m just finishing up here.” She makes some notes, walks to the door, and sets the chart in its place.

Floyd Jolly is pale, his eyes barely open. He looks like he’s dying. Which he is, literally. He doesn’t look my way. Does he remember that he asked to see me?

So I’m surprised when I hear his voice.

“Come, Dale. Sit down.”

A chair sits on the other side of his bed. I walk to it slowly and sit. He still hasn’t looked at me.

“I’m here,” I say. “What do you want?”

Still, he looks straight ahead. “I’m dying.”

“I know.”

He grunts.

Did he expect me to say I’m sorry? That I wish he weren’t dying? I simply have no feelings on the matter. None.

“Why did you want to see me?”

“Can you call me Dad?” he asks. “Just once?”

Really? This is why he called me here? To play the father card?

“No, I can’t.”

“Please, just once.”

My father—my real father—would tell me to do it. To give him his dying wish. But I’m not letting Floyd off the hook that easily.

“Why me?” I demand. “Why not your other son? My brother? Or why not one of the other kids you probably fathered and then abandoned?”

He doesn’t reply.

We sit in silence for a few minutes that seem like years until he finally speaks again.

“I haven’t asked you for anything,” he says. “You have all the money in the world, and I haven’t asked you for a penny. I could have used it.”

“You speak the truth,” I admit, “but I don’t owe you anything either.”

“You owe me your life.”

Shit. Really? My father said that to me after Floyd’s heart attack. It’s the truth, of course, but I’m not buying. “So you had a climax inside my mother at the right time. You made me. She had a significant part in it as well, and she stuck around. There’s a hell of a lot more to being a father than fertilizing an egg.”

A few more moments of silence, and I’m about ready to stand and leave when—

“Please.”

“For fuck’s sake.” I push my hand through my hair. “Fine. Dad. You satisfied now?”

A gurgling sound, and then he produces a sputtering cough. I’m about ready to call the nurse when he stops.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem. You want to tell me why I’m here now?”

“Yes. There’s a reason why I tried to find you and your brother, and it wasn’t about your money.”

“All right. I’ll give you that much. Though my dad paid for your rehab.”

“He did, and I appreciate it. I told him he didn’t have to. Turns out I spent all of a day there.”

“My father is a great man. The kind of man you’ll never be. He takes care of people who matter to him.”

“And I matter to him?”

“Apparently.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yes. I know that. I believe I just said it. None of this is why I’m here. Let’s get on with it.”

“I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Which is a good reason for getting on with it.” My voice is tight, full of tension. Yes, I should be sympathetic to the fact that Floyd is dying, but I can’t bring myself to be.

“I had an uncle,” he says.

“Yeah? I have three uncles. Great.”

“It’s difficult for me to talk. Just let me get it out. Please.”

I huff. “Fine.”

“I had an uncle. My father’s brother. Your great-uncle. His name was Frederick Jolly.”