“Shut up, Michael,” his father ordered, “or I swear to God—”
What Michael’s father was about to swear the world would never know as Griffin raised a hand and snapped his fingers loudly in Michael’s father’s face.
The snap actually shut Michael’s father up momentarily.
“Don’t do that,” Griffin said in a tone of casual menace. “Don’t tell him to shut up. Bad things will happen to people who don’t treat Mick the way he deserves.”
“Don’t you dare tell me how to talk to my son. My f**ked-up, sick son.”
Michael flinched at his father’s words. And next to him his mother also flinched.
“Ken, please,” Michael’s mother began. “Let’s stay calm and talk about this. We’ve always known Michael wasn’t—”
“Normal?” his father said. “Obviously not. And it’s your fault, Melissa. You let him grow his hair long. You kept him out of Catholic school. You coddled him. Turned him into a goddamn fa—”
Michael and his mother again flinched in unison as Griffin quickly and efficiently put Michael’s father into the wall. His shoulder hit the tile with a dull thud.
“Griffin, don’t,” Michael pleaded, not wanting the cops to come.
But Griffin didn’t pay any heed. He put his hand in the center of Michael’s father’s chest and held him against the wall, pinned like an insect in a shadowbox.
“I told you bad things happen when people don’t treat Mick nicely,” Griffin said, stepping up to Michael’s father and eyeing him menacingly. “I love your son. And I’ll break you if you ever even look at him sideways again. Your ‘not normal’ son is the most talented untrained artist I’ve ever seen. He’s intelligent, an amazing skater, has a great sense of humor and is the kindest, most humble person I’ve ever met. I’m so in love with him I can’t even think straight. Which is fine since obviously I’m not straight. And neither is he. Anyway, I’m rambling. I do that sometimes. Hard to shut me up. The point is…” Griffin said, and pointed hard at Michael’s father’s chest, hard enough the tip of his finger would certainly leave a small round bruise. “Your opinions on…everything really, are not welcome here. Michael’s fine. I’m taking care of him now. Shoo.”
With both hands, Griffin made a dismissive gesture as if Michael’s father were simply a fly or a feral cat hanging about.
“That is my son.” Michael’s father stabbed an angry finger in Michael’s direction.
“He’s my property.”
“Your what?”
Michael cringed outwardly even as his heart fluttered inside. Being claimed as Griffin’s property spoke to him on the deepest levels.
“My. Property. He belongs to me. Completely by his choice. And you are no longer relevant in this equation,” Griffin continued. “You make him feel bad. Ergo you are not allowed to ever be in his presence until such a time comes as you can control your insecurities enough to keep your mouth shut around Michael.”
“I’ve been paying to keep him in food and clothing with a roof over his head since the day he was born.”
“Money?” Griffin stood up straighter. “This is about money? Money I have. How much do you want for him?”
“Excuse me?” Michael’s father repeated.
“How much do you want for your son? I’ll write you a check right now to buy you out of his life forever.”
“Griffin, don’t give him a penny.” The words came out without warning. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
He doesn’t deserve it. Had Michael actually said that out loud? Before he would have said, or at least thought, I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you spending a penny on me. But Griffin valued him so highly, treated him like the rarest and most precious possession…Michael started to think maybe he was.
“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” Griffin said, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out his wallet. “But you deserve a life without him. Didn’t you tell me he keeps a running total of the child support he’s paid out on the checks? Where are we? What’s the total?”
“Griffin…” Michael begged.
“Forty-two thousand, three-hundred dollars,” Michael’s mother said in a loud, clear voice, her eyes locked onto Griffin’s. “And if I had the money, I’d give it all back to him to get rid of him too.”
Michael watched as Griffin’s and his mother’s eyes met. Something passed between them that Michael saw but didn’t understand.
“Let’s round it up. Fifty thousand?” Griffin grabbed Michael’s father by the shoulder and turned him around, pushing his chest into the wall. Then using his back as a flat surface, Griffin filled out his check. “I’m feeling generous. We’ll make it sixty-nine thousand. I just love writing 69s. I’ll even put that in the memo. For sixty-nining your beautiful son.”
Griffin spun Michael’s father back around, ripped out the check and stuffed it in his father’s pocket.
“I’m good for it,” Griffin said. “Aren’t I, Mick? Didn’t you say this guy here worked in a stock brokerage?”
Michael nodded. “At Hamilton’s.”
“Nice,” Griffin said in approval. “My father is John Fiske. Heard of him?”