Fight Dirty (Black Rose Kisses 1)

Dad reaches up and drags fingers through his hair, his gaze darting around the empty lot like he half expects someone else to step out. He seems jumpier than usual, his hair a little longer and stubble on his jaw, and I can only imagine what he’s been through these past several weeks.

The urge to run to him is still strong, and I keep ignoring it. If this works out and Sloan does something to help, then we’ll be together soon anyway. I just have to be patient.

“I can’t do it,” Dad says. He’s far enough away that I have to strain to hear his words, but even from this distance, I can pick out the exhaustion and fear in his voice. He laughs, but there’s no humor in it at all. “I’ve been trying, believe me, I’ve been trying. But I haven’t been able to do it. I need more time.”

Sloan stands perfectly still, gazing at my dad and listening. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, then he sighs. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Yeah. I know it wasn’t. I’m just telling you where I stand. I can get it done with more time, I think, but right now…”

Dad trails off, and his posture seems to get a little more hunched.

It makes me angry to see it. My dad has never been the type to let life beat him down. Even losing my mom, the love of his life, didn’t knock him down for very long. His heart never fully recovered, but he threw himself into taking care of me, making sure I had everything I could ever need or want, and working his ass off to take care of us both.

He was always laughing and teasing. Even with just the two of us, the house never felt empty or dull. There was so much laughter and love.

The man in front of me though? He seems like a stranger. Like my dad if he aged ten years overnight and lost that strength to his spine.

He seems… broken.

And there’s nothing I can do to protect him from it.

“Come on, Sloan,” I whisper inaudibly, more just moving my lips than anything.

I stare a hole into the side of his head, willing him to do something, offer some solution. Anything that will help. Even granting Dad more time so we can figure something out.

The way Sloan is standing, I can only make out his profile, but his expression makes it look like he’s sorting through the options in his head. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’s going to say.

But in the end,

he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans and aims it right at my dad.

Time seems to slow down.

There’s no time for Dad to react, and Sloan’s face is impassive. I feel like I can’t breathe or move or do anything, frozen in place as Sloan pulls the trigger.

Not once, not twice, but three times in quick succession.

The gunshots echo around us, shattering the silence. There’s no one around to hear them though. No one but us.

I watch as my dad’s body jerks, each of the bullets hitting him with brutal force. Blood blooms and stains the shirt he’s wearing, marking the places where he’s been shot. There’s no sound, but I feel it all the way through my body when he collapses, dropping to his knees and then crumpling to the pavement in a heap.

Sloan just stands there for a second, not moving, gun still raised, staring down at my dad’s body. My heart lurches into my throat, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, stuck still, trying to remember how to breathe.

After a few more seconds pass, Sloan finally moves. He grabs my dad by the ankles and starts dragging him to the car, lifting his body with a grunt of effort so he can dump it in the trunk.

He slams the trunk closed and then hops back in the car, peeling out of the lot and driving away.

It takes another couple of minutes for me to do anything other than stand with my hand pressed against the brick of the building beside me, staring after the car in shock. I feel cold and numb, and the last of the evening light starts to bleed away as I stand there.

Something urges me to move, so I do, running across the street and dropping to my knees in front of the spot where my dad fell. Blood stains the pavement, stark and red and impossible to look away from, even in the dying light.

I stare at the spot until my vision starts to blur with tears. There’s a wheezing sound in my ears, and it takes me a second to realize it’s me. My breathing is coming out in shallow gasps as I start to hyperventilate.

I can’t even put a name to what I’m feeling, alternating between numb shock and some fucked up cocktail of every other negative emotion.

He’s dead.