Hate to Lose You

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” he barks.

The man holding the phone raises a single eyebrow, and extends the phone in my direction. I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

“Father,” I say through gritted teeth, not only because of the pain my injuries are causing me, but also because of the pain this is causing me. “It’s me.”

Okay, so maybe Daisy isn’t my only regret. I could have been smarter. Could have saved more money, stored some away rather than going on the spree I did through Vegas those first three years, blowing my cash on anything that caught my fancy. But I was a kid who’d never been allowed a childhood. I’d never overindulged, so I had no idea how to avoid crashing and burning.

Besides, the way down was fucking fun, even if it wound up with me on the run from debt collectors all across the continental U.S., finally fleeing in desperation to a sleepy little Southern bypass town, the kind nobody in their right mind would stop to look in twice.

At least, so I thought.

There’s a silence on the other end of the line for so long that I almost think I misjudged. Fuck. Maybe my get out of jail free card isn’t on the table anymore. Maybe I really did push him too far this time. Maybe they’ve already cut me out of their life, replaced me. Adopted one of those friends’ kids they were always fawning over, perhaps.

But then, finally, I hear a deep sigh, and my father says, “Bronson. What mess have you gotten yourself into?”

I scowl at the phone. He has no fucking clue. No idea where I’ve been for the past five years. So who is he to talk down to me about messes? “Nice to speak to you too, Dad.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” the phone crackles. “You knew this number. You could have used it at any time. Do you have any idea how worried your mother and I have been? If it weren’t for the private investigators we hired to trail you, we wouldn’t even have known you were alive.”

The bruiser holding the phone balls up one fist and gestures at me. The message is clear. Get to the point.

“Speaking of alive,” I reply, glaring at the man. “I am in a bit of a, uh… situation, at the moment.”

“Your gambling debts, I assume?”

I grit my teeth. But I’ll get angry about him following my every move later. For now, I need him on my side. I shut my eyes tight. “Some very nice men have come to collect,” I say. “And I’m afraid I’m fresh out of… well, any capital, at the moment.”

“How much?” my father asks.

For the first time, the bruiser holding the phone speaks up. “One and a half million.”

My head jerks upright at that figure. “Whoa, hold up,” I say, raising my voice. “I only owed you people a couple hundred thousand bucks last I checked.”

The bruiser shrugs one shoulder. “Interest.”

Over the phone, my father heaves a deep sigh. “Bronson, what have I always told you about negotiating interest rates upfront before you accept a loan?”

Accept a loan? What the hell is… “Father, these are fucking casino mafioso scum we’re talking about, do you really think they offered me a choice of interest rates?”

“What did you call us?” The bruiser takes a menacing step toward me, and I plaster on my most apologetic smile.

“Nothing personal, of course. I’m speaking about your bosses.”

His scowl fades, but only by a fraction. At least even in the underworld, you can always count on lower-level employees despising upper management.

“One and a half million dollars,” my father says slowly on the other end of the line.

My stomach sinks toward my feet. If he refuses to pay this for me, I am fucked. $200k, I might have been able to earn back on the run. I’ve been doing odd jobs for a few contacts I made back in Vegas, mostly helping them drop-ship a few semi-questionable items across various out-of-country borders. Virtually, of course. But one and a half million? I’ll never claw my way out from under debt like that. Not without my father’s help.

Fuck.

Then my father speaks again. “If I do this for you, Bronson…”

My heart soars back into my chest, and I can breathe again. But only for a second.

“Then you come home,” he says. “You move back to LA, you join the firm, and you take over the new wing we just founded. The way you should have been doing all along. You toe the line, you put your nose to the grindstone, and you work. Is that understood?”

I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see sparks behind them. But I already know the choice. It’s not a choice, not really. Somehow, my parents always manage to win our little games of chess. I managed to drag this one out longer than most, but in the end, they’ve got me in checkmate. They always do. “Understood,” I finally say, my voice a defeated whisper.

“I didn’t catch that,” my father barks.

I scowl at the phone. “I said understood, sir,” I shout, jaw clenched hard.

That’s when a new voice floats over the phone line. “There’s no need to get snarky with your father, Bronson,” my mother says, her voice as perfectly prim and proper as ever. “He’s trying to help you.”

“Hi, Stacey,” I reply.

“Sweetie, we’re so glad you’re coming home to us. We can’t wait to see you. We left your room just the way it was when you departed. Everything the way you like it.”

You mean everything the way I’ve hated it all along.

“I’m having my secretary buy you a flight out here now,” my father is saying. “Atlanta airport is the closest, yes?”

Was there anything he didn’t know all along? I don’t answer. I just scowl at the phone.

The bruiser talks for me. “Kid’s not going anywhere until we get our payment,” he says.

“The money should already be in your boss’s hands,” my father replies smoothly. “I sent over an emergency wire transfer while we were speaking.”

He didn’t even wait for me to agree to his terms. But at the same time, I know I can’t complain. This move has saved my ass. And more than that, it will get these thugs to leave Daisy the hell alone. The least I can do is avoid dragging her into this mess.

“Bronson, you’ll need to leave now if you want to make your flight,” Father breaks in again. “I’m sending a car to pick you up; can I have the address?”

I sink back onto my heels as the bruiser tells my father to hold on, and starts to stomp up the staircase, presumably to check with his partner if it’s actually okay to release me.

“Hold on a moment,” Father says, when the guy is almost at the top of the steps. “Bronson?”

“Present,” I shout, eyes narrowed.

“One more thing. You aren’t to speak to anyone about this. My investigator tells me you’ve been seeing a local girl—it will be best to leave her in the dark about the situation. If you know what’s good for her.”

The thug smirks at me, at that, and my stomach sinks once more. For once, I’ve finally found something my father and I agree upon.