My mind goes back to thinking of Killian. Tall, dark, brooding, and drop-dead sexy Killian. He set me on edge. Danger rolled off him in waves. Still, there was something about him that called to me, and I got the feeling it’s against his nature to harm a woman.
“You'll be safe with me, little one.”
His words echo in my head as my insides tremble. I have no doubt that with him standing by me, nothing was going to happen. It reminds me of Red Riding Hood standing next to the wolf. No one is going to worry about the girl standing next to a beast. The wolf in the story isn't the good guy, and I’m not delusional. I’m sure that Killian O’Leary isn’t exactly good either. Still, I’m worried about him. They’re plotting to blindside him. Something about that, inexplicably, doesn’t sit well with me.
If my father crosses him and gets caught, it's going to be trouble. I'm stuck between wanting my dad not to get hurt and Killian not to go down for whatever it is they have planned. I try to keep listening to the one-sided conversation, but nothing specific comes of my spying.
I hear him tell the person on the phone that he will talk to them later, and I quickly scramble back to what I’m supposed to be doing. I rush to make his plate, piling on the food to appease him. I made meatloaf and mashed potatoes with some corn. It's his favorite meal. I want to warm him up, so maybe I can get him to talk about what he's planning—mostly to talk him out of it. My heart races with the possibilities of how he will react. He's been acting extra hateful lately. There are times I’ve been afraid of him and that has me on guard constantly.
I know he gambles his money away. He refuses to acknowledge it to me. It makes me wonder why he's talking like we are about to hit the jackpot. I wanted to believe it was self-delusion about hitting a gambling jackpot. If all the clues I’m getting from this conversation and the small things he says are true, no one will win. It won’t matter how it goes down. Crossing Killian O’Leary won’t be good. If my father thinks that money will pull him from the holes he’s dug, he’s wrong. That money will be tainted—and probably mean his death and maybe mine. I’m praying a belly full of food will help soften Dad and make it easier to talk to him.
"Smells good, Belle girl," he says, pulling out a chair and plopping his lean frame down in it.
"I made meatloaf," I murmur, putting a plate down in front of him.
"Now, this is how a girl is supposed to treat her father," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Get me a beer," he orders as he digs in. Inside, I’m muttering because he could totally get his own beer, but I ignore it and get him one out of the fridge—going as far as to pop the top and setting it next to him.
I put together a small plate knowing I won't eat much with my stomach somersaulting. A million questions are running through my head after hearing his phone call. Plus, I need to save the leftovers for him for the next day or two. Once again, my tips didn't go as far as I wanted them to. This was a splurge and that makes grocery money very tight. If we don't eat his way, he will just fill my days with complaints of what I'm not doing as his daughter.
I sit down beside him at the table, my hands already shaking as I pick up my fork, taking tiny bites as I debate how to approach things.
"How's work?" I ask, trying for nonchalance, but my voice comes out small. He doesn't even look up as he's shoveling food into his mouth.
"Fine. This job, Belle, is going to be huge!" he brags, grinning as he chews.
"I…I…uh…overheard you," I stammer, not looking up from my plate as I push food around. “I'm worried about you.”
"It's not your place to worry about me."
“You’re my father. I care about you. I can’t help but worry,” I counter.
“I take care of myself and my family. I’m the reason there’s food on our table and we eat the way we do, right?”
Wow.
“I work, too, Dad.”
“For chump change.”
I bite back my retort, doing my best to control my anger. I try to remember what I’m doing here—as much as it burns not to let him have it.
“That’s not entirely true, Dad. I’m just worried that you’re going to cross the O’Leary’s, and that’s not good. You could end up dead.” I push, not adding that I could end up dead alongside him. I somehow don’t think that would bother him at all. I forgot my plan to tread softly, and that results in my father’s anger boiling over. It doesn't take much these days, so I knew it was dangerous. I couldn’t stay quiet, though. This isn't just his life he's playing with.