His Father

Uh-oh.

“She’s a girl.”

“I did clear that up in my last email, Dad, before you said she could stay.” Maddox frowns, dropping his bag again and squaring up to his father who has maybe a hundred pounds more of muscle on his frame. He’s wearing shorts and a vest, I can see everything, including the sharp point tribal tattoo peeking over his right shoulder. I wonder how big it is and where it leads. “Did you read the emails or did you just have Marcy do it for you?”

“I didn’t read them all, I wanted you to tell me your tales when you arrived,” he snaps, giving me another look, this one even less pleasant than the last. His eyes drag from my dirty boots to my messy hair which still has mud and Lord knows what else in it.

I’m wearing a very baggy checked shirt and leggings that I cut above the knees. They’re comfy and not too warm, and cheap to replace when they are no longer wearable. It’s safe to say I look like I just crawled out of Oxfam and not Prada.

“I’m sorry if me staying is a burden,” I input quickly before the situation escalates. “If I could just get cleaned up and rest a while I’ll be on my way.” I don’t want to stay where I’m not welcome but I don’t have anywhere else to go right now. Not because I feel intimidated by this man but because I’m not a pushover and I can see me not getting on with him despite him being my host. I’ll never be anything but polite so long as that attitude is returned.

Quiet I may be, pushover I am not.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mad snaps, looking, well, mad. “Dad.” He cuts his father with a glare. “You’re being a douchebag.”

I’m glad he said it because I was thinking it.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pushes his short hair back and looks at me before extending a hand.

I take it but only after a nudge from Mad. I wanted to leave him hanging like he just did for me. I’m that level of petty.

His large hand engulfs mine and squeezes gently. “You’re welcome to stay for the length agreed.”

His meaning isn’t lost on me. He means the length agreed and not a second more.

I should have insisted on speaking with his father before even entertaining the idea of coming all the way to Malibu. I should have tried to form a relationship with him before arriving. I’m an idiot.

When he releases my hand, he turns to his son and they hug at last. “It’s good to see you, Maddox.”

“You too.”

“We’ll have dinner together tonight, I’ll have Marcy book us a table.”

“Not tonight.” Mad pulls back. “We’ve been flying for eight hours and three kids were screaming the entire ride. Plus, jet lag, you know?”

“Of course.” He smiles so warmly at his son I almost start to like him. I almost start to find him attractive again. “I’ll leave you both to rest for tonight and accost you in the morning.”

“Thank you for having me, Sarge,” I say, and his eyes narrow on me infinitesimally.

“It’s Sargent, or Mr. Wolf.”

Yikes. He’s super intense.

Though again, I’m not intimidated because I’m trying not to laugh at his name, Sargent Wolf.

“Dad,” Mad snaps, grabbing his bag and then my arm. “Come on, Pest. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

Sargent

He’s finally home, after nearly a year away. I hated the thought I’d have to share him with a friend but said yes purely because I knew if I’d said no, he would have delayed his journey longer.

Had I known his friend would be female I’d have let the journey delay. Though knowing Maddox, he would have simply shown up with her anyway. The stubborn shit that he is.

Why didn’t I read the emails? I saw the pictures but they were always group photos. I didn’t pay attention to the filthy little dark-haired harlot in his photos.

It was obvious they were close but so was everybody in the pictures he sent. He’s very good at photography. He likely did it that way knowing I’d miss it and say yes, knowing Marcy would also manipulate the situation so I can’t say no. I’m not a complete bastard, not always. I just can’t stand the thought of a woman in my house for days and nights on end. Filling the space with her things, her scent, her womanly touch.

Tampons in the bathroom, hair in the drains, nail polish on the sides of the basin. I dealt with that fucking crap once for his psycho of a mother, never again.

Nonetheless, I was raised better than how I behaved. I’m a grown man and I likely frightened the little girl to death. Not that she showed it in her defiant little shortening of my name. I loathe being called Sarge nearly as much as I loathe having a woman in my home.