Every Part of You: Takes Me (#5) Read online

  “I love you,” Simone whispered against his mouth. “Elliott, oh, God. I love you.”

  “I know you do.” It was the first thing that came out of him, the stupidest thing he’d ever said in an eternally long line of stupid things. He knew it the instant he said it, but it was too late to take it back. All he could do was move back, out of the way.

  All he could do was let her go.

  Simone slapped him so hard his ears rang. Pain exploded in his cheek, his ear. The copper taste of blood sparked on his tongue.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck. You.”

  He tried to say her name, to call out after her, but she gave him the finger and kept walking. Didn’t look back. He tried again, her name slicing at his tongue and throat, leaving him voiceless.

  She stopped to walk backward a few steps. “Don’t you ever touch me again. Don’t you ever look at me again. Don’t you ever fucking think of me again, do you hear me? I don’t exist for you, Elliott. You want to make me nothing to you? Fuck you. I’m nothing.”

  “You aren’t nothing, Simone.”

  But it was too late. She gave him the finger again, this time with both hands. Then she was beyond his reach.

  Then she was gone.

  * * *

  Elliott would not drink and drive. He wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of his father. But the second his car got into his garage he unscrewed the cap of the bottle of Jameson he’d stopped for on the way home. The first slug hit the back of his throat like a fire bolt. The second wasn’t much better. Eyes watering, the sting of it in his nose like the buzz of hornets, Elliott gulped one last shot and put the cap back on the bottle before he got out of the car.

  The world was already tilting when he pushed through the door into his kitchen. Bottle in one hand, he slammed the door behind him and moved to the counter. He meant to get a glass. Some ice. Hell, he might even cut the liquor with some soda just to keep himself from getting obliterated too fast. Getting blackout drunk would stop him from thinking of all the ways he’d fucked up with Simone, but it would also let him stop thinking about her. He didn’t want to stop thinking about her. He didn’t deserve to have that sweet oblivion.

  He deserved to suffer.

  He’d already kicked the chair, nearly breaking his toe and sending the chair spinning across the floor, before he realized it was out of place. He’d very carefully pushed in all the chairs that morning, as he always did, and this one had been a good foot from the table. The cupboard doors, too, were open. A dirty plate and fork in the sink instead of in the dishwasher. Crumbs on the counter.

  Elliott let out a grunt of surprise and took another drink. The alcohol was already burning through his system, setting him off balance. With narrowed eyes, he looked around the kitchen again, cataloging everything that was out of place.

  “Hey there, sonny boy.”

  Elliott had figured out it was his dad mere seconds before the bastard showed up in the doorway to the living room. He didn’t have a bottle in his hand, but the few days’ growth on his face and the mess of his hair, the red eyes, showed he’d probably been doing some drinking of his own. His clothes looked clean, at least. The last time Elliott had seen him, his father had looked like a hobo who’d been tossed off a train into a barrel of shit. Smelled like it, too.

  “What are you doing in here? How’d you get in?”

  “Key.” The old man grinned, showing teeth too white and straight to be his own. He gave Elliott a curious look. “It’s my house, for the love of Pete. You think I don’t know how to get into my own house?”

  “Who gave you the key?” Elliott paced to the counter, where he put down the bottle. He slammed the cupboards closed and ran the water in the sink over the mess of dishes. He focused on these tasks so he didn’t have to look at the man behind him.

  “Nobody gave it to me. I got it from the fake plastic rock out back.”

  Shit. Elliott hadn’t known about that spare key, but he didn’t put it past the old man to have harbored the memory of it. His father might be a drunk who couldn’t seem to remember his son’s birthday, but you could be damn sure he’d never forget where he put a spare key.

  “Your mother told me she let you know I’d be stopping by.”

  “She’s not my mother.”

  His father snorted. “She’s more a mother to you than anyone else ever was. Hell, she’s more a parent to you than anyone ever was, including me.”

  Elliott gripped the sink for a moment as the floor threatened to move under him. He closed his eyes for a second or so to get his equilibrium. He swallowed hot spit, but it didn’t wash away the taste of whiskey. “What do you want?”

  There was silence, punctuated by the disgusting snorfle-grunt of the old man’s breathing. Elliott turned. His father gave him a wide, broad grin.

  “What do you want?” Elliott repeated.

  “You gonna pour yourself a glass or what?” His father pointed at the bottle.

  Elliott turned back to the bottle, which seemed to have grown and shrunk at the same time, a real Alice in Wonderland bit of fuckery he had to squint to see. The bottle rattled against the glass as he poured. He added ice from the freezer and turned to lift it. “You want one?”

  “No. I don’t touch the stuff anymore. I thought you knew that.” His father paused, eyeing him. “I’ve been sober for eight years.”

  “Funny how prison makes that easier.” Elliott drank back half the glass. Then the rest. The burn of it had gone away; now he only felt the warmth.

  “Prison didn’t make anything easier.”

  More silence. Elliott turned the glass in his hand to rattle the ice. He lifted it to his mouth again to gather the last few drops. He thought about pouring himself another, but he’d lost track of how much he’d had. Everything had grown a soft fuzz around the edges.

  “What,” he said again, “do you want?”

  “Well. For starters, I’m not here asking you for anything that isn’t mine.”

  Elliott leaned against the counter, glass still in one hand, and loosened his tie with the other. “I don’t have a single fucking thing that’s yours.”

  “Oh. Yeah. You do.” His father nodded and took a couple steps forward. “And let me tell you, I understand why you did it.”

  “Did what?” Elliott closed one eye. Opened it to close the other. The fucker was still out of focus.

  “Bought this house from her. I know she needed the money, and you thought you were doing a good thing, taking care of her. But I’m back now, and I can do it.”

  The absurdity of this sent a rush of hot bile into Elliott’s throat. He choked out a laugh. “You? What the hell are you talking about?”

  His father might as well have yanked a soft-brimmed hat off his head to clutch in front of him while he scuffed a foot. That was the depth of his performance. That “aww shucks, I’m a good old boy” act that had stopped working on Elliott at about the age of nine, which was the last time he’d allowed himself to be disappointed when his father let him down.

  “Well, I’m gonna bring her home, of course. She should be taken care of by someone who loves her. Not be in some home with strangers. It’s the least I can do.”

  Elliott turned. “The fuck are you saying?”

  “I’m gonna bring her home. You heard me.” His father looked around the kitchen. “Get this place back in shape. Take care of her here.”

  “Back in shape?” Elliott barked laughter. “Like you ever did a damn thing around here? Is that what you’re talking about? Me giving you this house back, so you can squat in it while you … what? Take care of Molly until she dies? You know she’s terminal, don’t you? Her condition is degenerative. She’s going to die.”

  “We’re all gonna die.” His father gave him another of those horrifying picket-fence grins. “She ought to do it here in the comfort of her home.”

  “You are so full of shit. And you are no fucking way taking her out of that facility.” Elliott stumbled on the words, slurring