There was no response but he knew she was in there; he could smell the fetid stench of her waste and her unwashed body. Smells that no child should ever have to smell. And along with her scent, he could hear the slight rustling of her sheets.
“It’s just me,” he said, louder this time. “I . . . I just stopped by. . . .” He didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t staying. That he was leaving her alone—once and for all—with her husband.
But then there was another smell, the caustic stench that made the hairs on his arms stand on end, disclosing his father’s presence even before he spoke. He knew it had been a mistake, coming here. He knew he should’ve waited, till he was sure his old man wasn’t home.
“You think she needs you, boy? You think she gives a flyin’ fuck”—he could feel spittle shower the back of his neck—“that you’re here? She doesn’t even know where she is. She doesn’t even know who you are,” his father spat. “She’s a junkie. No better’n that girl you got yerself hooked up with.”
Evan turned as fury uncoiled, making his hands ball at his sides even though he told himself not to do it. Even though he begged himself to stop.
His father saw too. “What’re’ya gonna do, boy? You think you can take yer ol’ man?” His mouth split into a hideous grin, baring teeth that were decayed and gums that festered, swollen and red. “Try it.”
He thought of Kisha and Bailey and Boxer and Colton—Butterfly, too—all waiting for him. All counting on him. He couldn’t do this. He knew he was outmatched. His father outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and drunk or not, he’d once gone toe to toe with some of the best amateur fighters in the circuit. He could throw a punch as naturally as he could polish off a fifth of bourbon.
He loosened his fists and tried to duck around the bastard. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered.
But it was too late. His father was already raring for a fight, he’d already pushed the old bastard too far.
He felt his dad tackle him from behind and instinctively his arms shot up, covering the back of his head as his face slammed against the ground. That was the first line of attack—always was—his head. His dad landed a couple of solid blows, making his arms ache where they tried to shield him, but he already knew the rhythm of the punches—right, left, right. He dragged himself to the left, just as a hard right was coming at him, and he heard his father’s fist slam the hardwood just beside his ear.
There was a pause, and then his father’s shrieks—outrage mixed with pain—rumbled off the wall of the house. “Son of a—You mother fu—”
But Evan was already rolling away, taking advantage of the fact that he’d thrown the old man off kilter by fighting back. He kicked behind him, just once, and managed to catch his father in the gut. He heard the bastard land on the ground with a satisfying whomp!
He wouldn’t have long, he knew, and he scrambled to get to his feet, knowing his only chance was to get the hell out of there. He could get his shit later, when his dad ran out of booze again and had to make another liquor run.
He was almost to the door when he felt his feet jerked out from beneath him and he landed on his knees. His head reeled as he struggled to figure out what had just happened. He rolled onto his back, still trying to figure out why he’d fallen, only to see the old man waving something at him. His dad looked like a demented matador in a bullfight. Except that instead of a red cape, he was brandishing a floor mat. One Evan had walked on thousands of times before.
His father had literally pulled the rug out from underneath him.
“Nice try, f**kwad.” He threw the rug down and closed the distance in two strides.
The first fist his dad landed was a hard left, and it hit him so hard his teeth clattered together. He might have bitten his tongue, or maybe it was his cheek, but he definitely tasted blood. The second was a right hook, coming up just beneath his jaw. He saw stars or fireworks or whatever you called it when white hot flashes exploded behind your eyelids making it impossible to see.
Glancing around, Evan searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. Something that might stop, or even just delay, his father long enough so he could escape.
There was nothing. Just an array of bottles and an overflowing ashtray and enough Playboys to make the old man look like some kind of perv.
He reached for the nearest bottle, barely noticing that the lid wasn’t screwed on, and he felt the cheap whiskey dribble down his arm as he waved it in front of the old man. “Get away from me, you prick. Stay back.”
His dad’s vision cleared slightly as he fumbled for the bottle. “Hey, knock it off, you idiot. That’s perfectly good scotch. Put it down or I’ll beat your ass.”
Evan laughed as he staggered to his feet, still letting the contents of the bottle spill all over the floor. “Really, you stupid bastard? You’ll beat my ass?” He wondered what the miserable drunk thought he’d already done to him . . . this time, and a thousand times before. He threw the bottle down, feeling a sense of satisfaction as it shattered on the floor, sending shards of glass spraying everywhere.
And then he reached behind him, while the old man was busy trying to figure out if there was any way to salvage the booze spreading outward around the broken fragments of glass—to mop it or sponge it up probably, possibly even to get on his hands and knees and lick it up if necessary.
Evan’s fingers closed around the baseball bat that was propped there by the door, the one meant for protection from anyone who might dare to break in, might try to rob the old man of his precious stash.