back here.” He patted the sheet beside him. “We’re still celebrating your birthday.”
Desire shivered through her. More would be nice. They could try new things, more positions, go slower….
No. She’d had a great time. She should be content. She backed up and banged her shoulder against the doorjamb.
“Careful there.”
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling the door closed.
“Chloe?”
She peeked in again. “Yes?”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiled. “You made it that way. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Anytime? He wanted more, too? How could it be that good again? It had been the right mood, the right man, the right moment. She’d made a memory. That was plenty enough for her.
She wiggled her fingers goodbye.
For just a second, in the warm spring night, she missed new Chloe, who might dance down the street singing. New Chloe wouldn’t have turned down more sex with Riley.
But reality now weighed on her shoulders. She checked her cell phone. No missed calls. No messages. Whew. Her father didn’t know she’d stayed out this late. She didn’t want him to worry about her. She worried enough about him.
He’d been quiet lately, which was odd in such an affable man, and he seemed troubled. What was up? He never complained, feeling guilty for all the trouble he’d been over the years.
It had been unusual last night and yet freeing to not be the person who watched out for her father and Clarissa, the one who thought two steps ahead, anticipated problems, pushed for solutions.
Not that Chloe minded taking care of her family. She’d been proud to take on the role when their mother left. Unable to cope with Mickey Baxter’s drinking and fresh-start promises, she’d taken off when Chloe was ten, Clarissa six.
Their mom visited a couple of times, but after a while they had to settle for weekly postcards—thoughtful and loving messages, but not the same as seeing her in person. Chloe longed for her tight hugs, reassuring smile and loving encouragement.
As an adult, Chloe realized her mother had been wracked with guilt, making the visits pure torture. At the time, Chloe had felt like a burden, a weight and a worry. Taking charge of the house gave her a way to be useful, to feel valuable.
Lately, though, she’d become impatient with her sister, whose financial struggles had drained Chloe’s savings and delayed her dream, and her father, whose good sense could be snuffed out like her tiny birthday flames with the merest puff of temptation. She tried to support, not enable, both of them, but sometimes it was tough to tell the difference.
Having wild sex with a man she hardly knew had been a way to rebel, she guessed. Here on out, she’d choose more productive actions. Though she might not need to rebel.
Her sister, married last year, seemed settled in Ventura and her husband finally had a solid job. Chloe’s father, sober for the ten years they’d been in Phoenix, seemed to have his gambling under control and spent less time with questionable friends.
As long as her family remained stable, her new job with the Sylvestris meant she was all-systems-go for a bright future.
When she opened the door, the roar of sports from the TV startled her. Had her father fallen asleep in the lounger? Rounding the corner, she was hit by the smoky aroma of whiskey and the gulping snores her father only emitted when he’d been drinking.
Sure enough, beside the lounger, an empty quart of Wild Turkey gleamed evilly in the gray flicker of World Wide Wrestling on TV.
Not again. Not after all these years. Chloe’s heart sank. She had miserable memories of him like this. She’d hated when he drank, hated helping him to bed, seeing him so weak and sad and helpless. Something was wrong, just as she’d suspected.
Going closer, she noticed how much older and frailer he seemed, his hair a wispy gray, his face drawn and wind-burned. He was only forty-five. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.
Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, she promised the sleeping man. She touched his thin shoulder. “Dad?”
“What? Huh?” He jerked upright, eyes wide. “Oh, Chloe. It’s you. So late.” He groaned, rubbed his face and dropped back to the headrest, staring up at the ceiling.
“What is it, Dad? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, his eyes telling a different story. “Everything’s…fine.”
“Not exactly.” She held the liquor bottle before him.
“It was a mistake. I slipped.” His mouth went grim.
“You had a reason. Tell me what happened.”
“I can handle it. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Tell me what it is and we’ll fix it together.”
He stared at her, swallowing hard, his fingers picking at the fabric of the armrest. “It’s just something with Sal, that’s all. I will handle it.”
“Sal Minetti?” Sal was Enzo’s nephew. He was bad news and his friends were even worse. Enzo complained about him a lot.
“I’ll work it out. Don’t give it a thought.” Her dad reached for her hand, but his was trembling.
“Tell me what happened, Dad,” she said levelly.
Tears slid from his eyes and he shook his head slowly back and forth, the way he used to when he’d lost too much at the track or had to be picked up from a bar, too drunk to drive. He was ashamed, tortured by his failure.
He’d never been drunk at work or spent grocery or rent money, but they’d also never had spare cash and Chloe had become expert at creating arty looks with thrift-store buys.
He’d assuage his guilt with ridiculous extravagances—a fancy boom box, a giant stuffed giraffe, a top-of-the-line mountain bike. He tried. He loved them. He just had…limits.
“Talk to me.”
“Sal asked me to drive for him,” he said shakily. “He and his buddies, Carlo and Leo, wanted to go to this strip mall in Glendale. So, no problem, I drive ’em. They’re quiet, which should tip me off…” He swallowed again and eyed the ceiling.
“So they tell me to pull around back, they need to talk to a guy, and they get out with backpacks. Next thing I know they’re running to the car, backpacks jammed. They robbed a jewelry store. They had some guy fox the security system and I dunno what all, but it’s not on the up-and-up. That I know.”
“You didn’t get caught, right? So you’re okay?”
He shook his head, miserable. “No, but they want me to keep driving. ‘Special assignments,’ Sal calls it.”
“You
