Rock Chick Regret (Rock Chick #7)(172)

But even so, I didn’t want to be too in your face about it.

That would be rude.

I was wearing a new pair of Lucky jeans, a camel-colored, tailored cotton blouse that fit snug up my sides and midriff and showed a hint of cle**age at the opened buttons (this made Hector’s mouth go tight, which was good, since it kept it shut), a chocolate-brown suede belt with a heavy silver buckle, a pair of kickass (Daisy’s words) dark brown boots that were both stylish but also rock ‘n’ roll and a chocolate brown suede, two button, blazer. My hair was down and wild, falling on my shoulders, down my back and sometimes in my face (my father hated my hair down, said a lady wore her hair back or up, anything else was common). I was wearing long, wide, gold hoop earrings (a surprise present from Hector that he gave me the night I moved in with him, how he managed to shop, I don’t know, but he did) and my mother’s initial necklace was at my throat.

The outfit looked casual but cost a blooming fortune.

I loved it, it was me but I knew my father would hate it.

“I’m scared to death,” I whispered to the window.

Hector’s arm got tight, his chin left my hair and I felt his mouth go to my neck. He was kissing me there when the door opened.

I jumped and turned.

Hector didn’t jump nor did he drop his arm but his head came out of my neck and he moved with my turn.

My father stood there, wearing prison blues but, other than that, looking surprisingly just like my father. Face tan, hair well-groomed, body fit, he made prison blues look like the next big thing in men’s fashion.

I wanted to say something but didn’t know what. I had practiced a lot of openings, none of which I remembered at the crucial moment and, in my hesitation, I caught the killing look my father was giving Hector.

This, of course, robbed me of speech, not that I knew what to say anyway, but still.

“You think I could spend some time with my f**king daughter without you standing there with your hands on her?” my father asked Hector.

Oh boy.

This was not a good start.

“Daddy –” I said but my voice sounded small.

My father didn’t even look at me.

Surprisingly, Hector moved.

He got in front of me, grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze and I knew he intended to go.

I looked up at him, beginning to panic and blurted, “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

“Hector –”

Another hand squeeze then a repeated, “Right outside,” before he touched his lips to mine and, without a glance at my father, he left.

So did the security guard.

My father and I were alone.

Blooming heck.

“You get a kick out of that, Sadie? Bringing him here and shoving him in my face?”

I stared at him.

I felt my heart start to beat faster and waited for it to happen. I waited for who Hector called Stepford Sadie to slip into place. I waited for the automatic dutiful daughter to arrive and be apologetic and hide the fact that Hector was in my life or promise to get rid of him altogether.

Instead, Stepford Sadie, now good and dead, didn’t appear.

“I’m sorry if that upset you but you already know he’s in my life,” I answered softly.

“He won’t be for long,” my father returned.

My body went stiff. “Why’s that?”

“Been lookin’ into Hector Chavez,” he replied, his tone cold. “He’s got a string of pieces, Sadie, you’re just the most recent one.”

I let out a breath and shook my head. “I know about the other women.”

“Then you aren’t as smart as I raised you to be.”

“I’m living with him.”

“Then you really aren’t as smart as I raised you to be.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

This went on for awhile.

I was not going to give in.

I knew he wouldn’t either.

So it went on for awhile longer.

To my shock, he finished the stare down by asking, “Are we done?”

And, also to my shock, I had the perfect retort, “I don’t know, Daddy, are we?”

It was clear he didn’t expect this answer and also clear he didn’t understand it.

I decided to explain.

“You have two choices. One, you stay the way you became after Mickey Balducci murdered Mom and that means we go our separate ways. I won’t be a party to that kind of relationship with my father. Or two,” I stopped, went to the vinyl couch where my bag was, I pulled out a large photograph, a duplicate of the picture I took from Mom’s storage locker (the original now residing in some boxes in Hector’s spare room, waiting for the downstairs to be finished). I turned back to my father, walked to him, closer this time, the picture turned to face him. “We can go back to this. A family. Even without Mom with us.” I shoved the photo at him and his eyes didn’t move from it. “Take it,” I said. “I’m allowed to give it to you.”

Slowly, his eyes moved from the picture to me.

I took a stunned step back at what I saw.

Pain.

Utter, devastated, unhidden pain.

What was in his face sliced deep through me so deep I whispered an uncertain, “Daddy?”