Rock Chick Rescue (Rock Chick #2)(10)

“That’s okay,” he said.

“I don’t real y have the room.”

“You didn’t real y have the room before, but you let me stay,” he said, looking at me closer and knowing I was holding back.

“There’s something…” I couldn’t finish. Eddie was right there, I could feel his eyes on me. Dad didn’t know about Mom and I didn’t want to tel him. I didn’t want al the big ears around me to hear either. And Mom would have had a conniption if I invited Dad to stay. One-armed or not, she’d throw everything in the apartment at him and chase him around in her wheelchair.

“Princess Jet, your ole Dad has to crash. Been on the road too long.”

“We’l get you a hotel.”

His eyes flashed, and then shut down.

Damn.

He didn’t have any money.

I didn’t have any money either. Every dol ar was pinched for every penny I could squeeze out of it.

I stared at my Dad. He looked tired, he needed a bath and last, but not least, he was my Dad. This was gonna hurt, in more ways than one.

“We’l go to the bank machine,” I said on a sigh.

I could pick up more shifts at Smithie’s.

Maybe.

If Smithie was in a good mood.

“I’l pay you back,” he told me.

I’d heard that before.

I turned to Indy and saw Eddie, stil leaning on the counter and stil watching me. His eyes were sharp and I knew he heard every word. I felt humiliated, this time for myself and for my Dad.

“Indy, Dad and I are gonna…,” I didn’t even finish.

“You know we make our own hours, girl. Go be with your Dad,” Indy said.

I turned back to Dad, trying to ignore Eddie and everyone. I put my arm through his. “Had lunch?” I asked, pretending to be bright and cheerful and someone who could afford to go out to lunch.

“Nope,” he said on a big grin. “Your ole Dad is starved.”

“My treat.” I walked him out. I didn’t have money to treat him to lunch either, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

* * * * *

I set Dad up in a cheap motel and he acted like I put him in the Bel agio. I paid two nights in advance and I gave him $500, because a man had to have money in his pocket.

This left me $50 in the bank; groceries to buy and my car needed gas.

Dad and I planned to meet up at Fortnum’s the next morning with me bringing the donuts. Luckily, I’d have my tips from Smithie’s in my pocket by tomorrow morning so I could probably afford the donuts.

I went to the grocery store, got necessities, hit the gas station and arrived home later than usual. I needed a nap but probably wouldn’t have time. There was laundry to be done. Mom tried to help but she got tired quickly. She was trying to get back to doing things around the house and cooking for herself, but was finding it frustrating so I’d have to hang with her in the kitchen and help when she needed it.

We’d need to do some exercises too because she had PT

tomorrow and they didn’t like it when you didn’t exercise in between appointments. Then I had to cake on the makeup for Smithie’s and rol back out the door.

The minute I walked into the living room, lugging the groceries, Mom took one look at me and said, “What’s wrong?”

She freaked me out sometimes.

“Nothing.”

I had no intention of tel ing her Dad was in town. Un-unh, no way.

I went into the kitchen and started unloading the groceries. She rol ed into the doorway and blocked me in.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Henrietta Louise,” she said.

She always used my real name when she was ticked at me. Either that or “Missy”. I didn’t know where “Missy” came from but that name came out when she was super angry.

Mom had bright green eyes and great, thick blonde hair (blonde because Trixie came to the apartment and gave her a cut and color every six weeks—Trixie also gave her a manicure and pedicure every two weeks. Trixie had been my Mom’s best friend since high school, she loved her to death and she was an absolute gem). Mom also had a great smile, before the stroke, now it was stil good but kind of lopsided. She was a baton twirler in high school and she said they taught you how to smile when you were a baton twirler. They did a good job, she had a world-class smile, even Dad said that.

She wasn’t smiling now, she was frowning. “You look worried,” Mom said.

I always looked worried, how she could decipher that I w a s more worried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instil ed with the “Mom Ability” to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.

I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent (in other words, I kinda lied).

“Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”

She gasped. “What? ”

I shrugged.

“What would make him think that?” she asked.

I put away the milk, “It’s a misunderstanding.”

“I’l say. Do you want me to cal him?”

I had my head in the fridge but at that, I straightened and whirled around.

“No! Do not cal him!”