Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(28)

Finally, I blurt out, “I need to go to Raleigh to pick up a car I’m buying. I want you to drive me so I can work the entire time.”

F-u-u-u-ck.

Looks like I’m buying a damn car so I can spend a few hours with this woman.

“Seriously?” she asks. “Why can’t you just buy a car here?”

Fuck, oh f*ck.

“Um… because they don’t sell the type of car that I want in this area. The closest dealership is Raleigh.”

I hope to God there’s a dealership that has foreign imports or something unusual in Raleigh, because I am so f*cking flying by the seat of my pants at this point.

“Well, if you can do it Thursday, I’ll be glad to drive you,” she says and then starts scrubbing the counters.

“That works for me,” I tell her. “I’ll just go up now and call them to let them know I’ll be there Thursday instead.”

“Cool,” she says, never lifting her head to look up at me again.

Her indifference to me is pushing all my buttons, and I feel the insane need to get her attention. Except, the way that I want to get it is by stalking up to her and kissing her hard… maybe with my hand between her legs. But that won’t do, because it will send her scurrying like a frightened mouse, and I’m not ready to send her totally packing just yet.

So for now, I’ll have to bide my time and play according to the rules she’s silently laying out.

After I get back into my office, I quickly do a Google search and find there’s a Maserati and a Rolls Royce dealership in Raleigh, breathing a quick sigh of relief my impromptu trip didn’t get cancelled before it started. I unplug my laptop to take it outside to do some writing when my phone rings.

Pulling it out of my pocket, I see it’s my father calling and as much as I don’t want to talk to him, I know it’s probably important, so I answer.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as I connect.

“Gavin,” he says cautiously and I cringe, because his pain is my pain and I’ve had enough of both for now. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Good. Settled in and writing nicely. You?”

“I’m good,” he says, but his voice is sad. “We’re doing the best we can.”

I close my eyes against hurt and take a deep breath. “So, what’s up?”

My dad is silent for a moment, and then he clears his throat. “Listen… you got an offer on the house. It’s way more than what you’re asking for, so I accepted it.”

Pressure squeezes my chest, strangling every nerve, muscle, vein, and artery within. I open my mouth to tell my dad, That’s great. Awesome.

But not a f*cking sound comes out.

“It will all be settled within the next month,” he continues, and I feel dizzy so I sit down in the squeaky office chair I haven’t been able to replace yet.

“So… um… listen, buddy. We’re going to have to clean it out,” he says sadly, and I grip the edge of my desk as darkness clouds my vision. “What do you want me to do with Charlie’s stuff?”

My eyes flick to the photo of Charlie on my desk, and his smile fails to warm me. I think about all of Charlie’s things in his room. His octopus stuffed animal and his little red fire engine hat that had a light and siren on top that he loved to wear wherever we went. His little tennis shoes with Velcro straps and purple dinosaurs on them.

“Son?” my dad says gently. “What do you want me to do?”

I blink hard, trying to focus. Giving a little cough, I try to clear the emotion from my throat, but it doesn’t work. “Pack it up… give it all away to a charity or something,” I rasp out.

My dad is silent for a brief moment, and then he murmurs, “Okay. I’ll call you again in a few days to check in on you.”

“Okay,” I say absently, my mind already shutting down from this conversation. “Cheers.”

But then I abruptly call out to him, “Wait.”

“Gavin?”

“Just wait… don’t give it away. Hold it at your house if you don’t mind. I’m not ready…” I start to say, but then my voice cracks.

“I understand,” my dad says with only the grace that a parent can show to a child in pain. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Okay,” I tell him.

We talk for a few more minutes, then my mum jumps on the phone to say hello. We carefully skirt around talking about Charlie, and when we disconnect, I’m relieved the conversation is over.

Setting my phone down on the desk, I scrub my hands over my face, and then through my hair, where I scratch at my scalp. I feel itchy all over and resist the urge to scratch at the skin on my arms. I wait for sadness to seep in, but as I look back over at Charlie’s photo, I feel anger surge through me.

Hot, acidic, burning, lava-like anger builds, roiling and racing through my body. I want to hurt someone… lash out at them. Make them feel what I feel, so maybe if by sharing the burden, it will hurt me less.

I briefly think about Savannah downstairs, obliviously immersed in her own little world, and the urge to break her cleanly in half to alleviate some of my own misery takes root. I could walk downstairs right now and with a few seductive words have her begging me for it. I could bend her over the couch, f*ck her hard, and then tell her to get the hell out of my house because she wasn’t any good.