Page 217 of Wicked Angel
“I will. Thanks! I’ll go keep Shayla and Miranda company.” Angeline beamed at my dad, then blew me a kiss and slipped out, shutting the door.
“Angeline,” my dad said thoughtfully, meeting my eyes. His eyes were blue, brighter than mine. His face was etched with knowledge, and the lines that came from the kind of torment known only to a parent who’d watched their child suffer terrible pain. I couldn’t even remember him not having those lines on his face, but he must’ve been young, once. “I always thought she’s quite something, that girl,” he mused.
“She is.”
He took that in, like he wasn’t quite expecting that response. He knew I’d been seeing her. I’d mentioned it. But that was all. He’d probably expected me to be over it by now. Moved on. “Are you planning on keeping her around?” he asked me.
“Yes. Definitely. If she’ll stay.”
“She will. So long as you love her.” He studied my response to that.
“Yeah. I figured that one out.”
“Good.” His eyes twinkled the way they did when he was amused. “Then you’re learning.”
“I hope so.”
“And how is Shayla taking it?”
See, just when I thought my dad was maybe getting out of touch. He always somehow showed me that he was still tuned in. Still watching. That he understood his kids much more than he let on. Donal O’Reilly was all business, most of the time. Practical, tactical, driven. Very successful in business. And very cut and dry when it came to emotions.
Maybe he’d learned, like I did, to bury them, for the most part.
Whatever the reason, he generally seemed to like to pretend that Shayla and I were doing just fine, even on our worst of days. And the idea that the two of us might ever fight? He didn’t even want to hear about it.Don’t waste your energy on fighting your family,he’d say.You should have each other’s backs, no matter what.
“Well. She’s taking it.” I scratched my jaw. “I believe she said something to the effect of, ‘Worship her or you’ll wish you were never born.’”
“Not bad advice.” My dad smirked. “Though you’ll want to make sure the worship flows both ways. Keep things in balance.”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure we’ve got that down.”
He nodded appreciatively. “So, you’re all ready?” He looked me over in my ripped jeans and T-shirt. My dad had always appreciated my style, even though he dressed way more conservatively than I did. He was a suit guy. Tonight, he wore dress slacks and a collared shirt, expensive, clean lines, but in dark colors; his version of rock ’n’ roll. He looked somewhat like me, similar build, just older, his hair a pale shade of blond that was starting to turn white. He liked to joke that I got my good looks from him, but we were all in on that joke; any good looks I’d been lucky enough to get came from my mother.
My mom was a drop-dead gorgeous Italian woman with dark hair and darker eyes who’d swept him away with her wild, passionate heart—his words—and then broke his heart when she had a string of affairs that ended in their divorce. He never spoke ill of her in front of me, but he’d told me why they split up, when I was a teenager and I asked him for the truth.
I knew I got more than my looks from her, for good and bad.
My dad was steady as a rock. My mom was… self-indulgent, to put it nicely.
Maybe I was just lucky that he loved me so much—and through so much dark shit—despite how like her I was.
I gestured at a couch. “Have a seat, Dad.”
He sat down on the edge of the couch and looked up at me. “This feels serious,” he said lightly.
“It is. Potentially. I just feel like I should warn you. That you might not like some of the songs I’ve been writing. But I’m writing them anyway. And one day, I may put them on an album.”
“Why wouldn’t I like them?”
“You just might not like the lyrics when you hear them.”
“What kind of lyrics? Because once you’ve heard that ‘Wet Ass Pussy’ song,” he said dryly, “you’ve heard it all. And thanks to your sister, I’m afraid I have.” Maybe he was trying to keep things light. Steer this away from things he didn’t want to hear. He was good at that.
But we weren’t playing that game tonight.
“I wrote a song to my mom.”
His smile faded. “Oh.” He recovered quickly. “Well, that’s probably a good thing, then. I hope it’s a nice tribute.”
