Like Father Like Son

by Lennon, Leigh

  “Thanks, man,” I call back. Hurrying to the truck, it’s not long before I’m in front of the little hole in the wall tavern. Pulling open the door, I hear “Cotton Eye Joe” blaring. Man, I hate country music, and on top of this, I’ll need a tetanus shot after I leave.

  Holland isn’t hard to miss. She’s in a pair of the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen and I’m surprised her ass isn’t hanging out. When I get closer, I’m wrong on my first assessment and force my eyes away from that part of my daughter-in-law’s body. She’s on the stage, dancing in a pair of cowboy boots and three reasonably large men are cheering her on.

  I weave through the men, hopping up on the stage to grab my son’s wife. “Ah, look who it is. It’s my daddy-in-law.” Her voice, even louder if it’s possible, is also slurred.

  “Yo, bro, what are you doing?” This question comes from one of the men watching when Holland leans into me and I can’t miss the smell of lilacs that permeate my nose.

  “Um, bro,” I begin. “I’m taking her back to where we are staying for the night.”

  Holland is light, and I sling her over my shoulder.

  One of the men stops me, his hand on my chest. “Um, I think that’s up to the little lady to decide,” the biggest of the bros says.

  I ball my hands into fists but even in my best day, I could never take on three men at once. Diplomacy needs to be the path I take here, for now anyway. Releasing a cleansing breath, I begin, “So, bro, listen and listen well. This woman just buried her husband.”

  They don’t back off and Holland’s rambling is making things worse.

  “Ah, don’t be a stick in the mud, daddy-in-law, let me play for a while,” she whines. Oh, yeah, these men want to play, that’s for sure but only over my dead body.

  “You heard the lady,” one of the other men reply.

  “Okay, so you didn’t hear me, her husband was killed in action. You want to really do what you have planned to someone’s wife who served this country?”

  Shaking their heads, all three back up, their hands up in surrender.

  “Um, no, bro, even we understand clear lines.” The biggest of the men turn to Holland. “Sorry, ma’am, the man has a point.”

  I have Holland in Scott’s truck and back to the room quickly. I sleep sitting up in the chair near the door, keeping watch over my son’s wife, fucking sure as hell I’ll keep my very last promise to him.

  “Where the hell am I?” I ask in a whisper, my throat feels like sandpaper and a wastebasket is near me. Through the light from the little crack between the curtains, I find I’m faced with the older version of Scott. And as I am almost every day when I wake, I’m reminded he’s gone.

  His father is taking up the entire stiff chair in front of the door. His neck is in a position no neck should ever be in. He’s never changed from yesterday, his boots still on his feet. The gray of his beard really stands out from the ray of sunshine flooding the room. And like I do every time I look heavy at the man who’s my father-in-law, I’m reminded of the life I won’t ever have with Scott.

  But it’s more. Sure, Maguire reminds me so much of Scott, but he’s also his own man. The pain in his face as he relived the infidelity of Christine haunts me. It’s like the pain is still present and as Scott had always speculated, the reason his dad never settled down.

  An arm stretching in the air captures my attention when the other hand goes to scrub over his way past five o’clock shadow. Attempting to move his neck, he groans and honestly, I don’t blame him. For some reason, I can look at him all day long, though I have to dispel the belief he’s my father-in-law. The way I look at him in this light right now isn’t father-in-law like at all.

  The question still remains, how in the world did I get back to the hotel room. I was at the bar one moment, and the next, I’m in this bed. I try to move as Maguire changes positions, but my head is as heavy as bricks. Fudge nuggets, not only my head but my whole body. Running my hands down my frame, I realize I’m in shorts. They’re my booty shorts I’d tease Scott with when I was playing striptease. It was one of our favorite outfits and games. Poop on a stick, what did I do last night? These shorts show most of my ass. And were meant for Scott and Scott alone.

  “Morning, darlin’,” he begins, but it’s not the playful tone I’ve come to expect from Maguire. “Or should I say, party animal?”

  Ah, shoot, it’s all coming back to me now. Shoot, shoot, shoot. The fog is lifting little by little and I’m embarrassed as I think of anyone, especially my father-in-law seeing me in my too short Daisy Dukes. And it hits me, I called him daddy-in-law the whole time. I have this need to flee, to create as much space between Maguire and myself—as possible.

  “Are you reliving last night?” His tone is curt, too curt. Short and annoyed, speaking in this one quick sentence.

  “Um, it’s all coming back to me.” I try to sit up and my stomach begins to curdle. I’m out of bed, running to the bathroom. I don’t quite make it to the toilet. The small wastebasket is nothing for what’s coming up now. I must puke until it’s just stomach acid when a knock on the door lets me know I still have a babysitter in the room.

  “Holland, I assume the bar is closed, so I don’t have to worry about you going back.” Ah, now he’s a dick. I loved my husband without question, but here’s a little similarity, too. When Scott would get upset, his dickishness came out in rare form, as is Maguire’s right now. “So, you have an hour. We’re already three hours behind schedule, and I got shit for sleep.”

  I push out of the bathroom, him standing at the door, barely letting me out. “I’m not going back to the fucking bar, Maguire,” I begin. I hardly swear and it surprises me, too, when it escapes my mouth. It’s how I know I’m pissed as hell.

  He laughs at me. The asshole is actually laughing at me.

  “Um, darlin’, that word isn’t made to form on your lips. I don’t like you saying it.”

  “Well, too fucking bad.” I push past him and fall to the bed.

  “Holland.” His voice is stern like I’m his child.

  “Maguire,” I retort.

  “An hour,” he says, now at my door.

  “No, there’s no way in hell I can travel. Checkout isn’t until noon. Let me sleep for three more hours. Please?” I almost beg but I’m a grown ass adult and shit, I don’t need his permission.

  “We’re leaving, we have a schedule to adhere to.”

  Adhere to. Who the hell speaks like this? “Well, you know, adhere to this.” My voice raises a decibel or two and I flip him off.

  “Act like a child, I’ll treat you like one.”

  I’m off the bed, so quickly I hold onto the wall to make my way toward him. “Well, excuse me for taking one night to try to forget this shit, my best friend, lover, and the man who was supposed to give me babies is gone forever. So I got drunk and made some bad choices. Okay, it was a shitty thing to do, I get it. But don’t fucking treat me like a baby because I’m more than sifting through adult shit right now.” I fall back onto the bed, and though it’s not the side I slept in last night, it’s where I stay.

  “Okay, you win, Holland. But I want to be on the road by eleven-thirty, no later, you got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it, Sarge,” I add, saluting him because I’m a smart ass and I want to piss him off as much as he’s pissed me off.

  “And, can I trust you’ll stay put?”

  “I can’t even move, and what’s funny, I barely drank last night,” I add because this is the worst hangover I’ve ever had for maybe three rum and Cokes.

  “Yeah, nice try. No one pukes that much from a couple drinks.”

  He leaves and I find myself mad at him, scratch that, fucking furious as hell at him, I also find myself equally pissed off at my late husband.

  “Man, Scott, “ I call out loud. “Your dad sure can be a dick. “ It’s the last thing I remember.

  He’s pounding, yes pounding on the door and my eyes must ha
ve been glued shut. Dragging my sorry butt out of bed, I pass the mirror and see my hair is sticking up on end. Well, hell, even my hair is hungover.

  He’s in front of me, a disapproving look on his face the second the open door reveals I’m not close to being ready.

  “I said eleven-thirty, Holland.” His dick-like tone is still evident. His pitch drops an octave or two and the hazel green of his eyes turn an almost brown.

  “I know, Sarge, and I’m sorry. Give me ten minutes to hop in the shower. Do we need gas? I’ll be ready when you get back?”

  He barges in. “Already got gas. You better take the quickest shower known to mankind.”

  Hell, he’s gone from a dick to a prick. When I told Scott once there were levels to his dickish ways, I explained prick was worse than dick. And that’s where his dad is right now.

  I fall back onto the bed, my head in my hands. “Maguire, there’s no reason to be a crap monster. I messed up. I get that.”

  He cocks his head to the side, his one brow raised higher than the other. “Do you, darlin’? Because those guys were ready to pounce on you. I was asked one thing—to protect you. The last thing my son asked of me. I could have lost you last night. Those men, they were ready to tear you apart.”

  I try to stand, but the stomach acid once more dictates my way to the bathroom. I have nothing to throw up. Only bile.

  A knock on the bathroom door only pisses me off. “If you’re going to lecture me anymore, you can shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  I can hear him clear his throat behind the door. “No, darlin’, I’m done—just making sure you’re okay.”

  I don’t answer because right now it’s easier to be mad at the jackass than the man who calls me darlin’.

  Chapter 8

  Was I a prick? Fuck yeah, I was. My mind is still stuck on the men who were undressing Holland with their eyes—it’s ingrained in my mind. And I don’t like it, not one little bit. But of course, like the sick fucker I am, I still have images of her in those shorts, her ass hanging out.

  She rarely dresses to show off the body she has. But last night, I saw more than I ever needed to, yet, I craved more. I wanted more. My son should come back to this earth just to kick my ass.

  And when she cried, my heart broke for her. What is this girl, only twenty-one and yet she’s dealing with the shit life has slung at her? I had watched her, for a good hour, her breathing regulated after she expelled everything in her stomach. And still, in that form, I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

  I learned so much about this girl. She mumbles in her sleep and moans. And of course, her sweet yet elicit moans had my cock growing by the minute, getting harder than steel. Her nose twitches in her sleep like she’s Sabrina the teenage witch. And the most erotic thing, her fingers play with her nipples as they pebble. I tried to look away and I sure as fuck should have. I wanted to unzip my pants—jacking off to such a sight but I couldn’t. I was stilled by it all. It’s not all physical. The emotional connection of protecting her from those fucktards at the bar has only further strengthened our bond.

  Sleep finally overtook me, but I didn’t leave the girl alone. No, she’s my responsibility and yet she’s become more than a simple promise to my late son. I’m one sick shithead and I’m not sure how to ward off the beast that’s overtaking me.

  After I try to backpedal from my prick-like ways, she pretty much dismisses me when she pukes more. I didn’t think her tiny little body could keep so much poison in her system, but it has.

  I’m out in Scott’s truck, waiting for her when I pull down the visor to block the wicked sun. A picture falls into my lap—it’s Holland and Scott. She’s looking at him, not at the camera. Her eyes, though they aren’t straight on, tell me everything I’ve ever needed to know concerning my son and his wife. His eyes are locked on the camera, yet his arms are wrapped around her.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, my own guilt for ogling my daughter-in-law hits me, even more, when she swings the door open, her eyes puffy. An apple aroma fills the cab of the truck. When she settles in, she keeps her eyes on the passenger door, even when she buckles her seat belt.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  She snickers. What could she snicker about right now? “Um, it depends, are you done being a jackass?”

  She’s still not looking in my direction and I chuckle at her question. “I’m not sure how one thing affects the other. Me being a dick or not has nothing to do with if you are or are not feeling better.”

  “Crap on a stick,” she says under her breath. “You are as much of an ass as your son could be at times.”

  Being compared to Scott leaves my heart broken, yet again. Will I ever wake with the thoughts of my son being gone and not feel like I’m a complete mess? Though, I can’t help but smile at her comparison.

  “And yes, Holland, to answer your question, I’m done being a prick.” I stare at her, willing her to look at me. The picture of Scott and her is still in my lap.

  “Well, I guess you’re right, the two don’t really correspond. I still feel like hot poop on a stick and I can’t guarantee I won’t puke again.”

  I place the picture back where it came from. I’m not sure if this is a needed reminder of what Holland has lost or the needed reminder of what they shared. Or the fucking reminder that she’s my son’s wife.

  “I’ll pull over the second you need me to, okay?”

  “Thanks, Sarge.” It’s all she says and the little episode is behind us. I wish I could put everything she does to my body behind me. If it were only that easy.

  It had taken ten minutes for Holland to fall asleep. Her purple ends are covering her face when an out and out snore fills the cab of the truck. Hell, this girl is so funny. She’s cute, but she has these real-life qualities that should make her less appealing. For me, it only makes her more attractive. The girl is loud as fuck and her snore validates this little idiosyncrasy in her.

  I’m in my own mind, Jon Bon Jovi and me singing “Living on a Prayer,” when out of the corner of my eye, she pops out of a deep sleep. “Maguire, pull over, now.” Her cries put me on notice and when I look in the rearview mirror with no one behind me, I pull over on the shoulder a bit more aggressively than I would typically.

  The door on her side flies open and she leans her small body over, the sounds of puking can be heard for miles. When it’s safe to get to her side of the truck, I pull her out, bringing her in close to me. This is more than a hangover.

  “Holland, this is important,” I whisper into her ear, cries flowing from her. “Did you take drinks from those fuckers or leave your drink somewhere?” It’s a question that could be answered now that we are miles from those shitheads.

  She leans back. “No, Scott taught me well. He pounded it in my head.” Good boy, I think in the second when my son’s wife’s apple shampoo wafts into my nose.

  “And you swear you only had a couple drinks?”

  Her eyes are now big. “Yeah, and there was more Coke than rum, it was really watered down,” she insists. “I swear, Maguire, I was just trying to forget all of this, that’s all.”

  I push her hair from her face. “Okay, darlin’, new plan. We’re going to get another hour or two up the road, then we’ll stop. I can add another day to the trip. All of this stress has caught up with you.”

  I release her and am about to walk around the rear of the truck. I stop when a big rig passes us. I turn to wait to hear her and sees she has more tears in her eyes. “That’s another couple hundred dollars for a hotel room and food. I can’t ask you…”

  She’s biting her nails and looking down at the ground. Her anxiety washes over her and I wonder if she’s internally calculating everything she thinks she owes me. The idea of Holland’s incessant worry triggers the protector in me to rush back to her, taking her in my arms. But I stay—my feet planted. “Holland, I’m not worried about a couple hundred bucks. Your health is more important.”
I don’t give her more time to argue with me. And when she settles herself into the truck again, I’m hit with the fight we’d had earlier. She has been telling me the truth, all along. Suddenly, I’m a fucker for making this bereaved widow feel like a little kid.

  “Darlin’, I’m sorry I was such a fucking prick earlier.”

  A little chuckle escapes her mouth. I’m unable to look over at her, merging back onto the freeway. “Yeah, you were a fucking prick,” she agrees.

  This time, I let out a chuckle. “I still don’t like you saying the word, fuck,” I insist.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take that under advisement, Sarge.” I’m not sure why she calls me Sarge. It started when she was pissed at me. But somewhere deep down, I love she has a nickname just for me.

  He’s pulling into his signature Bates’ Motel for the night and I cringe. I’m not out for his money, but Scott shared with me once how much Maguire is worth. He may not be a multi-millionaire, but he makes pretty good money. When he tried to talk Scott into joining him, he shared he could be a one-third owner with a doable pay in. It would take ten years, but he’d be looking at making three hundred thousand a year just in dividends—not counting his yearly salary.

  It boggles my mind to stay in such a place, but it’s this little thing in him that helps me feel a bit closer to Scott. It’s wrong, placing all this on Maguire to be that part of Scott I miss so fucking much.