𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃
⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍
" 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 " ⋆ ★
part one of multiple
𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂
⋆ ★ warnings: references to abuse
⋆ ★ word count: 6.7k
the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.
»»———- story by 30-3am ———-««
Chapter One - The Summer Heaven Knocked on the Door
18:53, June 17th
Downey, CA
Summer in California was always hot. Swealteringly, miserably hot. The kind of hot where the breeze was stagnant, the warm air stifling as soon as the comfort of the AC was gone. It meandered in harsh waves through the atmosphere; unrelenting in its persistent discomfort. Sweat procured in the folds of skin, the backs of necks, and everywhere else the body deemed necessary to cool down.
It was stubborn and ruthless, only providing some modicum of relief when the clouds rolled over and the sun lowered past the horizon - resting quietly in its crook of the sky to prepare for another day of obstinance.
Evening: blissful.
Breeze crept past the warmth, spreading its kindness to those willing to take it gratefully. The clouds placated the heat, bringing a comfortable chill - comfortable enough to laze on the grass without the threat of the burning intensity of the sun.
It was her favourite time of day. When the cicadas thrummed in the bushes, the soft lick of the breeze tickled the hairs on her arms and the warmth spread throughout her stomach, she was happy. Sat on the porch, swinging in the cracked porch swing that creaked with every movement, guitar in her lap, strings rough under the pads of her fingers, she was happy.
It was her simple slice of heaven. A paradisiacal haven where no one asked anything of her - where her concerns were slaughtered by sheer peacefulness. It was a time when she granted herself a lowly relief from the continuous threat of her existence, of her father's existence. Of the world.
She was wrapped up in her refuge when he came, his 1991 Ford F-150, slowing to a close on the disused driveway, the tangerine glow from the setting sun stretching across the sky as he turned off the engine, music dying with it.
Then, the slam of the paint-chipped door, the American flag her father proudly hung from it fluttering softly with the draft as he stepped out, arms stretched wide and a smile on his face.
“Hey, hey, hey, buddy!” She balanced her guitar against the post. No point attempting to maintain the peace when her father had so rudely interrupted it. “How the fuck have you been?”
He all but skipped down the porch steps, striding proudly to wrap his friend up in a hug.
Heather had known he’d been coming - had been anticipating it since last week when she’d come home from work, her dad laughing into his phone before pulling it from his ear to end the call.
“Who was that?” She’d asked, slipping her sneakers off her feet, socks following shortly after so she could enjoy the coolness of the wood floors on her toes.
“James fucking Hetfield.” He had a cigarette in between his fingers, legs spread wide on the couch with an ashtray between them. A beer was perched on the end table and she didn’t have the energy to argue with him about coasters so she decided, smartly, not to mention it.
“Yeah?” She sat down in the armchair opposite him, putting her feet up on the coffee table and pulling clips from her hair, letting it run wild down her back.
“Bet you don’t remember him.” She did. But it was best not to argue, so, similar to most conversations she held with her dad, she kept quiet. “He used to be one of my best buddies you know?”
Rob Palmer managed to mention that at every party he went to, to every person who bothered to speak to him. “Yeah, we used to hang out when we were kids.” When Heather heard her dad utter those very words she knew his yellowed teeth were on display, a smile lathered in pride stretching the expanse of his face. He’d reach a hand into his pocket to find his phone as further evidence and then would lie when asked if they still talked.
She’d heard the name Hetfield come from her father’s lips more than she had heard her own. It was his thing and he hadn’t let it go since he realised just how big James had become.
He shook his head as he laughed, bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a long drag. Smoke billowed from his mouth as he continued.
“Then he got involved with that bitchy little punk Ulrich and forgot all about your old dad.” There was another laugh from him, the familiar tap as he hovered his cigarette over the ashtray and leant it against the edge of the ceramic.
“He didn’t completely forget about you.” She countered. “I remember seeing him a couple of years ago.”
She watched as his jaw set tight, his tongue kissing his teeth and his head shaking in annoyance.
“Hattie…” She never liked that nickname and cursed it away as he grabbed the ashtray from between his legs and placed it near her resting feet on the coffee table. He leaned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on hers. “Don’t talk back.” It was said with exasperation like he was tired of saying it, the usual ire not laced between his words.
She knew better than to say anything else, her lips pressed tightly together in compliance.
He nodded with a smile and leaned back again, arm draping across the back of the couch.
“Either way,” he pointed to her. “He’s comin’ next week. Says he’s staying in Downey for the summer.” She raised her eyebrows and placed her elbow on the arm of the chair, her cheek pressed into the palm of her hand.
“He’s staying at our place?” He barked a laugh at her question and reached for his beer, swallowing down the last few sips.
“No, princess. He’s a rich man! He’s got a fuckin’ place a couple blocks down.” He scoffs at the admission. “Prick.”
“But he’s coming here?” She asks, wanting to be done with the conversation but unsure of how to exit it without leaving her father in a sour mood due to lack of attention.
He nods his head as he picks up his cigarette again. A long inhale, then an exhale, her nose blind to the scent after years of exposure.
“Says we’re his first stop. So you better be on your best behaviour, you hear?” His tone is light and mildly playful but the implication is prominent. It bites at her and implores her to listen.
“I will.” He’s happy with her response, a singular nod of his head sent her way before he stands with a groan, his knees cracking.
“Right.” He picks up the pack of camel reds, shoving them in his jean pocket, his lighter he’d had since she was fourteen following shortly after. “I’m going out with Stu and Chris.” He gestures around the house as he follows up with, “Clean up the place while I’m gone.”
She bites her tongue, the urge to tell him that she had been working all night whilst he had passed out on the couch so therefore he should be the one cleaning up, dangerously taunting her disobedience. But, it wasn’t worth the argument. It was never worth the argument. So she sends him a soft smile and nods her head.
“I will, Daddy.” He strides over to the door, muttering a singular and careless bye as he slams it behind him, the glass shaking in the frame, a paint chip floating to the floor.
She’d allowed herself a smile once he’d gone, the thought of James, someone who wasn’t her dad or Stu (their neighbour and dad’s self-proclaimed best friend) coming to see her building an anticipation in her gut that didn’t dissipate until he was finally in their driveway, his hand patting at her fathers back.
“I’ve been alright, man.” She notes the cigar clutched in between his index and middle finger, her eyes trailing down to the boots on his feet, his jeans touching the tops of the leather.
He was different from how she remembered him. He was older, certainly. The hair on his head was greyed, his facial hair the same silver colour and the wrinkles around his eyes, as he smiled, were visible. But he looked fuller than when she’d last seen him, like life had shot him in the head and enlightened him.
However, Heather had only been sixteen the last time she’d seen him. She was twenty-two years old now and supposed it was not her place to make assumptions about someone she barely knew.
She cast her gaze to the floor of the porch, allowing them to catch up and share the predicted formalities and also not draw too much attention to herself. She had always been awkward in situations like these and wished that she would not have to endure the unpleasant routine of meeting someone she hadn’t seen for many years.
Instead, she cast her mind to her looming shift with contempt. She’d been working at the diner (affectionately named Michelle’s) for two years now and it only grew more tiresome with each passing day. If she could quit, she would but it wasn’t a viable option. Not with the lack of income from her father and not with the welfare checks he’d managed to get every month. That money went to beer and cigarettes and, if he was lucky, a whore he’d found in Long Beach.
He had no idea the effort she put in to keep the house running, to provide him with a roof over his head and a bed to crawl into in the early hours of the morning and stay there until late in the afternoon. If she were a stronger woman, she would remind him of the fact every time she saw him, but she was not formidable - at least not around him.
“And there she is.” She snapped her head up at the words, her father's rasp unmistakable and familiar.
He waved her over with a hand, his other loose on James’ shoulder.
“Come on, princess. Say hello.” She breathed in, fluttering her eyelids shut. She wasn’t in the mood, but to keep appearances amicable and to keep her father calm, she slid off the porch swing, bare feet pressing into the wood.
She crossed her arms as she padded down the stairs, smiling at the both of them as her feet touched the yellowed grass - the flaxen turf rough on her soles.
“Hi.” The greeting was breathy falling from her lips, one arm untucking from her chest to send a timid wave to James.
His eyes were on her as she stopped in front of them, a wide smile on his face. Her stomach rolled as his eye line flicked down to the tops of her feet and dragged up to her exposed thighs. Then, with a slight twitch of his head, he pulled his gaze back to her face and stepped forward to give her a short-lived hug.
His arms were strong around her, hands pressed into her back as he hunched over slightly to accommodate the size difference. His heat clawed through the thin material of her tank top and she reciprocated his affectionate squeeze before he let her go entirely, his cigar, surprisingly, still in between his fingers.
“You’ve grown up a lot haven’t you?” Her smile twitched at the line, her lips faltering downwards. But, she supposed it was an inevitable question and his laugh was so maddeningly charming that her bother didn’t last long.
She opened her mouth to reply to him, but was, as usual, interrupted.
“She’s got a job now and everything, dude.” It was painful: trying to keep the smile on her face. “Graduated a couple of years ago, didn’t you, princess?” The question was rendered rhetorical as he rambled on. “She’s gonna be, what? Twenty-one soon? Your birthday is in August ain’t it?”
The smile was unable to be maintained and it fell from her face unintentionally.
“Um,” she swallowed and scratched the back of her neck. She decided that if she looked at her father any longer, tears would form, so instead, she turned to James. It was easier to look at him. “I’ll be twenty-three at the end of July.”
Dad bellowed out a laugh, clapping James on the back as if it was the funniest thing he forgot his own daughter's birthday. She could sense from the look in James’ eyes, the blue sharpened by the sun, that he was aware of the unrequited tension felt between father and daughter. In an attempt to appease it, he placed a hand on her shoulder, the palm warm and big against her skin.
“Man, don’t you just miss being twenty-three?” She tried not to shiver underneath him, instead forced a laugh from her throat and gazed at the chain peeking from underneath his Motorhead shirt. “I’ll be fifty-nine on August third.”
He was older than her dad by a year, older than her by thirty-six. She felt far away from him, just a naive young girl under his affectionate, almost annoyingly paternal gaze.
His hand was off her shoulder and her skin burned at the loss, the imprint of him salient.
“Jesus Christ, fifty-nine?” Her father maintained his jesting tone, on the surface reflecting a man joking with an old friend. But she knew. She knew from the twitch of his eye and the slight tilt of his head, there was jealousy. “And you’re still doing all that band shit?” His hands were off James, instead resting them on his hips, shoulders pulled back in faux superiority towards his friend.
“Yeah,” James waved his hand dismissively, noting the change in attitude however much her father tried to hide it. “We’re actually writing some new stuff right now.”
The smile was sustained by James, his thumbs tucked into his belt loops and she wondered when he was going to put that goddamn cigar down.
“Really?” Her dad was pushing his shoulders back so far, his chin tilted upwards and hands migrating to his own belt loops to mirror James. She glanced over at him, a quick look of disgust he couldn’t see and then averted her attention back to the more amiable of the pair. “Well, let’s hope it’s not as shitty as the last album.”
She cringed at the joke, her mouth parting to palliate her father's poor taste but James just laughed softly and she sealed her lips, swaying in her stance to cool down the bottoms of her feet that were burning on the drive's tarmac.
“We’re working hard on it.”
She wondered, passively, why on earth James was friends with someone like her father. She had not known him when he was seventeen, nor had she known her dad when he was seventeen either, but now, she couldn’t figure out why they would willingly choose to spend time with one another. Between her father’s blatant jealousy and James’ almost vexing charisma, they were not a match. Not to mention the alcohol she knew James didn’t touch anymore or the complete lack of similar interests.
Her father regularly told her to put the guitar down when he was nursing a hangover, had barged through her bedroom door and told her to stop singing - however quiet she may have been - because his head hurt and he was trying to sleep. Even when it wasn’t her voice, when it was the soft lull of Bowie or Joplin or Dylan, he had an issue.
She thought it was fair to assume that James would embrace the music - not dismiss it. And her dad was dragging their increasingly interesting guest up the porch steps by his shoulder, lying loudly about what he’d been up to when the soft footsteps stopped and the creaking wood calmed.
She stopped with them, following James’ eye line to the guitar she’d fondly placed against the railing when he’d arrived. Then, his eyes weren’t on the instrument anymore and were instead on her, smiling curiously.
“You play?” His attention was completely directed at her, his eyes warmer than even the California sun.
“Yeah.” Her voice comes out shakier than she would’ve liked and she brushes her hair out of her eyes to recollect herself. “Yeah, I’ve been playing for a few years now.”
Her dad, the attention grabber he is, tried to bring the conversation back to him, lying (as usual) about how he had brought her the second-hand acoustic that rested underneath the shade of the porch. But, to her pleasant surprise, James paid him no mind.
It was a different feeling: to have all the attention directed at her. His eyes told her he was listening, his soft smile reassuring that he was interested in what she had to say.
She had to push away the feel in her stomach, the tickle up the back of her neck as he asked more questions.
“What kinda stuff do you play?”
The impatience emanating from her father was palpable and she considered not answering, in fear that she would be told off for “ruining daddy’s reunion”, but her lips moved before the thought could become too loud. All thanks to the undivided attention James was granting her.
“Folk stuff mostly.” She becomes more comfortable with each word. However shy she is, music was something Heather knew she could talk about and the opportunity to do so never cropped up often. When it did, she seized it with a strong fist. “I love Bob Dylan. And, I also play a bit of country, bluegrass inspired stuff and the like.”
He seems impressed, his eyebrows subtly raising and his mouth pulling into an expression of surprise.
“And sometimes soft rock.” She smiles, before adding. “Nothing as heavy as what you play.”
He snorts a laugh, shaking his head and for the first time since he arrived, brings the cigar to his lips and takes a gentle puff.
“You got a good kid here, brother.” She attempts to hide her disappointment as her father is brought harshly back into the conversation. “Raised her right.”
He screws his face up at James’ words, shaking his head in dismissal.
“No,” he waves his hands between her and the guitar. “She figured all that shit out by herself. I fuckin’ hate Bob Dylan.”
She reverts into her shell as he speaks, arms crossing over her chest and teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.
“Hey, nothing wrong with Bob Dylan.” It’s strange - the warmth she feels as he defends her. It’s pleasant, the same warmth she feels when evening spreads through the city and she can sit on her porch swing without a worry in the world. No one had even come close to replicating her sanctuary and she plays with the loops on her shorts, wondering if she - just like him - should slip her thumbs into them too.
The conversation between the two drags back to meaningless small talk and she grabs her guitar from where it rests, holding it by the neck as she follows them through the door and lets it click closed behind them.
21:45
Their laughter floats through the walls as she gets ready for work, voices muffled by the plaster and paint. It had almost been three hours since James had arrived and they had been happily reminiscing in the living room, her unable to enter the conversation via the demands of her father.
“Don’t bother us.” He’d said after ushering her into the privacy of the kitchen, pushing a finger into her chest. His breath was hot on her face as he spoke, his anger eminent and terrifying. “You already fucked it up with your guitar bullshit.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” She had learnt long ago that it was best to let the fear he instilled resonate, to not provoke it further and pry a bigger beast from the depths.
“Yeah, whatever. Just…” He’d ran a hand through his hair, remnants of the gel he fondly and generously used setting the flyaways in place. Then, he was pointing at her again, eyes alight with indignation. “Just don’t fuckin’ talk to him, Heather? He’s not interested in you.”
He’d strode out of the kitchen with a scoff, his grating laugh following shortly after as he asked James if he wanted a drink.
She hadn’t dared step in the living room since. She’d instead sat in her room and preoccupied herself with meaningless tasks, too afraid to turn her music on and her head too full to do anything but sit and wait until it was time for work.
At around 21:45, she left the solace of her room to go to the kitchen.
Their laughs were loud, the TV humming softly in the background with unrecognisable voices. They muffled again as her feet hit the kitchen tile and she closed the door behind her.
Shuffling about in the kitchen, plucking a glass from the cupboard she preoccupied herself with thoughts, planning the days ahead, reviewing the days long behind her. Unfortunately for her though, as she turned on the tap and filled her glass, Heather’s brain persisted in providing her with nothing but him: their new guest that currently resided on the couch she flung herself down onto every morning after work.
He had been so devilishly charming, so civil and suspiciously unflawed. Different. The last time Heather had seen him, he’d had a look in his eyes, a certain air to his walk that spoke of incapacitation. He also had a wife on his arm. Now, he drifted alone in that comely 91’ Ford F-150.
Where his wife had gotten to, she didn’t know; she never thought it was fair to make assumptions unless they were daubed in evidence so she didn’t entertain the idea of divorce.
She was also unsure as to why he was here. She knew why he was in Downey - that was obvious - but why he even thought it a good idea to reingratiate himself with her father, she did not know.
From the little knowledge she held of him, he was a sober man. He was also far from an asshole, something that Robert Palmer most certainly wasn’t. Overall, he was a nice guy - approachable. He was the antithesis of her father and yet, here he was, laughing and joking and reminiscing as if her dad didn’t make the air she breathed pungent with misery.
However, she granted him the benefit of the doubt. He had not been around her dad as long as she had and (all credit to the patriarch) he was able to switch who he was significantly between people he liked and disliked. She, particularly, was a dislike. James seemed like a like. Of course, he was going to be couthy and welcoming around James.
The door opened with a creak as she flicked the tap off and brought the glass to her lips.
“Oh.” She turned in her spot, the small of her back pressing against the sharp edge of the counter. “Sorry, kid, didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Kid.
It was stupid how much the nickname bothered her, how much it made her stomach roll in disgust and her lips twitch in an attempt to make the distaste for the name known.
She decided, astutely, to maintain her image of gentility.
“You’re okay.” He was standing in the doorway, an empty glass hanging loosely by his side, fingers spread over the rim. There was the same smile he’d used in the driveway etched deep into his features and she felt the roll of her gut as his eyes flicked to her thighs again.
Then, as if remembering himself and where he was, he ripped his gaze away and beamed warmly at her.
“Came in to get more water.” He held the glass up as evidence and her lips flicked upwards as she stepped sideways so he could access the sink.
With two long strides, he invaded her space, his shoulders hunching as he worked at the tap and waited patiently for his glass to fill.
Why she couldn’t pull her eyes away, she didn’t know. She didn’t even know that she’d been staring until blue peered at her face and she felt the back of her neck heat in discomfiture.
He didn’t seem to feel the same unease as a short chuckle was pulled from his throat and he rested against the counters, feet crossing over one another as he took a long gulp from the glass.
“What you been up to, kid?” There it was again. The affectionate, infantilizing ‘kid.’ “Your dad says you’re working now.”
She placed her glass on the laminate dotted with stains and marks that had accumulated lovingly over the years. She was suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. Their home was nothing special, the furniture aged, the walls stained from the many cigarettes smoked and everything in need of repair. His house most definitely did not look like theirs and she subconsciously shifted closer to her glass to cover the object of their neglect.
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms and held them against her chest, politely continuing the small talk he had begun. “I work night shifts at this diner. Nothing too special.”
“Michelle’s?” He questioned, mirroring her and crossing his arms over his chest. She flicked her gaze to his tattoos once, gazing upon the dark ink littering his forearms before stopping herself from staring and looking at his face again.
“Yeah. Unfortunately,” she tried to joke. His laugh was probably due to politeness and not actual amusement.
“I remember that place.” The lines on his face accentuate as he smiles. “They made a pretty mean burger.”
She laughs, too breathy and high-pitched to stop herself from cringing and becoming more self-conscious.
“I think you’d be disappointed then.” She shoots him a look of faux sympathy, lowering her voice as if her following words would hurt him. “The burgers are pretty shitty now.”
He cocks his head to the side, kissing his teeth before averting his gaze to the floor.
“I don’t believe you.”
The giggle she let out was girlish and she regretted how puerile she came across. For some unknown reason, she wanted to be mature around him - she wanted him to see her as an equal. Certainly not as a kid. She supposed, logically, that she didn’t come across as so infantile, but she was determined to stop him from using that stupid nickname - was determined to make him see her as the adult she was.
“You’ll have to come round and try sometime then.” It frightened her: how easy the conversation was becoming. Normally, around strangers, she could barely engage in small talk, and had no idea how to be sociable around others. Heather had never been the approachable waitress; she had been called into Hal’s (her manager) office more times than she cared to remember on account of her supposed nonchalance. Yet, here he was: making her a respectable lady.
“I might have to.” He took a sip of his water, briefly unfolding his arms to do so before crossing them back over his chest and settling opposite her.
She flicked her eyes once to the door - just in case.
“When does your shift finish then?” It was strange, how easily he rolled into conversation like sand passing through the dunes. It was also strange how undeniably warm it made her feel when he spoke to her and only her. She’d experienced it on the porch and she was facing it now; heat rushed through her as quickly as the California sun struck the ground at noon.
“I finish at six.” She shifted in her position, using her right hand to push hair out of her face and then slipping it back near her left. “Start at eleven.”
He whistled lowly, cocking his head to the left once and then setting it back in its place - eyes firmly fixed on her.
“It can’t be fun for you, kid.” She replied with a scoff.
“What can you do? It pays.”
He puffed out a breath of air, averting his gaze to the ground: thinking.
“I guess you’re only young.” Blue was back to staring at her. “It isn’t a bad job for a twenty-two-year-old.”
She shrugged, tugging her mouth downward to display indifference.
“I guess.”
There was a silence, extensive and profound until even he could not bear it any longer.
“What do you wanna do?”
“Job wise?”
He nodded.
“Well…” She began, wetting her lips and standing a little straighter. “I wanna do music, preferably.” To disclose something like that to him was more daunting than she expected it to be. “I don’t really mind what but if it involves music, I’ll take it.”
The lines across his forehead were emphasised as he raised his eyebrows, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“What’s stopping you?”
Everything.
She wanted to yell it at him, or maybe whisper it in a hushed confession. She wanted to tell him that she had been anticipating his arrival since she was informed he was coming, had lost sleep the night before he came because he was an opportunity. He was a chance. Perhaps, it was selfish to take from him in a way, but if he offered her a small possibility, a glimmer of a chance that she could achieve what she wanted, she would grasp it with a fist so tight it could break quartzite.
But, instead, she chose the safer reply. The one less desperate.
“Things…” She left that open for interpretation and quickly spoke again before he could question. “But, I play my guitar every day and I sing when I can. It’s not like I’m not doing the right things.”
“You sing as well?”
“A little.”
“Well, you’ll have to sing for me sometime.”
Her eyes widened a little and her lips curved upwards.
“No.” The word was firm on her tongue, said in jest but meant entirely.
“C’mon.” He drew out the last syllable, chuckling lightly. His chest moved with humour and he uncrossed his arms, placing his hands on the surface behind him.
She glanced at the door again, surprised he had not burst through and begged for James back. She found herself hoping that he stayed put.
One thing in common she held with her father was that she did not want to share James.
“I’ve only ever sung for myself and you’re a goddamn frontman.” Her throat filled with soft laughter, her body warm with an easement she had not felt in a long while.
“And?” He cocked his brow at her, hands gripping the edge of her counters.
One look at his ring finger; relief at the lack of a ring.
“I don’t know.” She turned her eyes to the floor, reduced to an embarrassed child as she muttered. “Things like that are scary to me.”
He sighed in sympathy and understanding and she watched as he changed his position, right foot replacing left and crossing over one another.
“Sometimes, you gotta do shit that scares you, Heather. It’s not nice but it’s necessary. It’s a part of life.”
She flicked her eyes back up to him to see azure - bright and warm - staring back at her. Neither of them spoke for a long while, neither of them looked away.
Warmth was seeping in again, building and building until it was a fiery pit in her belly. It raged hot and contemptible, begging with an unadulterated want to be set free and spread throughout the land. It ate at her insides and desecrated her mind until it was only blue and nothing but.
The door creaked, familiar and deafening and she drew her eyes away from him quickly, darting them to the strong set jaw of her father.
Fear: it was a common emotion. She experienced it often and it was all due to him. The person who was supposed to protect her and guard her, who was supposed to love her and warn her of the men who were out to hurt her. Sometimes, she thought that maybe he didn’t hate her as he said he did, maybe he did love her how a father should. But the storm would rage beneath his eyes, would rise to the surface and flood the land with wrath.
His eyes glanced between the two of them once before he forced a smile and kept up his image of falsity.
“You two getting to know each other?”
To anyone else, she supposed that he didn’t look as piqued as he felt. He was always good at masking his emotions, infuriatingly exceptional at fixing the holes in the pipes with tape that would break almost certainly.
“She was telling me about her job.” He could feel it. She could tell. It was impossible not to note the growing tension that permeated the yellow kitchen walls, that seeped into the tiles and rendered her speechless. “I didn’t realise Michelle’s was still going.”
Light-heartedness, casualness. Heather wasn’t sure how he managed it.
“It’ll probably be gone by September. Hal’s been down to the bar a couple of times and sobbed to me and Stu about how much fuckin’ debt he’s in.”
There was no ‘it’s a shame she’ll be out of a job’ or ‘I’m gonna look for a job in case she does end up losing hers.’ Nothing. Just the naive and ignorant thought that it would work out fine, that “his Hattie” would figure it out as she always does.
“Well, let’s hope not.” She managed to look at James again, gazing at the small smile he sent her way. It was comforting and slightly pitying. It was a change from her father. She got whiplash just from how vastly different their characters were.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine either way.” He dismissed her so quickly, standing in the doorway and staring at her as if she was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen.
She hoped to a God she still wasn’t sure was there, that James would stay forever. That he would take her in his arms and save her from her dad. His whole presence in her house sent a wave of calm rushing through the walls and crashing at her feet. She wanted to reach for him and grasp the expanse of his shoulders, to hold him there and beg him to take her with him.
But, her dad was ushering James back into the living room like a child begging for the attention of their older sibling and she was backed into the corner, the edge of the counter marking the flesh of her back; she refused to move.
She watched helplessly as he disappeared from her gaze, the silver in his hair glinting against the yellow lights and then retreating around the corner.
“Daddy…” She muttered, his gaze digging into the side of her face, branding her with a mark of shame. “I’m-.”
“I told you.” He’s unnaturally calm, his aggression staying tucked behind him and refusing to come out around James - hiding. Faking.
There’s a shake of his head, and he’s out the door, leaving her with trembling legs and a beating heart.
22:15
Heather was nervous. To get to the door, she had to cross the threshold of danger. She had to fall into the sight of her father and James who was still lingering in her living room. He had said that he was going twice but had remained seated, legs spread wide on her couch. For fifteen minutes, she had stood in the hallway, her work clothes scratching at her skin and anxiety filling up her gut and spilling over every time she dared move.
She should’ve been out the door at least five minutes ago, her walk to the diner costing her forty-five minutes of precious time. She didn’t mind - not really. She’d stick her headphones in, push the volume up high and think. Thinking was a habit of hers. She did it too often to be comfortable in her own head and too hard to prevent the harsh rise of her chest and the sting of tears in her eyes when she reminded herself of what she didn’t have - what she could have if she wasn’t so stuck.
“You’d get on real well with, Stu.” Her dad’s voice is right in her ears, travelling harshly and snapping her from her reverie. She had to get to work, and with a contemptuous sigh, she hitched her bag higher up her shoulder and set her mind to the door and the red white and blue hanging from it.
She took small steps down the hallway, the wood creaking underneath her Converse loud enough that she gave up trying to be quiet. She supposed he could hear her coming anyway because he grew silent, and when she rounded the corner, they were both looking at her.
Both were smiling but only one was genuine.
She sent them a small smile back, the force of the action unexplainably tiring. It was getting more exhausting by the day to be agreeable. She was ready to let it all go and scream until she had no voice left.
“It’s ten-fifteen, princess, you’re gonna be late.”
His faux concern was laughable. She wanted desperately to expose him right in front of his ‘best friend’. To tell James how much of a terrible father he really is and that this personality he’d acquired for his benefit is all, fucking false.
She thought about it a lot, but that was all she was good for. Thinking. It was nice to imagine though, even if she knew nothing would come from it.
“I know, Daddy.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice timorous. “Just lost track of time.”
He opens his mouth to speak, cigarette dangling loosely from his fingers and one quick glance at the almost empty pack of camels tells her that she’ll have to go pick up a new one for him on her way back from work.
But, fortunately, he’s interrupted, the deep baritone of this new figure in her life saving her.
“I’ll take her.” Her dad’s eyes widen and it all slips. Just for a second, he slips. Then, he pulls himself back, relaxing his shoulders and taking a long drag to sedate the rising vexation swimming in his head - blinding rationality.
“You’re alright, man.” She watches curiously, studying the dynamic between the two, the obvious irritation from Dad and the indifference from James.
“No, it’s fine.” He removes himself from the worn couch, standing tall and proud, muscles flexing beneath the cotton of his shirt. “I was gonna head off anyway.”
There’s nothing her dad can do except agree. For the sake of appearances, for the sake of keeping James blissfully ignorant of his true nature, he has to feign gratitude.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s no trouble.”
“Thanks, James. Heather, say thank you.” If she wasn’t thinking so hard about the consequences of this later, she would’ve laughed - would’ve snorted out a chuckle and mocked him.
“Thank you.” Blue was slowly starting to become her favourite colour and she wondered if he knew just how appreciative she was of him in her home. She didn’t know how long he’d be staying but she hoped it was long enough for her to sort herself out and run like hell out of Downey until she was at the opposite end of the country.
“No problem, kid.” The nickname didn’t land so harshly in her ears that time. Instead, she savoured the attention, the naive thought that ‘kid’ was his way of making their relationship separate from her dad. She was no longer “Rob’s daughter.” She was individual. She was Heather.
And he was saying bye to her dad, promising that he’d call by again soon and was guiding her to his truck before she could even process the situation. Only when she was seated in the vehicle, bare legs against the leather, did she grant herself a smile - a moment to relish in the fact she had disobeyed her father for once in her goddamn life.
She reminded herself to thank James for his help at some point in the future.
⋆ ★
A/N: i hope the first part was intriguing enough despite the lack of action. i also hope you're not too disappointed in my choice of naming my original characters. it just made more sense for me and possibly for you.
i'm hoping to update this fic weekly if i can but that may not always be the case. either way, i hope you enjoyed and i'll see you next time i update!
alana.