Read Every Part of You: Takes Me (#5) for Free Online Page B

punctuated by the disgusting snorfle-grunt of the old man’s breathing. Elliott turned. His father gave him a wide, broad grin.
    “What do you want?” Elliott repeated.
    “You gonna pour yourself a glass or what?” His father pointed at the bottle.
    Elliott turned back to the bottle, which seemed to have grown and shrunk at the same time, a real Alice in Wonderland bit of fuckery he had to squint to see. The bottle rattled against the glass as he poured. He added ice from the freezer and turned to lift it. “You want one?”
    “No. I don’t touch the stuff anymore. I thought you knew that.” His father paused, eyeing him. “I’ve been sober for eight years.”
    “Funny how prison makes that easier.” Elliott drank back half the glass. Then the rest. The burn of it had gone away; now he only felt the warmth.
    “Prison didn’t make anything easier.”
    More silence. Elliott turned the glass in his hand to rattle the ice. He lifted it to his mouth again to gather the last few drops. He thought about pouring himself another, but he’d lost track of how much he’d had. Everything had grown a soft fuzz around the edges.
    “What,” he said again, “do you want?”
    “Well. For starters, I’m not here asking you for anything that isn’t mine.”
    Elliott leaned against the counter, glass still in one hand, and loosened his tie with the other. “I don’t have a single fucking thing that’s yours.”
    “Oh. Yeah. You do.” His father nodded and took a couple steps forward. “And let me tell you, I understand why you did it.”
    “Did what?” Elliott closed one eye. Opened it to close the other. The fucker was still out of focus.
    “Bought this house from her. I know she needed the money, and you thought you were doing a good thing, taking care of her. But I’m back now, and I can do it.”
    The absurdity of this sent a rush of hot bile into Elliott’s throat. He choked out a laugh. “You? What the hell are you talking about?”
    His father might as well have yanked a soft-brimmed hat off his head to clutch in front of him while he scuffed a foot. That was the depth of his performance. That “aww shucks, I’m a good old boy” act that had stopped working on Elliott at about the age of nine, which was the last time he’d allowed himself to be disappointed when his father let him down.
    “Well, I’m gonna bring her home, of course. She should be taken care of by someone who loves her. Not be in some home with strangers. It’s the least I can do.”
    Elliott turned. “The fuck are you saying?”
    “I’m gonna bring her home. You heard me.” His father looked around the kitchen. “Get this place back in shape. Take care of her here.”
    “Back in shape?” Elliott barked laughter. “Like you ever did a damn thing around here? Is that what you’re talking about? Me giving you this house back, so you can squat in it while you … what? Take care of Molly until she dies? You know she’s terminal, don’t you? Her condition is degenerative. She’s going to die.”
    “We’re all gonna die.” His father gave him another of those horrifying picket-fence grins. “She ought to do it here in the comfort of her home.”
    “You are so full of shit. And you are no fucking way taking her out of that facility.” Elliott stumbled on the words, slurring. He swallowed the thickness of whiskey and spit. “And you’re not getting this house back, either. I bought this house. It’s mine. You. Can’t. Have it.”
    His father’s eyes narrowed. Gone was the shuffle-footed clown, replaced by the first glimmers of the man Elliott knew much better. The one with the nasty temper. The one who liked to talk with his fists.
    “I think you need to check your tone,” his father said.
    Elliott straightened. He was drunk, but not wasted. He jerked his chin toward the back door. “Get out of here before I throw you out.”
    “You can’t throw me out of my own house.”
    Elliott pulled his cell phone from his