My Fiancé’s Dad

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Chapter 27

“Call me?” Alison throws over her shoulder coyly, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.
She’s so pretty.
“Yeah, I reckon I’ll call you.”
Her face breaks into a smile, a dirty laugh leaving the lips I’ve kissed the fuck out of the past few days.
She has a little rash around her chin from my stubble, and she’s begged me to grow my beard, so it didn’t irritate her anymore.
Beards take time to grow.
She’s in this for the long haul.
Alison calls Kiki, who follows her without hesitation. The red bandana around Kiki’s neck makes me grin, and like she knew, she turned to give me a curious look.
Alison follows her gaze, and our eyes meet once more.
The girl has my heart; there’s nothing else to it.
I drink her in until she disappears into her parents’ house, missing her already.
We’d agreed that we need to have a little time apart—her to spend some time with her family and work, me to work and deal with Kurt.
The very thought of my son pisses me off.
We all know that dickhead, the guy that fucks girls around and doesn’t give a shit for their feelings.
I used to be that guy, but I wasn’t ever as bad as Kurt was.
Alison’s insecurities run deep, and they’re completely unjustified.
If a woman isn’t what you deem to be perfection, you better be damn sure to look in the mirror before throwing that shit around.
Kurt just disappoints me.
So he might get drafted for the NFL.
He’s a good looking guy from money—money that I worked damn hard to get—but he’s immature and egotistical.
Alison wanted to be his wife—-and the fact he didn’t snap her hand off and show her off to the world makes zero sense.
I need to chat with my boy.
See if I can salvage any of this fucking relationship.
Pulling into my drive, the first thing I notice is the open door.
Cutting the engine, I hot foot it to the house, my instincts telling me something is wrong.
The house is eerily silent.
There’s beer bottles everywhere. My sofa is ripped, and my tv is face down on the floor.
I’ve been fucking robbed.
The french doors are open, the breeze flowing through the house to the front door causes a door to slam.
The kitchen is fucked.
Lights are on and flickering, glass crunching beneath my trainers as I head toward the stairs.
Clothes are thrown all over the banister.
My clothes.
I’m fucking stumped, but I head upstairs, bracing myself for more carnage.
The words ‘traitor’ are engraved in my bedroom door, clearly done by a knife. Clenching my jaw, I find the bathroom door hanging off it’s hinges, the shower screen smashed all over the floor.
Who smashes a fucking bathroom up?
What were they looking for?
My room is bad.
My shirts are shredded.
The bed has been ripped apart with a knife, and the blinds ripped from the windows.
An acrid stench meets my nose, and I stare down at the carpet, realising I’m standing in fucking piss.
I’m trembling.
Who the fuck would do this to me?
Without thinking, I dial nine-one-one, requesting police presence.
Thank god I didn’t bring Alison and Kiki here.
Turning to Kurt's room, I find him spread out across the bed, his naked ass clearly intoxicated.
He slept through this?!
“Kurt!” I roar, but he doesn’t move.
Rage overtakes me, and I cross over to the bed, shaking him roughly.
I don’t give a shit how drunk he was.
The anger turns to panic when my son doesn’t respond, his skin clammy to the touch.
Rolling him over, I lean down to his mouth, listening for any sign of life.
I feel him breathing on my cheek, his breath reeking of alcohol.
But the worst part is his nose.
It’s caked in white powder.
“Kurt! Shit!” I hiss, slapping his cheeks as I hear the slam of car doors from outside.
Kurt is conscious, lifting his arm over his eyes as he groans.
Footsteps enter the house, and I know the police have arrived.
I can’t trust myself to speak, but somehow, I do.
“Did you wreck my fucking house?” I hiss, any paternal concern leaving my body.
Kurt cracks a smile, and I die inside.
He did.
The bastard.
“You wrecked my life,” Kurt mutters, and I grab him by the throat, dragging him out of bed.
“Sir, step aside!” A policeman barks from behind me, and I give Kurt one hefty slap upside his head.
“Sir! Back up!”
I’m yanked away from Kurt, who is groaning like a little bitch on the floor.
The police march me from the room, and I shrug them off in rage.
“He did this to my fucking property!”
The policeman frowns, flicking open a notepad at an annoying speed.
“Calm down, Sir. Is this your house?”
Is he high?
“Of course it fucking is!” I snarl, but the warning look from the heavy set officer shuts me down. “He’s my son!”
“Ah, so you’ve had a family dispute?”
I wave my hand at the door to my bedroom, my eyes bulging.
“A family dispute? I’ll kill that little bastard.”
Kurt is kicking off in his bedroom, refusing to answer questions and generally pissing the world off.
“Do you want to press charges?” The policeman asks, sighing as my son is pulled from his room in cuffs.
Two officers have him firmly in their grip, but his bloodshot eyes glare at me as they try to keep us apart.
Kurt needs help.
I didn’t even know he did drugs, did Alison?
My heart aches.
Did I drive him to this?
He’s my son.
A criminal record will ruin him.
But this?
I drag my hand across my mouth as they march him out to the awaiting police car.
I blink back angry tears of disappointment, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Sir,” the policeman sighs. “We’re going to need to know if you want to press charges here. Against him?” The policeman juts his thumb towards the door, and I inhale sharply.
Being a parent fucking sucks.
But being a parent to someone like Kurt is like a social experiment gone wrong.
Little fucker.

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