Page 13 of His to Love
It was a lame excuse, and I shouldn’t have bothered. He despised them.
Jimmy Galecki’s presence sucked the oxygen out of the room, and I fought the shiver that rolled down my spine as my father inspected the place. I noticed that he didn’t seem to have aged a bit in the years I had been gone. His black hair was just as shiny and styled the same, parted on one side and flopped over his forehead. His shoulders were broad and he still stood extremely tall. I didn’t get my height or my personality from my dad but the hair and light blue eyes were two things he could claim he gave me.
That and money.
I was a raised a Galecki, and he commanded respect by a simple look. I gave that to him, allowed him to look his fill, and forced my gaze not to fall on my closed bedroom door.
“Your trip was good?” he asked when he finished.
“It was.” I tightened the belt at my waist and refused to fidget. He hated fidgeting and any show of nerves possibly more than he hated excuses. Not wanting him to see my trembling hands, I quickly made my way to the small kitchenette and began preparing a cup of coffee. “How are you?”
The little girl inside me pleaded for a loving look from him. Something kind in his eyes, something to show he was glad to see me. It wasn’t that he hated me, but showing any weakness in his world was deadly and that included showing affection for his only child.
“Your mother wants to see you today.”
Holding an empty coffee mug in one hand, I looked down at my robe. My hair had to be a matted mess, and the remnants of last night’s alcohol and poor decisions were pounding at the base of my skull.
“Now?”
The way his lips curved said it all. “Whenever you can manage to pull yourself together.”
I took the insult like I had taken all of them—with a simple nod.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there’s something else I need to talk to you about while you’re at the house today.”
“Mom?”
“No.”
Something pressed itself against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I knew it. I freaking knew that his allowing me to not move home when I came back to Detroit would bite me in the ass. He hadn’t been allowing anything at all. He had chosen to wait for a more opportune time to manipulate me into doing something he wanted. He didn’t have to say it. I had lived that life for eighteen years, always under his thumb and direction. The glacial look in his eyes said it all: He had a plan for me, and he wouldn’t allow me to get out of it.
Damn it.
“Oh?” I asked, and he shook his head.
Sliding his hands into the front pockets of his suit coat, he stalked toward me. It was how he moved. My dad didn’t walk or wander, he strode with purpose every moment of his life.
It was probably one of the things that had kept him alive. That and his armed guards.
He dipped his chin when he reached me at the entrance to the small kitchen and smiled. It was fleeting, disappearing before the little girl inside of me could cling to the hope that her dad really did love her.
“It’s good to see you, Gabriella. Your mother and I are pleased you’re home.”
I smiled hopefully. “It’s good to see you, too.”
With another nod, he slid past me, and paused at the door.
“Make sure you’re dressed appropriately for your visit.”
My smile fell along with my shoulders.
Then he was gone, and the door shut behind him. It echoed in the quiet room, along with my heart, which was beating against my ribcage.
I turned back to the counter and filled my mug with steamy goodness, knowing that delicious coffee wouldn’t erase the sting of his visit.
“I see he hasn’t become any less of an asshole,” Tyson said, walking into the living room with the grace of a panther. So similar to my own father, really.
