Blocked (20 page)

As I climbed into the backseat of Vehicle #2, the changeup all made sense.

“Hey, buddy.”

I gritted my teeth as I stared into blue eyes just like mine, only aged thirty years. “Hi, Dad.”

Patrick DuPont extended his arms like he wanted to hug me, and I noticed the two agents in front watching, despite their efforts to pretend otherwise. I swallowed and accepted his hug. It seemed he’d shrunk since I’d last seen him, though he still topped six-four.

“We’re rolling,” said the agent in the driver seat.

I scooted an inch away from Dad as we stopped to let a teeming river of students pass by on the crosswalk. “Why are you here?”

“Good to see you too, son.”

“I have practice soon.” Mom always told me guilt-trips take a sender and a receiver, and I refused to let him play off his absence in my life as
my
fault.

“I know. They’re just taking us somewhere private to talk.”

“So you’re not staying?”

“Do you want me to?” When I didn’t answer, he ran his hand through his silver hair. His tanned face sported a few more wrinkles, but he looked every bit the debonair artist he’d been when he met my mother years ago: tall, lean, and charming. She’d first fallen in love with his abstract paintings, and it hadn’t been long before she’d fallen for
him
. At least that’s what the documentaries said, propping up their marriage as a story of devoted love between two passionate, creative souls.
What a farce
.

We arrived at a metro park with wooded paths. Although it was a beautiful day, the parking lot wasn’t very full in the early afternoon.

“How ’bout a walk?” When Dad smiled, his white teeth dazzled.

Do I have a choice?
“Sure.”

Phil had taken the team to this park last spring, the day after we’d played like shit in a conference game. He’d gathered us by the entrance to the main path—a hilly, three-mile loop. “Take a long, easy, run, guys,” he’d told us. “Work that despicable play out of your system. Commune with nature.” After two loops, he’d sat us down in the grass and had us meditate for thirty minutes. It had become one of my favorite places in town after that.

I hoped my dad taking me here wouldn’t screw that up.

Brad and China walked about a hundred yards in front of us, and Dad’s protection detail walked about the same distance behind. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the packed-dirt path, and birds chirped as they flitted overhead. The light breeze and tree cover kept the temperature comfortable. I inhaled the smell of leaves and felt a blessed letup of the irritability that had plagued me the past two weeks.

We’d walked a few minutes before I realized Dad hadn’t spoken. “I see you’re planning to take Mom’s advice,” I offered.

“What’s that?” He shook his head, seeming to shake off distraction.

“Talking while walking. It’s better for guys to do something active while discussing something important. They’re less likely to get emotionally flooded.”

He stopped and stared at me. “When did you get so smart?”

When I grew up without
you. “I’m just citing John Gottman’s research. Mom used to take me for a walk when she had to drop some bad news on me.”

He grimaced, then resumed walking. “You’re right. I do have something important to tell you…some bad news.” The light feeling I’d experienced vanished. “And this does have to do with your mother. She told me you’ve been asking about me.”

Some more minutes elapsed in silence, and I braced myself for him to get it over with already.

“How much do you know about my painting career?” he asked.

Random
. “Um…you won some award when you were twenty-two.”

He chuckled bitterly. “Yes, the famous award.” He looked at his Italian leather shoes. “Then it all went downhill.”

“I thought you were a well-known artist when Mom met you.”

“Well-known for my earlier work. I’d hit a dry spell when I met her.” He kicked a rock, which seemed uncharacteristic for a suave, mature man like himself. “I remember when I met her at that gallery the night of my show—she was so smart, so classy…” His soft smile faded. “I was embarrassed that the place was just about empty. I’d become a has-been painter. Then she told me she’d convince her father to be my benefactor. ‘Talent like this needs to be nurtured,’ she said.”

Whoa
. I’d never heard about Grandfather bankrolling Dad’s painting.

“But I lost my touch. The more money Mr. Monroe gave me, the uglier my paintings became. God, I created some monstrosities back then. I was frozen.” He grunted. “Just like that old man.”

I felt my eyebrows arch. I’d never heard anyone brave enough to disparage my grandfather. Had Dad always disliked the far-reaching influence of the Monroe family? He’d claimed he was fine with Mom keeping her surname after they married, then passing it along to Jessica and me, but for the first time I wondered if that was true.

“Finally, after seeing how frustrated I was, Lois asked me if I wanted to quit painting and work for her father. There was an opening in one of his property management companies.” He blew out a breath. “I never should’ve done it, Dane.”

I tried to figure out how this meandering story related to the bad news he promised to deliver. “Why?”

“Because it fucking
emasculated
me!”

His shout carried over the treetops, and I looked ahead to see Brad and China turned toward us, appearing ready to draw their weapons.

Dad must have noticed their alarm because he held his arm out and yelled, “We’re okay!” He turned to wave to the agents behind us, then swiveled around and smothered his face with his hands. “Christ, I’m a mess.”

I’d never seen him like this. “Uh, let’s keep walking, okay?” I moved forward and exhaled when he joined me.

“I can’t live without my art.” His voice was tight and controlled. “I can’t live someone else’s life, under someone else’s rules. I can’t play hired hand, living off
Daddy’s
coattails, pretending I give two shits about corporate domination.”

“So then quit.” I shrugged.

He shook his head. “If only it were that simple.” He walked a couple of steps, then grabbed my shoulders, turning me to face him. “Don’t ever give up on your passion, Dane. You’re such a gifted athlete. Keep pursuing your dreams, okay?”

After failing to attend
any
of my matches during the past three years, he had no right to spout this Hallmark greeting card bullshit at me. “What about supporting Jessica’s dreams? Have you been to any of her swim meets since she started high school?”

His eyes flared. “I know I haven’t been there for you two…I’ve been too disgusted by the whole charade.” He shook his head. “Dane, don’t be like me. Don’t let your mother’s ambition prevent you from pursuing your passion.”

“This isn’t about Mom! We’re talking about
your
shitty parenting.” I looked ahead and noticed Brad and China had stopped walking as well, waiting for us to finish our bitch-fest.
They must think my family’s fucked-up beyond repair.

“This
is
about Lois,” Dad said. “She’s making me tell you what’s going on.”

I scoffed, “You’re a grown-ass man, Dad. She can’t
make
you do anything.”

“You’re so naïve.”

Swear to God, I want to punch him
.

“Your mother’s convinced that me telling you is the only way to prevent you from turning out like me.”

“Not a
chance
that will happen.”

“Yeah? She told me you got a girl pregnant.”

I inhaled all the air in the park as my vision narrowed until all I could see was scarlet. How could Mom have done that to me? Apparently all the secrets she kept were only secret from
me
. I fought for air and squeezed the sides of my head, trying to keep my brain from bursting through my skull.

“Dane, you okay?” China shouted from somewhere in the distance.

I pried my eyes open and lowered my shaking hands as I nodded at her. Then I spun around to Dad, and the rage he must have seen in my eyes made him take a step back. “Don’t you
dare
talk about that,” I hissed. “I didn’t even know—”

“I don’t love your mother anymore.” He delivered the news in monotone, like he was ordering room service.

“What?” I demanded.

“It’s why I haven’t been around. I didn’t want to hurt you kids. But I’m in love with another woman—a woman who
truly
gets me,
truly
supports my art. I’m painting again, Dane. It’s just flowing from me now!”

I froze speechless, my heart on overdrive.

“I haven’t told Jessie yet, because your mother and I don’t think she can keep it secret. Maybe when she’s older.
You’ll
keep it secret, of course. An affair getting out would destroy your mother’s campaign.” He cupped my shoulder. “Whew.” He looked up to the sky. “I’m sorry to drop that on you, but what a relief to get it off my chest.”

The rush of blood in my ears whooshed to a deafening roar, then suddenly, there was silence. I swallowed and watched a squirrel scurry across the path.

When I saw Dad’s hand resting on my shoulder, I knocked it away. I stepped up and got in his face. “
Fuck. YOU
. I will
never
become like you.” I shoved his chest, and he sprawled to the ground on his butt. Then I pivoted and sprinted toward Brad and China.

“Get me out of here,” I panted.

Without hesitation, my agents came up on each side of me, and we ran wordlessly back to the car.

Chapter 13

“L
ET’S
S
EE
T
HAT
A
NKLE
,” Tina said as she unwrapped the compression gauze from my right foot. The makeshift training room was dark like my mood. A little less than one month into my college volleyball career—and only one week into my college classes—I’d already sustained an injury. I’d rolled my ankle after coming down on a blocker’s foot a few days ago and hadn’t been cleared to practice since. Fortunately I had Secret Service to drive me to class, but I
had
to get back out there if I wanted a starting role on the team again in this lifetime.

I braced myself as the athletic trainer rotated and pressed on my ankle. But the shooting pains were gone—it was just a little sore.

“Looks better,” Tina said, then blew out a breath. “From what I can see in this janitor’s-closet lighting, anyway. They need to pick up the pace on building the new arena.” She opened a cabinet drawer and took out a tube of gel.

“So I can play today?”

Tina frowned as she hooked up the ultrasound machine. “How did your ankle tolerate morning lift?”

Our six a.m. weightlifting session seemed like eons ago. “It was fine. I didn’t do jumps or anything with impact.” And that was because our bald strength coach had watched me like a bald eagle, claiming he didn’t want Tina to yell at him for letting me do too much.

“Good.”

I neglected to mention that I could barely lift one-fifteen on the bench press. For some reason my strength had been crap recently.

Tina squirted some cool gel and rubbed it over my skin. She took the metal ultrasound device—it looked like a showerhead to me—and smoothed it over my ankle in slow circles. “Tell me if this starts to feel too warm.”

I leaned back, rested my elbows on the cushioned training table, and closed my eyes.
Don’t fall asleep
. I’d already dozed off in one of my classes earlier. Allison typically woke me up when I drifted off in class, but this morning she’d let me sleep until the end of the lecture. When I’d snapped at her for not waking me up, she’d flinched. Then she’d told me I needed to take better care of myself.