Worth Any Risk

Ch. 8 Family History

*Cole

What the hell am I getting myself into?

Or more to the point—what the hell am I supposed to do with an inherited girlfriend who is pushing sixty? Uncle Pete must have thought she would need some kind of emotional support. Fuck. He really pegged the wrong guy for the job.

I step onto the sidewalk in the town square in front of the lawyer's two-story building and am sorely tempted to listen to the voice in head promising me everything would be easier with a couple of whiskeys.

Even if it was only ten in the morning.

I hear a man clear his throat and spit a wad of phlegm to the ground near me. Leroy and my mother are at the street corner next to their massive SUV, looking sour, old, and mean. I cross my arms, opening and closing a fist. If they want a little family reunion, I am ready to remind them exactly what happened the last time the three of us were alone together.

I'd like to see Leroy try and take me on now. Not that I'd beat the old man senseless like he beat me. Contrary to him, I have limits.

Still, it feels good to have the tables turned.

"You didn't win shit today." He puffs out his chest. "This isn't over."

"Are you really picking this fight?" I ask, incredulous. The way he's standing, chin up and legs apart. Hell, even pretending to be tough, he's half-stooped and knock-kneed. I'm not asking him about a legal battle over Uncle Pete's belongings. If it was any other man I'd feel pity for him in his helpless rage. But not my step-father. "Do it. Come for me."

He screws up his lips, face darkening with purple. My mom steps forward to take his arm. He shakes her off, impatient. "You always were such an insufferable, little prick. Your mother's life, my life, would have been so much better if you'd never been born."

"Leroy," she hisses. "Save it for the court."

"You'd better turn right around and get back out of town the same as you came in," Leroy says. "Or we'll have you in front of the judge explaining the damage you caused to the house when you trashed it with the sledge hammer, when you were nineteen. Then you can kiss that shiny new camper goodbye."

I salute and walk away. I promised myself I would not give them the satisfaction of my pain or rage today. But damn. Seeing them is like tearing open an old wound and letting the blood flow. Then sprinkling salt on it. I'm done. I'm done with them and this town that allows people like them to live their petty, ugly lives in peace, when others are run out. Or live in fear. Staying in this hell-hole, skinny-ass town is not an option, and I can't wait to be rid of it forever.

Ever since I got the news about Uncle Pete passing, I suspected he would leave me the camper. He had always said he'd leave me something to let me live my life where and how I wanted.

I was planning on selling it. Now, I'm not sure. I could use it to go back home. I could take a certain someone with me all the way.

I like that thought. Her with me in the camper, going all the way home together. I check the address for the camper—apparently, my uncle had left it at a friend's with a shelter that was tall enough to cover it. I make my way there, picking up some beers at the gas station as a thank you, and spend the rest of the day checking it over, and filing the paperwork for the transfer of ownership.

It's perfect. In great shape, ready to roll, delivered with the necessary basics for the mini-kitchen and some camping gear for overnight stays. I close my eyes and sit back in the driver's seat. I can already see my brunette sitting next to me, the sun on her face and a smile bright and wide.