The Last Fix

Chapter Three - Lady Picture Show

She doesn't know her name

She doesn't know her face

"I don't want you alone with them," my father said in between bites of his shiny, grease ridden burger. I watched with a roll of nausea in my gut as a glob of ketchup oozed from between the buns and plopped onto his basket of fries with a noisy splat.

We sat in some dingy, diner themed restaurant at God-knows-where. I stopped paying attention to my surroundings some time after the whole gas station incident. My mind was a chaotic storm, oscillating between sick panic and frantic plans to escape this situation.

I resumed my task of tearing at french fries and acting like I was eating some of it by bringing it to my mouth and mimicking chewing. Ever since I found out that I would see Blondie–I mean, Landon, so I've come to find out—I haven't been hungry. In fact, I was ill.

"You don't have to worry about that," I responded, as I actually planned the exact opposite. I intended to confine myself to my hotel room as much as possible. Lingering in the back of my mind, I knew this would not be a realistic goal, but I clung to this tiny hope for the sake of my sanity.

My father dabbed at the corner of his mustache with a crumpled napkin, giving me a stern look. "I especially don't want you alone with Landon."

I dropped the shredded bits of fries, interest piqued. "Why especially Landon?"

Did he know something? Did Robyn rat me out? It certainly wasn't beneath her.

She was devastated after that night at the bar, breaking down on the way home. At some point, she blubbered something about how she actually preferred the guitarist, but she was still so hurt that Landon would kiss me, of all people.

"Why would he want you?" she kept crying, and then following it up with, "no offense." Yeah, because that last part really eased the blow.

My father replied, "Because he's a nice kid."

Would you think he was so nice if you knew he shoved his tongue down my throat?

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that makes sense..."

"Riley."

"Sorry."

The docile, agreeable mask I wore was crumbling under the weight of what lay ahead. I didn't know if I could do it anymore.

"Let me finish," my father started again, wiping his fingertips with the napkin and then tossing it onto his now-empty basket of food. "Actually, let me preface things with this. I don't think poorly of him, Riley. I really don't. We've had some good times together...."