His Little French Badass

Blame Parkie | Ch. 7

"I never imagined you as the type of person who'd go on fancy dates with beautiful girls."

As the middle aged man approaches us, I study him closely. His hair is slicked back, a mixture of black and silver. A few graying hairs appear as light stubble on his chiseled face, matching the crinkles which have appeared in the creases of his eyes and forehead.

His dull brown eyes hold little to no emotion, except for resentment and bold strength. His gaze on Jay holds glaring rage hidden behind the mask of impassiveness.

"Your alive," Jay raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hell yeah, I am, kid," He responds in a deep rumble, threats pricking his every word.

"Congratulations, you made it out alive. You here for a fight?"

"Trust me, this time, you'll be the one in the position where you are in the middle of making it out alive and not. The first option will be far more likely. That is both a warning-"

"And a threat," Jay finishes for him, a small smirk peaking beneath the thin line of his lips. His familiarity with the phrase peaks my interest and attention.

"Watch your back, Jason. This time, I'm not playing games."

The man turns his back to us, walking away.

"Who was that?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Someone you should stay away from," Jay sighs, avoiding the answer. "We should probably get you home."

He motions for me to follow him but my mind is preoccupied as I watch him open his car door and slide inside.

"What are you doing?"

"His shoulders are tensed. Either he's scared of you, which he didn't look like he was, or he was keeping his composure from slumping, trying to keep up a facade. He's hiding something, obviously by a loss. You can tell because his voice is monotone, and it doesn't sound like he's used to it, or it's anything natural or familiar to him. It's something you could use against him, you know, if you were trying to get under his skin to distract him or something. Also, that phrase. Your familiar with it, so it must be something he says often. Plus, judging by his hidden sadness, it could be something he's using to show that nothing has changed, that he's exactly the same when something happened that's made him different, even temporarily. He's trying to mask something over and using a familiar phrase to his advantage..."

He stares at me long and hard, intrigued.

"You may be of more use than I thought, Little French girl."

-

"Hey, mom," I force a lilted tone over the phone, one sounding light enough to hide the true intentions behind having to pretend a happy tone.

"Elle, honey," She sighs, her voice clear of any affection. "I hope this isn't a bad time."

"Of course not." A lie.

Anytime is a bad time with you, mother.

"Well, I have a favor to ask."

"Okay..." I bite my lip nervously, a habit I've grown quite used to.

"Your sister.... well, she's been... out of line."

I smile at the sentence. Of course, I wouldn't want her to get into trouble, but hey, our family has one thing in common. Out of all the things we do or like differently, all the things we fight about, disagree about, hate, love, or anything the parents are selfish about, we have one thing in common. That one thing, is our freedom.