My Girlfriend Bites (Young Adult Paranormal Werewolf Romance)

Chapter 16

Aiden

For dinner I toss a frozen lasagna into the oven and bake it like the instructions say. The block of pasta and cheese turns out decent enough for both Dad and I to polish it off. Dad has two cans of beer to go along with his lasagna. After I wash dishes and switch on our noisy dishwasher, I join Dad in the living room. There's a football game on so we watch that for a while.

Dad finishes beer number three, puts it on the side-table, and clears his throat. "Good lasagna. Still miss your mom's cooking, though."

Me too. Mom could bake, grill, sauté, puree, marinate, fry, and wrap these edible masterpieces that would give my mouth spastic fits of joy. She used her kitchen like a master swordsman would use his blade.

I push the dark thoughts away. Thinking about Mom always makes me sad. It's been a long time since she passed. I should toughen up and not let it bother me. Real men don't cry over stuff like that, blubbering about things like a loser who can't take it. Dad didn't cry. Sure he was sad. That face I remember couldn't hide the grief, but he never cried. He took it like a man. I cried day and night because I couldn't do anything else. Dad would then yell at me to stop. Men don't cry like that. They keep it inside. Build a cement bunker around it. Dad said life will throw you a lot of punches so you're better off fighting than sitting on your ass and crying about it. Men always need to be strong.

I must be the biggest disappointment of his life.

A metal snap makes my eyes flip over to Dad. He's opening another can of beer. That's number four in an hour and a half. I know what's coming.

I go to my room because I hate being around Dad when he's drunk. If luck is on my side, he'll pass out in the living room and not bother me. I have no idea what to say if I have to again call Dad's supervisor in the morning. I'm running out of plausible excuses. Using mad cow disease sounds too fishy.

Three hours later.

"Aiden? Aiden? Get over here, son." Dad yells from the living room. His voice slurred and thick. I can barely understand the words.

I ignore him.

Dad's fist pounds my door. "Aid..." He can't even say my name. My stomach tightens. I'm sick of dealing with this. I wish he would leave me alone.

Dad opens my door without asking. The sour, beer-laced air that rushes in makes me want to hurl. It's disgusting. God help me I will never drink beer for the rest of my life. Dad sways like a tall sailing ship riding a stiff wind. His face tells me he's still trying to understand something, so I wait for him to catch up with the real world.

"Grass...needs ut," Dad blurts out.

I sigh. It's hard to understand and speak Drunk, a language composed of slurred words and mumbling. But over the years I've mastered the language.

"Okay, I'll cut the grass tomorrow."

"Now," he says. "Cut grass now. Too long."

"But it's 10:30 at night. It's too late to cut it."

"Now," Dad yells.

"Won't our neighbors get pissed?"

Dad towers over me, his eyes flaming. His arms and fists tighten. Damn. He's too angry and too drunk. Fear inches up my spine.

"Get up."

"Dad..."

"Get up," he yells.

I force myself to stand and brace for it.