Fighting the Fall ✔

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Dustin King

When I saw the text from my father after finding my phone at the gym, I debated whether or not to actually go home, as was requested of me. Something was definitely off about him. My siblings might have been the only two things compelling me to return.

I slid my phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen one more time.

DAD: Dustin King, you've done your father very proud. Come home, will ya? :)

I didn't send a reply. I figured if I was going to be stupid enough to go back after he practically blew up in my room just yesterday, it was best to leave him guessing. He wouldn't be expecting me. I could use that to my advantage.

Upon rounding the corner to enter our street, I immediately discovered what was behind his unusual text. A candy apple red Mustang sat in our driveway.

"Of course he would," I whispered. Still, I shook my head in disbelief.

I was less angry, more worried. For me, boxing was never about the money to be won. That was only a bonus, but what could I have done with it that wouldn't attract questioning from those who knew us as "that poor family"? For me, boxing was more about the power to be felt. It came with every victory. Heck, as much as I hated to admit it, it came with every blow that struck an opponent. The only time I ever felt powerful, like someone important, was in the ring. It was never about the money.

I was worried the neighbors would start asking questions – or worse, spreading rumors. Had my father thought of that possibility? Did he have any plans for how to deal with that? He couldn't even say he took his son's money to buy himself a car.

So there I was, my mind racing through ideas, thinking ahead for a moment to save him from the potential mess he'd created. But then I stopped just as quickly. Forget it. He can figure it out on his own.

Before I had a chance to knock, the door swung open. There he stood, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a remote in the other. The front of his grey tank top was soaked.

"Well, hello, son." He wore a lazy grin, nodding toward the living room, silently telling me to come in. He opened his mouth to say more, but I shoved him out of the way and raced through the house. I ignored his slurred, "Dustin, you get back here!"

Broken glass was scattered across the living room floor, halting me in my tracks.

"You won't find them here."

I spun around. My father was still on the ground, struggling to get up as he clutched his precious bottle close to his chest.

I ignored him. "Bishop! Kenna!"

No response.

"I said you won't find them here." His words were still slurred, but his voice was firm.

I marched back over to him and ripped the vodka out of his hand. I had half a mind to break it amongst the already broken glass. Instead, I held it just out of his reach and, before second thoughts could interrupt me, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him off the ground. "Then where are they?"

"Pauline's. They're with Pauline."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"You gonna give it back?"

I glared down at him. He was insane if he thought I'd just hand it back to him.

I released his shirt, and he fell back to the ground with a grunt.

"Dustin!" he shouted. I walked out the door. The bottle remained in my hand until I threw it onto the driveway. It landed with a crash, and I could hear my father at the door mourning over his loss. Another sense of relief and minor victory filled me and made it worth it, even as he yelled, "Don't come back!"