Razor Sharp | ✓

Six

"When you speak to your father, tell him," he takes a dramatic pause for effect, and I hate myself because it unnerves me. "To enjoy his time in jail."

I look at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"If your dad wants you back, he won't only give our territory back to us, but..."

"He'll also be going to jail," I swallow, making sure I have my feet firmly planted on the ground, despite the sudden rush of a dizzy spell.

I know that I'm screwed in this very moment. My father may love me, but I also know that he loves himself more. I doubt that he'd send himself to prison for me. Maybe for Noah — his legacy — but not for me, his daughter.

"He will go to the police, handing himself in for running an underground drug ring," Andy smirks, viciously.

He gestures to Hunter, who grabs my wrist gently. "Shall we?" Andy says, gesturing to the door.

I don't have much choice in the matter, but I do get to make some decisions. First and for most, I'm going to let Hunter hold my wrist. I don't like the feeling I get with his fingers wrapped loosely around my arm. I hate when his thumb rubs my palm, and how my skin feels so alive.

I pull my arm from his grasp, walking forward, only a pace behind Andy. "Where exactly am I taking this phone call?"

"Inside my house."

That almost stops me. I've always thought that the less I see of this place, the better for the Haswell's. It'd be easier to escape if I know my way around.

I hadn't noticed the amount of Razor members around the farm, partially because I'm hardly ever allowed out of the barn. There are at least fifty members all dressed in their leather jackets, even though the sun is scorching today. I see Ridge in my periphery vision, talking to Marcos.

Ridge catches me staring and excuses himself from Marcos. He walks over in long strides, his hands in his shorts. He's the only person without his leather jacket, the only person sensible enough. He obviously doesn't want to die of heatstroke like the rest of them.

"What's going on?" he says, speaking to his father.

Andy doesn't slow down to talk to his youngest son. Instead, he continues walking. Ridge only falls in line next to his father, waiting patiently for the answer to his question.

"Elena will be making a phone call. To Damon Cartwright."

"Damon? Her father?" Ridge's eyes are almost bulging out of his head at the mention of my dad.

"Who else?" I snap.

Ridge looks back at me, almost startled. "Are you sure that's a good idea, father?"

"Are you questioning me?" Andy says, finally stopping to look at his son.

I hate how he speaks to Hunter and Ridge. Like they are beneath him. He should respect them both, really. But then again, maybe my father is doing the exact same thing to me.

Maybe I have more in common with the Haswell boys than I thought.

Ridge falls silent, raking a hand through his hair. He turns back to me like he wants to say something. Instead, he just nods, walking off to who knows where. He kicks dirt as he goes, causing it to rise around him, swirling around in the humidity.

Hunter clears his throat behind me and I'm pulled from my thoughts. I realise Andy has started walking again and that I'm just standing here, still watching Ridge's retreating form.

"You okay?" Hunter asks.

I start to walk forward, wiping sweat from my brow. "As good as I can be under the circumstances."

He doesn't say anything, but he does start to walk next to me. "What are you going to say to your dad?"

I shake my head, laughing lightly. It's not friendly, and I watch as Hunter's muscles tense. "First off, I'm going to ask him why the fuck he hasn't come and gotten me already and then—"

I cut myself short, aware that I'm beginning to overshare. It's like I have to consistently remind myself that this is Hunter Haswell. The boy I've despised my entire life.

I look out at the open fields, the horses, Ridge sitting against the fence. He's leaning forward, his body tense. For a few seconds, I wonder what he's thinking about. If he's humiliated by his father. Then I realise that I shouldn't care at all.

"Be careful what you say to your father," Hunter warns. "My dad might not be standing right next to you, but he'll be close. Close enough to hear what you're saying."

"Is the phone tapped too? Can I get no privacy in this place?" I snap, still not looking at him.

"No, dad isn't smart enough to do shit like that," Hunter acknowledges, coldly.

The house is in sight now. I can't see Ridge on the fence anymore.

The house is old, one-story, all brick. It has french doors that are both opened, letting the humid air inside. Andy walks up the front steps, onto the porch. The bricks have been painted grey, and the windows are white, matching the doors. It may be old, but I notice that a lot of it has been renovated.

Probably with all the drug money they've made. Not that I could talk, after finding out about The Skulls.

I close my eyes, breathing out slowly. Hunter guides me forward without even touching me. I'm almost thankful for that.

I notice the phone straight away. It's not a mobile, like I had thought. It's an old home phone. It even has a rotary dial, something I've used only once or twice in my whole life.

"What is this, the sixties?" I mumble.

Andy frowns but turns away. Hunter stifles a laugh. I look over at him, catching the glint in his eyes.

"You'll have five minutes," Andy says.

I start to dial, waiting patiently as I watch each number I enter spin around the dial. Hunter leaves the room when I pick up the phone. He's giving me privacy. That is probably the kindest thing he has ever done. It makes me frown.

It rings and rings and I start to wonder if dad will just ignore it. But then I think of the fact that he is a drug dealer and that he probably always has to answer calls from numbers he doesn't know.

I know the exact moment he picks up the phone. I hear him clear his voice. The scraping of a chair on his end of the phone brings me back to my own kitchen. The memories that flood me almost make me double over. All the times I'd cooked with mum, doing the dishes with my brother, throwing dishwashing bubbles at each other.

It hurts to know that your life isn't what you thought it was, that the moments you cherish are tainted with something darker, more sinister.

"Hello?" my dad says. His voice sounds so close that it makes me grip the phone tighter, closing my eyes.

Finally, once I have the nerve, once I forget Andy is watching me, leaning over the kitchen counter separating us, I speak.

"Dad, it's me. Ellie."