I consider ignoring it, but realize quickly that avoiding my problems is not the answer.
I bring up his number and call him, hoping he won’t answer.
Just my luck, he picks up on the second ring.
“Why didn’t you tell me detectives interviewed you yesterday?” he barks at me.
Damn it, I’m probably going to need alcohol after this conversation.
“You already knew about the situation, so I didn’t think I needed to call you. Plus, I’m eighteen. An adult,” I remind him.
“I deserved a call. That way I’m not caught unaware when some asshole reporter reaches out, looking for a reaction from me.”
Shit. I didn’t expect that.
“Why would anyone care? This doesn’t really involve us.”
“Because we’re Lancasters, son. And what we do, people pay attention to, even when we’re only involved on the sidelines,” Dad explains, his tone rough. I can tell he’s losing patience with me.
“Well, it was nothing. I was interviewed, I told my side of the story and what I saw, and that’s the end of it.” I glance upwards at the loft, hearing the telltale sign of the shower running, and I imagine Wren standing under the hot spray of water, her slick, naked body shrouded by steam.
Reaching between my legs, I readjust myself.
“The reporter was kind enough to tell me the story is hitting the papers Monday morning. You will be named as a witness. You will most likely have to testify in court when it goes to trial. I hope you’re prepared to make an appearance,” Dad says.
“I look forward to it. Anything to put that slimeball away for good.” I relish the thought of Figueroa behind bars. It’s what the asshole deserves.
“Where are you anyway? I saw that you used the jet.”
Damn. Busted.
“Vermont.”
“With who?”
“A friend.”
“Don’t you have finals next week?”
“Yeah, so?” I sound like a fucking little kid, but this is what happens when my dad does this sort of shit to me.
I revert.
“So I don’t think it’s wise that you’re out partying the weekend before finals,” he says, anger lacing his tone. “You can’t be a fuck-up during the important moments in your life, Crew. You have to straighten out sometime.”
I press my lips together to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
“You should go back to campus,” he continues. “Study for your finals and make sure your grades are in good shape. You’ve applied to colleges and I’m sure they’re watching you.”
I doubt that. Every single one of them will let me in if my family donates a building in our name or whatever the fuck.
“Right,” I tell him, just to get him off my back. “Okay.”
“Go home,” he asserts. “Tomorrow.”
“Will do.” That was always the plan.
“And keep out of trouble.”