Comin' Home to You (18 page)

Why couldn’t I have just told her earlier
? Their lives would have been tremendously different if he just spoke simple words of comfort and understanding to his daughter. Would she have understood even then? That was a question he didn’t know, but it was better late than never. She deserved to hear this. If she refused to listen, so be it. It would be his fault for waiting so damn long. Yet, he could pass in a somewhat content state knowing that he got this off his chest.

Ali shook her head furiously. “Dad, you are so full of fucking shit. You never cared.” Her last words trailed off.

“I have always cared! I have just been too chicken shit to tell you! You’re my girl, my only child!”

Her fists loosened. “I don’t believe you. You don’t care. I’m this way because of you.”

“I'm not denying that.”

“Why are you telling me this now? After all this time? Why now? Are you drunk? Is that it?”

“No, I'm not.”

Ali was beginning to understand something different about her father. Yet, she remained guarded. “No, seriously, after all this time, why now? Huh?”

He figured this was as good a time as ever to tell her the bad news. “Ali, it's because-”

“What the fuck is going out here!?” sounded a voice from inside the house.

Stepping out of the house with a bottled beer in his hand and a disheveled appearance on his face, an intoxicated Clint peered at Owen with a look of disdain. “What are you doing here?”

Son of a fucking bitch
, thought Owen. The last thing he needed was Clint to finally show up at such a critical juncture. He hated that little prick with every fiber of his being. He had to appear right when he was going to tell his daughter about himself. Of course he would.

It was a shot in the dark, but he thought he’d ask Clint anyway. “Where’s Austin?”

“Ah, he’s with my brother. He called me and said I needed to do some father shit or whatever or he wouldn’t pay me this week, so we picked him up together and now he’s getting ice cream with him or some shit.” Clint’s bloodshot eyes slowly squinted as he noticed the puffy red eyes of Owen. “You been smoking some weed or…holy shit! OH MY GOD! You’ve been crying! Ali, I can't believe you have such a pussy ass bitch for a dad!”

Owen felt his own fists clench up as Clint laughed hysterically. Out of the three Grayson brothers, he was by far the most obnoxious. Perhaps he was that way because of his diminutive size compared to his brothers, and he had to find an outlet to compensate. This led him to antagonize anyone that rubbed him the wrong way. He had been in more fights than his two older brothers combined, probably due to people thinking they may have a chance of winning against the smaller Clint.

Owen had witnessed Clint fight before. It was a year ago, at a bar outside the county line. It was a converted mobile home that only sold longnecks, miscellaneous whiskeys, and had horseshoe posts in the back. Some nights they would sell some moonshine that the owner would cook up. It had two pool tables with cigarette burns on the felt, a decrepit jukebox, a bar area with stools, and a couple of tables and chairs scattered around. Grace had been begging him to go, even though it wasn’t quite his type of place. He preferred jovial places with many quality beers on tap. Eager to please his girl, he took her there, though he regretted it just a few minutes in. He recognized way too many people from high school and trashy people from his past that he didn’t want to socialize with.

However, he bade his time and stayed patient. He was sure he would be rewarded sexually if he didn’t complain. While he made small talk with a couple of people he could stand, a commotion at the bar caused everyone to turn their heads to the action. There, Owen witnessed a fairly large man with a flat top leaving his stool at the bar and bowing up to a stumbling Clint. He never heard what they were arguing about, but with Clint, it didn't take much for him to become offended and aggressive.

In the poorly lit trailer bar, he watched as the larger man shoved Clint into a distant pool table. He strangely remembered the balls on the table clacking together as his daughter's boyfriend's back smacked against the oaken sides. Clint just smiled, picked up the 8-ball, and threw it directly into his opponent's face. The cracking sound of the man’s nose breaking made Owen cringe. Blood gushed from his nose, and his painful groan could be heard over the jukebox that was playing older Alan Jackson tunes. Wasting no time, Clint grabbed a cue stick from the nearby rack and mercilessly swung at the man with it. The flat topped man blocked the first few, but after taking another shot to the nose, he crumbled to the ground. Owen lost count how many times Clint hit him after that. No one tried to stop it, as no one dared to interfere with a Grayson’s battle. They were as close to untouchable as it got, unless you had no idea who they were. It was likely the man getting beat didn’t know who he was fighting with. Once Clint deemed the massacre to be over, he laughingly sat back on the stool and ordered two shots of Jack. The beaten man somehow left on his own power, though his face looked like a bloody blue balloon. Some drunk girl went over to Clint and rubbed her breasts in his face. While he was displeased to watch his daughter’s fiancé enjoying his victory by cheating on Ali, it was quickly forgotten when he noticed Grace suddenly grinding her ass into his crotch. Just another day in the area.

There was no doubt that Clint was as violent as it got. Yet, there was not an ounce of fear within Owen's body. Regardless of how weak he was, he knew he could hold his own. Clint tended to swing wildly when it came to straight pugilistic brawling. He assured himself that he could see any punch that would be coming for him, and all it would take would be a simple sidestep and counter. What did he have to lose anyway? His life was ending soon. What better way than to lose it and hopefully take Clint with him?

Letting his own anger boil over from Clint’s slight, Owen wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Fuck you.”

It was as if Clint was expecting some sort of verbal retort. He gave his trademark stupid smirk and took a quick drink of beer. “Nah, fuck you, pussy. You want to do something about it, or are you gonna cry some more?”

Owen could tell he was still tweaking from his meth. He would be easy to anger with one easy comment. “I would, but I’m surprised you want to fight me without Scar here to bail your little ass out.”

Clint’s smirk retreated, and was replaced by an ice cold glare. It was that simple to piss off Clint. Just demean his size and make him feel inferior to his brother, and you have a berserk man ready to brawl. Allowing his beer bottle to slip out of his fingers and shatter onto the concrete porch below, Clint growled like a rabid dog. Owen could tell by the way Clint was positioning his right arm that he would come out with a haymaker. Sure enough, it was as he planned. He swung with all his might, but Owen easily stepped to the side, then quickly countered with a quick left hook. It connected with Clint's face, but judging by his reaction, it didn't faze him as much as he had hoped. Either Owen was truly too weak to even fight, or Clint was truly a tough son of a bitch.

“My bitch hits me harder than that,” jested Clint, as he put his fists up as a boxer would.

While being cognizant that Clint just called his daughter a bitch, he had no time to look at Ali to gauge her reaction. He instead focused on his opponent, who now had the physical and mental advantage. With his one-hit plans failing, he now had to battle an angry Clint in fair fisticuffs. While he had a little experience in scraps such as these, his current frail body spelled doom and gloom for his chances. Alas, he still had to try.

Following suit by putting his fists up, Owen prepared for a true one-on-one battle. Feeling cocky, Clint feigned a punch, laughing when Owen flinched backward. He paid it no matter and retained his undivided attention on his enemy. Owen was on his toes, ready to evade any strike. All he had to do was stay focused, and-

He never saw it coming. A right hook straight to his jaw. Owen melted to the ground and felt the side of his face slam onto the grassy lawn, hardened by the consecutive dry days the area had experienced. A haze came over his eyes, and a sudden weight upon his torso felt like it was crushing his innards. When he finally came to, Clint had mounted his torso. Quickly, Owen grabbed at Clint’s wrists. It was all he could do to hinder his attacks. However, the more he struggled, the quicker he was becoming exhausted. Sooner or later, Clint would win the positioning battle, and have a field day punching his face. But for now, he had to keep struggling.

Even through his best efforts to free himself, he could hear his daughter screaming at Clint to get off of him. Was his daughter actually on his side? Or did she just not want to deal with this? Either way, even if he misinterpreted it, Owen made his daughter’s concern his motivation to win. He wasn't going to overpower Clint, so he had to rely on resourcefulness and his own roguish methods. His head turned back and forth, looking for anything that could be of use. His time was running out before Clint broke free of Owen’s hands, and the more he looked, the more distressed he became. There was nothing in sight that he could use as leverage.

When things really started to seem hopeless, a light bulb lit up in his head. He had a utility knife in his pocket, though attempting to retrieve it would allow one of Clint's arms to be freed. He’d likely take at least one punch, but with his current body, one punch may knock him completely out. But he needed a miracle, and that miracle was in his pocket. However, unless the divine intervened, he had no chance without the knife.

He was running out of energy and breath. It was now or never. In a quick motion, he let go of Clint's arms and used one of them to grab Clint’s head down to his ribs. This strategy would keep him from smashing his face, though he expected to take shots to his ribs and kidneys. It was a gamble Owen was willing to take. His hand scurried for his pocket, while his upper body twisted and turned, hoping to avoid any blows. Instead, he felt Clint’s forearm press against his throat. Perhaps that was the lucky break Owen needed. He didn't have much air in his lungs to begin with, but this was pain he could manage for a few seconds. Even as he felt each vessel in his head wanting to burst from Clint's surprisingly solid forearm bone, he still felt hope as his fingers rubbed against the metal frame of his knife. Grabbing it from the confines of his pocket, he had to unfold the knife with one hand. Hell, he would settle with unfolding any tool in it, which was what he aimed to do. It was getting harder to think, as most of his heart's blood ceased pumping to his brain. Each second was becoming critical. But he was determined not to die here. Not on his daughter’s lawn. Especially not with her eyes on him.

In a last effort, his fingers managed to unfold something on his knife, and by judging from its coarse exterior, it was the nail file. It was good enough, as it still had a fairly prominent point to it. With little time to spare, he clenched the knife tightly and thrust it as hard as he could into Clint's exposed and unguarded temple. He felt a rush of enjoyment in his already pulsing head as the file penetrated his skin. He knew it wasn't a deep puncture, but it was more than enough for Clint to cry out in pain and roll off of him. Owen wanted to enjoy the wails of his adversary in agony, but he desperately needed to gasp for air. Each breath that entered his lungs was as refreshing as a cold beer. Of course, alcohol would enter his mind now. Maybe he could have a few after he was done whipping Clint’s ass.

Clint muttered on the ground as he grabbed his bleeding head. “You fucking piece of shit! I’m gonna kill you!”

Those words, even in their hateful intent, made Owen grin from ear to ear as he continued to suck in oxygen. His respite of rest wouldn't be long. Even though the blow was stunning, Clint was a tough man and wouldn’t be down for long. With enough air in his lungs, he quickly sat up, then immediately cringed when he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Perhaps a rapid sit-up wasn't a wise choice, especially with how tentative his stomach had been recently. However, he did his best to ignore the pain. Calmly folding the nail file back into place, he took out the actual knife. Clint was still holding the side of his head with blood trickling down the back of his hand.

Seeing that blood caused adrenaline to rush throughout his body. It almost felt like he was sexually aroused. He imagined himself as a shark, one that had just smelled fresh blood reddening the blue ocean. A desire to bring what he felt as righteous judgment on Clint took him over. He had a chance to end it right here and right now and give Austin a better chance at life. He may die afterward due to his failing health, or he may suffer something excruciating by the hands of vengeful Graysons. Either way, he wasn’t sure if he cared anymore. But as he glanced at his daughter, who had her hands over her mouth in legitimate concern, he truly wondered if his death would make things worse.
Is she concerned for me or for Clint
? He asked himself that over and over. She still had no idea of his condition. What would she think if he were to tell her about his illness and fate, especially if he succeeded in killing Clint?

But as Owen glanced back at the stirring Clint, the desire and life-long hatred of the Graysons, especially the one who fucked his daughter, manifested intensely. He cheated on Ali and brutally abused her regularly, though he wasn’t sure Ali even cared, as long as he kept supplying drugs. Clint also cared little, if at all, about his own son. He predicted that Austin would eventually be a punching bag for Clint too. That boy deserved a better life than the one he was probably going to get. He knew what he had to do. This was something he had wanted to do all along. Clint Grayson had to die.