Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance) (130 page)

“Well, frankly, I don’t really give a shit what Mom thinks,” I tell him. She burnt her bridges with me long ago. It’s just me and Dad now.

He grows cross in an instant. His tone is deep and disapproving. “Penelope.”

“What, Dad? Come on, we don’t get along. Heck, even
you
couldn’t bear to be with her. And after what she did to you? I can’t—”

“She’s still your mother, and I don’t want you using that language at the table.”

“Yeah, well I chose
you
. And sorry for swearing.”

He can’t help but smile. “You know, I always thought it was fathers and sons that had troubled relationships. Not mothers and daughters.”

“Shows how much you know.”

“Evelyn and her daughter have a good relationship.”

“Not everybody is the same, Dad. Besides, did Evelyn break her daughter’s father’s heart?”

He frowns. “You shouldn’t hold on to that, darling. It’s not healthy. I’m past it, and I don’t blame your mother, either.”

“Any time you cheat, you deserve to be blamed.”

“It’s not always that simple.”

I fold my arms. “I know, I know, you grow distant, the passion fades, whatever. You still don’t do it. You either sit down and talk like responsible adults, or you break it off. It may be black and white, but that’s how I see it.”

He sucks on his upper lip for a moment. “Just, consider not throwing away your relationship with your mother, okay? You’ll regret it when you’re older.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll consider it. So, will you give me your blessing? To go to Melbourne?”

He sighs. “I guess it’s not like I can stop you, huh? You always did do your own thing.”

“No, you can’t stop me. This is my
dream
, Dad. I’ve got the money grandpa left me, and I can afford to buy the ticket. I’ve already got my interview set up, my appointment to get my visiting tattoo artist apprentice license, and a meeting set up for my visa.”

“I see that you’ve planned it all without me.”

I frown. “Dad, you were the one who told me to give this serious thought, and to get the legwork done. I’ve done my due diligence. This is not some wishy-washy idea. I’m serious.”

“Forgive me for not being overly thrilled.”

“Hey, all the other kids who just graduated are all going to Hawaii or Mexico to get drunk, do drugs, and have sex. I’m going to Melbourne to start my
career
. As an
artist
.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll concede that point,” he says. “Penelope, I admire your ambition, I really do. But why don’t you try it out here first? In Chicago?”

“It’s
Tina Azume
, and she’s looking for an apprentice!”

“I really don’t know who that is.”

“Only one of the most famous tattoo artists in the world! She’s got this amazing style, and she’s extremely humble. She’s not super exclusive or a snob or anything. She’s really cool, Dad. She’s, like, a role model. I’ve got posters of her work up in my room.”

“Those? They just look like normal tattoos.”

“And the
Mona Lisa
just looks like a normal painting.”

He pushes up his lower lip with a finger. “Okay, but I don’t like the Mona Lisa, anyway.”

“But you see where I’m coming from, right? I’ve already made up my mind.”

“You’re only nineteen.”

“And that makes me an adult.”

“I’d be an irresponsible father if I just let you waltz off for God knows how long.”

“Would it be any different than if I was going to Australia for college?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “You’d be getting an education. There would be responsible adults around you. You would be in an academic community focused on learning, self-betterment.”

“I will
still
be getting an education,” I cry, throwing my arms up, exasperated. “I’ll apprentice and learn more about body art and techniques. And as for your slight on the community, tattoo artists and people that get tattoos are just as human as anybody else, and believe it or not, shock horror, are for the most part responsible adults, too. They also, believe it or not, value learning and self-betterment. Don’t go stereotyping them because of your own narrow-mindedness. Just because someone’s got a full-sleeve doesn’t mean he’s a bad person, just like how not having tattoos doesn’t automatically make you a good person.”

He blinks, rubs his red eyes. I notice then that his hair seems to have grayed more in the last week alone, and he’s looking a little thinner.

“You’re right, Penelope. I’m being judgmental.”

I wince. Somehow it almost hurts to hear Dad admit that he’s wrong to me. “You’re looking tired, Dad.”

“Things have been crazy at work. The Dubai project of course came to a stall once the economy flat lined, and we’re in a legal battle to get our owed fees.”

“That sounds boring.”

“It is.”

“But you know what I’m chasing, right? What if somebody told you that you couldn’t be an architect?”

“My father wanted me to work at the bakery.”

“Grandpa? Really?”

“Yeah. Said I had great hands, but bread wasn’t my thing.”

“See, so you still went off on your own! You chased your dream.”

“It involved seven years of architecture school, sweetheart, in an ultra-competitive environment.”

“And I’ll likely be apprenticing for years as well, and it’s
just
as competitive. Come on, don’t patronize me.”

He lets out a deep, shuddering exhale, and I know he’s relenting.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says.

I won’t lie. It hits me right in the gut. It’s just been me and him for a few years now, and since he works so much, we’re like a team. He takes care of me in some ways, I take care of him in other ways.

“Will you be okay alone?”

He laughs. “Come on, Penelope. Of course I will. I’m only a fifty-two year old man.”

“Really? Because I’ve seen the way you eat when I don’t prepare dinner. It’s unhealthy.”

He clears his throat, and sidesteps the issue. “How long are you planning on staying there for?”

“Oh, jeez, Dad, it’s not like I’m leaving forever. I’ll be back! I think my visa only gives me one year, anyway, with the option for a second.”

“And it’ll be legal for you to work there?”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll make you happy?”

“Yes!”

He puts the spoon down, and it clinks against his bowl. “Fine. But I expect you to email me at least twice a week. And call me once a week. A
proper
telephone call, not just the hi-dad-bye-dad bullshit that kids do these days. Actually, I want it over Skype as well. I want to be able to see your face. Anyway, I need to put the new laptop to good use. I haven’t even used it once, you know?”

I grin. “Okay.”

“And I want the telephone number of Rose and her mother or father or guardian. I’ll want to have a talk with both of them first.”

“No problem.”

“And I want you to write me out a plan. I want you to list out exactly what you’re going to be doing, how you’re going to do it, and anything else that entails. I want to know how you’ll get a license to tattoo, where this Tina person is. I want to know how you’ll sort out your taxes, driving license, everything. I want you to be on top of everything, and I expect it by tonight when I get home from work.”

I nod rapidly. “I can do that.” I’ve got this broad smile on my face, and I reach across the table and take his hand. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You know,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I never thought my beautiful daughter would become a tattooist. Sorry, tattoo
artist
.”

“What did you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know. Graphic designer? Something safe.”

“Try and be a little more open-minded.”

“Wait until you get to be my age with children of your own, and let’s see how open-minded you’ll be then when they ask you if they can do insane things.”

“It’s not insane.”

“Well, maybe it’s just because I’m your father, but the idea of letting my nineteen year-old daughter live alone in a different country without any real supervision sounds insane to me.”

“You can trust me. I’m not a partier. I’m not interested in that stuff. Heck, I’ve never even tried a cigarette.”

His expression hardens. “I should expect not.”

“You have to trust me, Dad.”

“I do trust you. But if you disappoint me—”

“I won’t,” I promise him. “I swear it.”

“Okay.”

“Hey!” I say after a moment of silence. “You can use this as an opportunity to see… what’s-her-name more!”

“Her name is Isabelle,” he says sternly. “Isabelle Fletcher.” Then his face lights up. “Hang on a minute.” He pulls out his phone, and starts going through his messages.

“What is it?”

“Melbourne, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Isabelle has a son, and he spent his teenage years in a boarding school in Melbourne. I think he’s still there.”

“Really?” I ask. “That’s a coincidence.”

“Indeed. His name is, um, Pierce.”

“Oh. Like the James Bond actor?”

“Different spelling, I think. I’ve got a photo of him somewhere. Isabelle sent it to me.”

I watch as he manhandles his phone, punching the on-screen buttons the way he pecks at his keyboard.

“Ah, here we go,” he says.

He turns the phone around and shows it to me. There’s a photograph of Isabelle. She’s looking uptight and well-dressed as usual. And standing next to her is…

“That’s him?” I ask.

“Yeah. Why?”

I say nothing, just shake my head.

The guy is hot as hell.

Chapter Five