Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter fourteen | like father like son

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"We raise predators by treating children as prey."
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Mason

THE SMELL OF BREAKFAST is making me nauseous. I swallow hard, nudging my scrambled eggs and sausage around my plate, knowing one mouthful could have me hunched over the toilet bowl for the next twenty minutes.

My grandfather, Edmund Foster, sits across from me, firing questions around the table faster than anyone can respond. Despite being seventy years old, muscles still push at the seams of his suit and although wrinkles crowd his forehead, they don't manage to conceal the irritation igniting behind his bright blue eyes. His shaved his entire head and if he were to be wearing black and white striped clothing I'd say he'd look like a mass murderer on the run from prison.

Ruby excuses herself from the table to go check on my grandmother, who is lying upstairs in the guest bedroom. By the sounds of her hacking cough and wheezing, her lungs are about to collapse in on themselves.

My grandfather smiles tightly as Ruby departs, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate. "So, Mase, how much longer is the cast on for?"

"A week, I think," I respond as politely as possible.

"Was it a hockey accident or did you piss your dad off?" he asks in a conversational tone, reaching for his cane as he rises to his feet.

I freeze, my chest constricting, my body going ridged, muscles taut and tense, as though prepared to take flight. "I—uh—um..."

"He snuck off to his mother's funeral," my father supplies for me, eyes lingering on his fathers expression, seeking his approval. "Lied straight to my face to go cry like a baby over that old bitch's grave."

"I would've snapped all your limbs," my grandfather tells me with a light chuckle, clapping my dad on the shoulder. I don't miss him flinching. "You should consider yourself lucky."

"Sure," I mutter, dropping my gaze down to my untouched plate as I twirl my fork in my hand.

"You know it's polite to eat what's put in front of you," my dad snaps, stacking up all the finished dishes. "Actually, since you decided to make yet another terrible choice in life, you can hand your phone over for the next two weeks."

My grandfather bursts out laughing and I feel heat flooding into my cheeks. "But I didn't do anything wrong," I argue pointlessly.

"You're drinking underage!" my father barks, folding his arms across his chest as he surveys me through narrowed eyes. "I would call that doing wrong."

"Oh, Jesus, Dad, don't get all protective and pretend like your care for my wellbeing just because your own daddy is here." The words fall from my lips before I can stop myself.

His whole face swells with anger, pupils expanding. "How dare you, you insolent little shit!" he hisses. "Dad, can you please excuse us for a moment."

My grandfather sniggers, hobbling over to the threshold of the dining room. "Sure thing, son. If you need me to add in a few words—" he waves his cane in the air ominously "—don't hesitate to call for me."

My dad storms around to me the moment his father exits, hands scrunched, face purpling. His hand swings around, gripping my jaw hard, tilting my head back and forcing our eyes to meet. His knuckles crack against the side of my cheek and Jared sucks in a sharp breath beside me. "I will fuck you up if you misbehave. In fact, you'll be lucky to be walking once I'm through with you. Do you understand?"