Wayne Bradford fumed, his lips thinning into a slit. “This is about her, isn’t it?”
“Don’t bring Miracle into this Dad.”
“I didn’t. You did. Months ago when you threw away your future for a piece of a—”
Hardy was in his father’s face, cutting him off before he could finish such an insulting sentence. “Stop right there,” he warned quietly. “It’s not like that. If all I wanted was a whore, I could’ve taken my pick from the bimbos at school. Whether you like it or not, Dad, I’m in love with Miracle and I have every intention of marrying her if she’ll have me.”
“Well, of course she’ll have you. Why wouldn’t she? She’s struck gold.”
“That’s exactly why I’m getting a job. I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you. Just leave me alone. In a few more months I’ll be out of your hair and you won’t ever have to see me again.”
“Are you sure you want to leave this house that way, Hardy? Because you’ll never be welcome back. Are you sure you never want to see your brother again?”
Hardy’s father’s eyes sparkled with an evil insinuation Hardy had never seen before. Wayne Bradford knew which buttons to push. He’d been playing Hardy all along.
“You knew.”
“Knew what?” Wayne asked snidely.
“You knew the only reason I went along with all your plans, put up with all your bullshit was to protect Clay. And you let me. You used that to control me.”
“I’ve never laid a hand on your brother and you know it. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hardy raised his hand and pressed his finger into the center of his father’s chest. “Let me tell you, if you ever lay a hand on either of them, a finger on either of them, I’ll ruin you. You mark my words.”
All the fear Hardy had lived under for most of his life suddenly didn’t seem so insurmountable. If Miracle could be brave enough to face death, Hardy could be brave enough to face his father.
“And just what do you think you’re going to do about it? Especially when you’re not living here.”
Hardy smiled in satisfaction, having dreamed of this moment since he was a little boy—the moment he could call his father’s bluff.
“Do you remember the year you got me that camera for Christmas? The digital one?”
Wayne’s brow wrinkled, but unease was written all over his face. He nodded.
“That was a big mistake,” Hardy declared smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. He smelled victory in the air.
“Just what are you saying?”
“I took pictures—lots of pictures—of the worst of the damage. I saved them to a CD and hid them. I was always too afraid to use them, afraid for Mom and Clay.”
“You’ve played football since you were six years old. Kids get bruised,” Wayne stated, shrugging as if unconcerned, but he wasn’t fooling Hardy.
Hardy hadn’t realized the depth of his father’s sickness until that very moment. He’d always thought his father was grooming him to be a pro football player from an early age. And, to some degree, Hardy was sure he was. But he’d also done it to cover his tracks, to give doubt to any claims or suspicions Hardy might make.
“Did you know the camera had a date stamp? And that there are quite a few pictures from the spring and summer?”
He didn’t need to add nowhere near football season; it was strongly implied. And Wayne understood that. He paled beneath his perfect tan.
“No one would—”
Hardy interrupted, feeling empowered. “It doesn’t matter, Dad. You know as well as I do that the suspicion alone would ruin you. An upstanding member of the community being accused of child abuse. A long, drawn out, very public court battle. And if another family member showed up with bruises…or accusations…”
“You wouldn’t do that.” But he wasn’t convinced. Not really.
“Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I, Dad? Try me. Lay a finger on Mom or Clay and try me.”
After a long pause, during which Wayne Bradford came to the realization that his son was no longer playing by his rules, Hardy’s father spoke again. “So what is it that you want? For me to support you and your sickly girlfriend?”
Hardy snorted. His father really was a bastard. “No. I just want you to stay out of my life. And to keep your hands off Mom and Clay. That’s all I want from you. Beyond that, I don’t care if you drop dead in the shower tomorrow. You’ve hurt me enough to last a lifetime. I’m done with you.” Hardy spat. “I’m done with you.”
Pushing past his dumbstruck father, Hardy made his way to the bathroom. His heart was beating like a jackhammer against his ribs and he was a little shaky, but he was no worse for the wear. He stood in front of the mirror studying his reflection for a long time before he smiled. He was finally free. They all were.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miracle had already changed into her hospital gown. Kelly St. James was folding her clothes and putting them into the suitcase that rested on the vinyl reclining chair in the corner. Hardy was holding Miracle’s hand. Absently, he ran the fingers of his other hand alongside the graft she would no longer need after today.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, even though she hadn’t mentioned fear. He could read it all over her face, in her too-bright smile. He knew her too well. “You’re gonna be fine. Better than fine.”
Miracle smiled. “I’ll be peeing like a champion in no time.”
Hardy chuckled. “Everyone’s dream…”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly seven a.m. Time for him to go. He cleared his throat.
“Well, they’ll be coming for you in a while. I’ll let you rest, okay?”
Miracle’s brows drew together. “You’re leaving?”
“Well, I, um, I don’t want to tire you out before, uh, you know. You need to be rested going into this thing, right?” Hardy stammered.
Miracle tried to smile, but Hardy could see that she’d gotten the wrong impression. “Sure. I mean, I’m sure you’re right.” She looked away from him, blinking quickly several times before asking her mother for her purse. Kelly eyed Hardy as she carried Miracle’s purse to the bed. Unzipping it, Miracle withdrew an envelope and handed it to Hardy. “I wanted you to see this before I went in to surgery. You know, just in case…”