LIAM

The coffee tastes bitter and stale, but it's familiar. I set the chipped mug back on the table, which I'm pretty sure was once white but has started to yellow from the cooking grease that lingers in the air of the diner.

"You sure I can't get you something to eat, Liam?" Syl, a waitress who's worked here since before I was born, walks over to our table, the heels of her shoes clicking against the cracked tile floor.

This diner's a block away from my old house. I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. Sometimes with my dad when we had cash. Sometimes without him if he'd spent it all on booze, and we didn't have anything to eat in the house. Syl and the other waitresses took pity on me. They'd sneak me food when their manager wasn't looking. To say I owe Syl a lot is an understatement.

"No thanks, Syl," I say. "I'm good with coffee."

"I'll get you a refill then," she says, taking my cup.

"How about you, Jack? Anything else?" She glances over at my dad, who's sitting across from me, and the smile vanishes from her face. She knows exactly what type of guy my dad is. She's one of the few people who do. But Syl would never talk to the press. She's not that kind of person, which is why I picked this place to meet up with him. Well, that and the fact that the diner is usually deserted this time of day.

I still covered my ass as best as I could. I posted on social media about going to the gym down in Greenwich Village to throw the paps off my trail. I've never had any of them follow me out to Jersey before, but I can't take any chances.

My dad looks up from the deluxe breakfast scramble he ordered, knowing I'd foot the bill. "I'm good, doll." He winks at Syl, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying anything about it. I can't risk pissing him off. Not with my career already on the ropes.

Syl goes to get more coffee, and I glance out the window. Briggs is sitting in the front seat of the Range Rover, scanning the empty parking lot. I know he's pieced together some of the details about my past over the years, but we've never talked about it. I can't stand the idea of even him knowing what a deadbeat my dad really is. I always ask him to wait in the car on the rare occasions I have to see Jack.

"So how's the show going? Still raking it in?" Jack asks through a mouthful of food. The stale smell of whiskey lingers on his breath.

I drag in a breath through my nose, trying to keep the reigns on my temper. Tearing my eyes from the window, I look over at him. Seeing my dad is unsettling for a lot of reasons—one of them being that it's like using one of those Old Face apps. From our square jaws to our blue eyes, we're nearly identical. He's an older, much more haggard version of me.

"It's fine," I say. "We're about to wrap the final season."

Jack clucks his tongue, poking at his food. "Hope you've got something else lined up. You don't want to be a has-been at nineteen."

"Eighteen," I correct, teeth grinding. "And I'm working on it." I don't know who the fuck Jack thinks he is to give me career advice, considering his current source of income is blackmailing me. He hasn't done a day's work since I got cast in Cipher.

"If you're worried about cash, come down to the track tonight. There's this filly. Total shoo-in. It's practically a guaranteed thing. I can get you in."

I stare at him as he shovels another forkful of eggs into his mouth. "I'm guessing I'm here to pay off your bookie." I pull an envelope of cash from my pocket and slide it across the table. "So I think I'll pass."

Jacks opens the envelope, thumbing through the bills. "You know, that was always your problem, son. You need to learn how to fucking relax."

I scoff. "It's a little hard to relax when you're being blackmailed."

"Blackmailed?" Jack lets out a laugh. "You're just like your mother. So goddamn dramatic."

Anger sinks its teeth into my shoulders, and I can feel a tension headache starting. "What would you call this then?"

Jack points his fork at me. "Loyalty. You think you can forget about your old man, cause you're some kind of hotshot? You fucking owe me."

I shake my head, fingers flexing beneath the table. "I don't owe you shit."

"Hey, if you aren't happy with this arrangement, I can just go to the press." He shrugs indifferently. "Your choice."

My jaw flexes so hard, I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. I look out the window again.

"That's what I thought," Jack says. "You're so damn predictable."

My hands start shaking, and I ball them into fists. I need to get out of here before I punch him in the face. I get to my feet. "Well, that makes two of us. Let me know when you've blown all of that too." I jerk my chin at the envelope sitting next to him.

Instead of thanking me for the money, my dad looks up at me and says, "You gonna bother paying the bill?"

A sharp laugh escapes my lips, because what else did I expect? I grab my wallet and toss a few bills on the table before walking away without saying another word to him.

As I'm passing the counter, I drop five hundred dollars in the tip jar like I do every time I come here. Then I pull the brim of my hat down over my eyes and push open the heavy, metallic door.