I also remember that she was knitting me sweaters, for God’s sake. She was lying to her brothers to be with me. She was getting way too involved. And it needed to be stopped.
I’m not the kind of guy who dates or does relationships, and I’d already told her that, didn’t I?
But she didn’t listen, apparently, and I had to take matters into my own hands.
But none of that matters anymore: the championship win, the stupid rivalry, the fact that I broke her heart for it all. Because I ended up at the same place.
I ended up where I never wanted to be. In Bardstown.
Inside my father’s study, back in our house.
It’s been two years since I’ve been inside this room. Two years since I’ve seen these leather couches; these polished hardwood floors and the wall-to-wall mahogany bookcase with all the shiny books that my dad never reads, since he’s not into books or education.
He’s into money. And according to my dad, good education doesn’t always mean good money.
Look at him for example, he’s a high school dropout who helped his dad start a construction company when he was only eighteen. That went on to become this multi-million-dollar empire that he presides over today.
But anyway, I haven’t been inside this room for a long time and I’d forgotten how suffocating this space is. How it feels like something is wrapped around my throat, a phantom noose of some sort, and my father’s evil fingers are tightening it and tightening it.
Until I can’t breathe.
Yeah, I’ve never been able to breathe around my father.
But that’s not the problem right now, my suffocation.
The problem is that there’s this woman, standing just inside my father’s study, who’s currently running her left hand down my arm.
She has long, blood red nails.
That she probably pays a lot for. For the upkeep, I mean.
My father would want nothing less.
Nothing less than pretty manicured nails to scratch his old, shriveled-up balls.
The fact that I can think about my father in those terms without throwing up all over these hardwood floors is a testament to how far I’ve come.
I think I also deserve credit for not throwing up on her shoes. What’s her name again? Cindy, Sydney? Stephanie?
I don’t know. She’s new here. I think.
All my father’s secretaries look the same to me. They’re always young and pretty and blonde. They’re always very eager to please.
Him and also me for some reason.
To that effect, this new one smiles at me, her lips as red as her nails. “Good night, Mr. Jackson.”
“Reed,” I push out somehow. “Just Reed.”
Her smile widens as she looks up at me. “Reed.”
All right, that was a bad idea I think. Asking her to call me by my name. It makes me want to throw up even more. But then I hate to be called by my father’s name so really it’s a toss-up.
“Were you on your way out?” I ask her in my most polite voice.
She must be; it’s definitely not normal office hours and I almost crashed into her as soon as I entered my father’s study.
Smiling, she peers at me through her lashes. “Yes. I was leaving. I was just… helping your dad with something.”
“I bet you were,” I murmur. “What a hard-working employee you are.”
“I try my best.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Her smile knows no bounds, and then something occurs to me. Something extremely disturbing given the fact that she’s still touching me.
“Are you a lefty?” I ask.
She looks slightly taken aback by my question but whatever. If she refuses to take her hand off me, then I need to know.
She glances down at her fingers on my arm. “Uh, yeah. Why?”
Fantastic.
I was afraid of that.
I was afraid that her hand might’ve touched other things — things like those shriveled-up balls that I was talking about — before it touched me.
Aaand there you go. The bile is up to my teeth now.
“You look like one,” I reply, clearing my throat. “Well, allow me to get out of your way and let you leave.”
I step to the side and thankfully her hand falls away.
She gives me a heated look before nodding. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Yeah, not a fucking chance in hell.
The moment I see her at the office tomorrow, I’m turning around and walking out of the building.
But just to fuck with her, I throw her a slight smirk and rasp, “Can’t wait.”
Her eyes light up and she practically prances out the door.
Poor… Sabrina?
Okay, I give up.
Poor whatever the fuck her name is, is going to learn real fast that I don’t pick up my father’s discarded ones. It’s the principle of the thing and the fact that my dick doesn’t work for women like that.
No offense to the women.
All offense here goes to the man who brought me into this world and who constantly cheats on my mother. And who a second later says, “She likes you.”
I’ve been watching her leave, but at his voice, I turn around and there he is.
My lovely father.
All the way across this huge room, sitting on his throne. Or his chair that looks like a throne.
It’s been here for as long as I can remember. Upholstered in polished brown leather, it has a high wide back. It makes him look larger than life. It makes him look like the king of the world, or at least Bardstown.
He specifically had it made for himself, actually.
I think he saw it on TV, this throne-like chair, and he wanted it so much that he had it custom built.
That’s my father; he wants things.
He wants money. He wants power. He wants women. He wants an ugly-ass chair that he saw on TV because he thinks it makes him look rich and powerful.
He is those things, yes. But he also loves to show off.
He loves to shove it in your face, how rich and powerful he can be.
“How tragic for her then that I don’t,” I reply, remaining by the door.
“Don’t be so hasty in your judgement, son. Stephanie’s new but she has her uses.”
Ah, Stephanie, and she is new.
I hum. “Good for Stephanie. But I think I’d find her more useful if she wasn’t fucking my father.”
At this my dad laughs.
He has a booming laugh, loud and echoing, and just like that it becomes a real struggle, a real fucking struggle, to not feel that noose tightening around my neck.
When he’s done laughing at me, he says, “Such prudishness. Still. I thought time would make you more receptive. But you continue to surprise me.”
Yeah, because this isn’t the first time my father has suggested that it’s okay for me to — how do I put it? — avail myself of his conquests. He’s definitely availed himself of mine in the past and so I stopped bringing girls from school over.
For all his greediness, my father can be a very generous man. He’s happy to share things with me, his one and only son. His wealth, his power, this company that he’s built from the ground up.
“Yes, I’m an enigma.” I sigh and brace myself. “Is there a particular reason you wanted to see me tonight?”
As I was heading out of the bar, I got a text from my dad, asking me to come see him in his study.
I’ve had plenty of summons like these over the years and they never end well. So I’m not particularly looking forward to this conversation. But I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter like I did before.
Like I did up until two years ago.
Up until then, I’d blow him off. I wouldn’t answer his texts, wouldn’t pick up his calls. I’d be purposely difficult to get a hold of. It used to be easy too. I used to have soccer practice, parties, friends, school and a
ll those things.
I would actually take pleasure in avoiding him. I’d take pleasure in showing him the finger, doing things he hated just to spite him.
But now not so much.
Now I don’t have very many excuses.
Such as soccer.
Yeah, I don’t have soccer anymore, and I’m not going to get into the whole thing as to why. Because the reason doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say that I don’t play and neither do I go to college.
Not that that’s been a hardship, not going to college.
Like my father, I never liked education. I was only going to classes to have minimum grades so I could play and piss off my dad. Since I’m not playing, I’m not going to waste my time on homework and assignments.
“Just wanted to check in on my son,” he replies almost gleefully. “Welcome him back from New York. I have to say I missed you.”
Yeah, of course.
He wanted to check in on me. He wanted to rub it in my face that he can check in on me and that one call from him, one measly text, and I’d come running.
As I said, my father wants everything.
Such as my complete and utter obedience. Complete control over me.
“And I have to say that I can’t say the same,” I quip.
Chuckling, he settles back in his ugly-ass chair. “I’ve always liked your sense of humor. I’m sure it’ll come in handy as you adjust to the new workplace. I’m looking forward to having you here. And the fun starts tomorrow, huh? The big party in your honor on transferring from the New York office to here. The future CEO of the company. This is all going to be yours one day.”
Right.
So I work for my dad. The thing I never wanted to do. I have been working with him at his company, Jackson Builders, for the past two years now. I was in New York up until now, handling things up there because that’s where I was needed. My father’s words, not mine.
But now he’s called me back and I’m supposed to obey him.
And I have.
I’m back, aren’t I?
Even though I’m sure that this big move back was just a way for him to show his power over me.
“Anything else?” I ask, wanting to get out of this suffocating, four-hundred-square-foot and yet claustrophobic office as soon as I can.
But he won’t let me go so easily.
He knows how much I hate it here and he’ll make me take it.
He’s going to make me suffer.
“Yes." On his desk, there’s a file that he slides toward me. “I’ve got a job for you. Your first job here in Bardstown.”
A job, of course.
A violent sort of energy flashes through my body at his words.
It’s nothing new though, this violence in me. It’s been brewing for the past two years, ever since I started working for him. Ever since he forced me to work for him and made me his lapdog.
“And what does this job entail?” I ask.
“The usual. There’s a piece of land that I want. But the owner is being difficult.”
"So, we’re going to make things more difficult for him, then?”
“Of course.” My father smiles. “We’re going to increase the pressure until he cracks.”
It’s not a miracle that my father owns everything in this town and it’s not all hard, honest work either. He likes to bend the rules, fuck with people and their lives as long as he gets what he wants.
Like screwing with their bank accounts so they can’t pay their mortgage. And when they can’t, the bank gets involved. That’s when my father steps up and offers to pay off the debt in exchange for the land.
I have first-hand knowledge about that.
About his business dealings.
About how he fucks with someone’s life. That’s how he got me actually. By fucking up someone else’s life.
I go over to the desk and pick up the file. I recognize the name on it, Henderson. He owns a bookstore in town, I think.
I went to school with Mr. Henderson’s son, Martin Henderson. He was a good kid.
I know it’s not going to make a difference but still, like an idiot, I speak up, “I went to school with his kid.”
My father chuckles. “So?”
“So you want me to destroy someone I know.”
So far I’ve only fucked with people I haven’t known. I try not to think about it too much. But this is new. This is fucking new and I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.
“For business only.”
“Yeah because that makes everything so much easier, isn’t it?”
This time I’ve amused him so much that his chuckle turns into laughter and I fist my hands and tighten my muscles again.
Damn it.
His laughter really strangles me to death.
“You’re so easily offended, aren’t you?” he says once his laughter is under control. “Yes. It does.”
“Why can’t someone else handle it?”
“Because I want you to handle it.”
“I think I’m going to have to pass.”
That pisses him off, my refusal.
“Are you sure you want to say no to me?” he asks. “You know how upset I get when I hear that word.”
“Apparently not enough to have a heart attack or something.”
His nostrils flare and all the charm and all the ease that he portrays to his investors at his parties slips even further. He goes from being a posh businessman to just a man from the wrong side of the tracks who managed to own everything that he ever set his eyes on, either by hook or crook.
“You remember what happened last time when you said no to me, don’t you?”
I do.
I do remember it.
“Yeah, last time when I said no to you, you blackmailed me into working for you.”
His eyes narrow. “And whose fault is that? I let you run around, do whatever the fuck you wanted while growing up. You wanted to be a little shithead who hated his daddy, fine. But you don’t fuck with me when I ask you nicely. I asked you to quit soccer, forget about the championship game, that fucking scholarship — like you even needed a scholarship when your father’s loaded — and come work for me. But you didn’t listen. So I had to show you who was boss.”
“And you’re the boss, aren’t you? Always.”
“Yes. Because I always win,” he declares, his features morphing into something harsh, villainous. “I always get what I want. So instead of being an ungrateful son of a bitch, try showing some gratitude that I’m leaving you this company. That I’m going to teach you how to fucking run it, because I’m not letting you ruin my life’s work. And I’m not leaving it in the hands of someone as incompetent as you.”
Yeah, that’s been the whole saga.
My father and his company. How he built it and how he wants me to run it. How he won’t let me escape it. How he’ll do anything to force me to take the reins.
Although in his defense, he did ask me nicely.
In my senior year, he asked me to not apply for a soccer scholarship. Repeatedly. He asked me to quit the team. Repeatedly. And when I didn’t listen, because I was such a shithead who hated his daddy, he gave me an ultimatum the night before the championship game.
He told me that if I showed up to play the next day, he’d make my life very difficult. He would hate that, but he’d do it.
Not only that, he even showed up at the game. Maybe to intimidate me I think.
So to fuck with him, I made sure that I won. Right in front of his eyes.
And well, he delivered on the promise.
He did make my life difficult. So I really have no reason to be angry or frustrated because I brought this upon myself.
But I am angry and frustrated.
I am fucking furious, not because he fucked with me, but because in the process of fucking with me, he fucked with someone else too.
He fucked with her.
&n
bsp; The girl whose heart I broke and who stole my Mustang.
***
Tempest calls me as soon as I get into the car after my disastrous meeting with my dad. I’m about to head to the hotel I’m staying at, because I can’t stand staying at this house, but I go alert.
“Pest, you okay? W —”
She doesn’t let me speak. “Did you go?”
“What?”
“Did you?” she demands.
I look at the time on the dashboard.
It’s after 2AM and she sounds wide awake. She sounds like she never went to sleep. “What the — Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Okay, first of all, I’m fine. I’m in my dorm room of course, watching Netflix. You don’t have to sound so freaked out and go into your Big Brother Mode. And second of all, did you go or not?”
I sigh and sit back.
Her calls in the middle of the night aren’t a rarity. Plus to be fair, her calls don’t always mean bad news.
Sometimes my sister just calls because she can’t sleep.
Because she just saw a movie or a show that she really wants to talk about and she chooses me because apparently, I’m her BFF. I think it’s best friend forever or something fucked up like that.
But I’m also her brother, her big brother.
So obviously, I’m going to freak the fuck out if I get a call from her at an odd time.
“Pest, what have I told you about calling in the middle of the night? When it’s not an emergency.”
She mumbles, “You said to not do it.”
“Yes. And why is that?”
“Because it freaks you out.”
“Correct. So what do we do when we get the urge to call Reed? Just for the fuck of it.”
She sighs sharply. “We stop ourselves and we try to go to sleep.”
“Good.”
“Fuck you, Reed. You don’t have to be such an asshole. And just so you know, this is an emergency.”
My lips twitch as I rest my elbow on the window and put my head back against the seat. “What is it?”
“Did you go or not?”
“Did I go where?”
“You know where. Did you go to the bar or not, Reed?”
“No.”
She gasps. “You’re lying. You’re lying to me. To your own sister.”
I close my eyes and bang my head against the seat a few times. “How the fuck do you know I’m lying?”
A Gorgeous Villain Page 18