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“Son.”
One word, and everyone paused. William couldn’t breathe. Air wouldn’t come. His father’s presence erased everything William had worked toward. He was a twenty-two-year-old brat again, ruining the family name.
The perplexed assistant scooted aside to let his father pass.
“Dad.” William clenched his fingers against his palms. He would not go back in time. He would not allow his father that control. He would not be that kid again.
“I suppose congratulations are in order.” Dad had aged over their time apart. Oh, he still owned the room when he entered, but his hair was whiter and the lines on his face deeper. “It’s been a long time. We’ve got some work to do to get this transition moving. Best get on that.”
He turned in the direction of the conference room without any other words. He didn’t need them. People followed Joe Covington wherever he led.
“Best get on that.” Parker jerked his head to where William’s father had stood moments before.
“We’re not done.” William pointed a finger at Parker and headed the opposite direction of the conference room.
He refused to come when called.
CHAPTER FIVE
William was on edge. A string of tense meetings with his father over the past two weeks had been punctuated with uncomfortable, over-the-top civility. Twice his father had broached the subject of William staying at the family house. Twice, William declined. Politely. Through gritted teeth.
Better to live in a rundown place he called his own than move back to the altar of broken dreams, otherwise known as the family home where his father and stepmother lived.
Parker had tried to contact him a few times. William had avoided the calls and sidestepped him at the station.
But his father’s endless persistence, and Parker’s two-faced friendship, weren’t the only reasons he couldn’t sleep. The yowling outside had become unbearable. He yanked a thin bubblegum-colored blanket over his head.
Two a.m. and a first-class pain-in-the-ass cat would not shut up. William groaned.
Even without the cat, a person could not sleep in a house drenched in the color palette of Pepto-Bismol.
He was a successful reporter. A goddamned heir to an empire. All of that sounded great, but his life was like a late-night infomercial. Looked amazing on television, but once you got it, you realized it was total shit and the return shipping wasn’t worth the effort.
The bellowing outside grew louder, several short meows and a long, high-pitched cry.
He rolled off the bed, stood, and stubbed his toe on the dresser.
“Fuck,” he said, under his breath as he rubbed the injured digit.
Barefoot, shirtless, and without any pride, he limped through his living room in only his boxers. Not like anyone was outside to see him or his damaged dignity. Clearly, he was the only one awake in the neighborhood. Aside from the cat.
He grabbed a pastel pink laundry basket from the sofa and stepped outside the patio door. His bare feet hit the chilled metal steps. He shivered. Clouds covered the moon, so the only light came from a streetlamp at the end of the building. Not even the stars were out tonight.
Step one, catch the cat.
Step two, feed the cat.
Step three, no idea. He’d figure that one out after some sleep.
The yowling continued from around Lucy’s side of the patio. William stepped with care across the AstroTurf lawn, hopping away from jagged gravel to avoid the legion of pink flamingos he’d inherited with the place.
Yes, he’d been flocked.
His breath came in thin, foggy bursts.
He was a predator hunting a…Puddy Tat.
Quoting Looney Tunes to himself while tracking a cat around a compound of sketchy apartments? Yeah, he needed sleep.
