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She’d love for me to validate her woe-is-me crap, to act out like I’m still a frustrated, scared kid begging her to pull her drunken ass over before she drives us off a winding cliff on an Oregon highway.
If I hadn’t wrenched the wheel and steered us into a ratty motel parking lot that night, I’m certain neither of us would be here to fight about this shit years later.
Before I storm off, I nod at Delia. “I don’t know what any of you think of me, nor do I care. If this whole thing was a setup to win me over—try harder. Or better yet,don’t.I’ll never fit in with this rich, fucked up family, and I’m done pretending I belong.”
Her slender throat moves like it hurts to swallow.
There’s pain in those honey-brown eyes.
Is she feeling the same torture? Imagining how our night could have been completely different?
I don’t stop to ponder.
Mom screeches after me, but I don’t turn back once I’m moving.
No, I don’t want to believe last night was some weird conspiracy using Delia to soften me up. But I can’t put anything past Evie, master manipulator, especially when her mask slips off.
And the rich prick she married?
He’ll do anything to make sure I’m not an embarrassment to his family brand.
Hell, maybe he’d even give his own daughter permission to turn my crank before I find out she’s severely off-limits.
Stomping toward the big entryway, I wish I hadn’t had that second beer.
Ever since that raid on St. John and its horrors, I’ve been laying off booze and bad habits. Even the lightest stuff drags me down like an anchor.
Shit.
By the time I’m climbing in my truck, I realize I’m too buzzed to drive and I hate it.
I need to crash for a few hours—hopefully without anyone realizing I’m still here.
I find the nearest servant and break my dry streak, asking him to bring me a whiskey and a couple bottles of water.
He promptly brings me a glass of amber liquid over ice and a few mineral waters while I wait by the tall staircase. Then I head to my room, kick the door shut, and flop down on the bed.
I’m supposed to be getting some R & R this week before the big briefing with senior leadership. With Joaquin and his men escaping that mansion and fleeing beyond US jurisdiction, there’s a lot of unfinished business.
He didn’t get to head up the largest trafficking syndicate south of California by sitting around with his thumb up his ass, either. He’ll want to get back in the game and undo the damage we did to his business ASAP.
And with his partner Jordan out of the picture, there’s nothing holding him back from more brutal strategies.
I punch the mattress, hating that I couldn’t fucking end this then and there. But I had to save that girl before she bled out in front of my eyes.
Goddamn it.
And goddamn the clueless, selfish cockroaches in this house. None of them—including little miss brattypants—willeverunderstand why I can’t up and quit.
How the hell could I when I’ve seen the consequences of hanging up my sword?
How could I live with myself if I just walk away and let evil win?
I know how heavy and self-righteous that sounds, and I don’t care.
If I can’t deal with the bullshit without resorting to theatrics, then I’ll drink till I’m too numb to be a pissed off bargain philosopher.
Until I can’t think about the shit Ma said about my dead dad.
