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“What’s that?” I cup my ear, pretending to strain. “I can’t hear bullshit.” I smile again, so sweetly that his eye twitches. It’s a cringe reaction, or an anger reaction—I don’t know and I don’t care as I turn around and leave.
My lungs fill with air after being suffocated by his smell for longer than should be considered healthy.
The asshole really needs to stop talking to me and using up eighty percent of my energy reserves.
And could he look less physically intimidating in the process? Though I think it’s about his presence and charisma more than anything else. I’ve never considered good-looking men intimidating.
Obviously, he’s the damn exception.
I’m about to mentally prepare myself for my brief meeting with Gwen when my phone vibrates in my bag.
I retrieve it with the intention of silencing it, but the name flashing on the screen makes me pause.
It’s from Attica Correctional Facility.
My pulse skyrockets as I answer, “Leblanc speaking.”
A long pause stretches between us and if it weren’t for the static, I would think we’d been disconnected.
The old male guard’s voice reaches me in a low tone. “I have unfortunate news, Ms. Leblanc. The court has decided to grant Mr. Locatelli a parole hearing. This time, your father will probably win it.”
My hand that’s grasping my phone drops to my side, and the tears I’ve been holding in the entire ceremony gather in my lids.
And just like that, the nightmare restarts.
2
KINGSLEY
I’m going to kill someone.
Preferably my ex-best friend, who’s currently living on borrowed time.
With a sledgehammer.
Or better yet, I could drown him in a pool of acid.
All the guests have slowly left my property after consuming my food and alcohol and nearly throwing a coup d’état to get into my infamous wine cellar.
Try again in a century, cunts.
There’s a short list of the people who have gotten to taste my decades-old wine that goes back to the first generation of the Shaws.
Nate, but only when he had the privilege of being my friend. Now, he’s just a fucker who stole my daughter.
Said daughter when she celebrated her twentieth birthday.
And me.
Now, the whole list is just down to me.
And the devil currently doing kinky shit to the mute angel on my shoulder.
Some of the staff buzz around, tidying up the reception area with the diligence of worker bees, nonverbally announcing that the dreaded day is over.
Or maybe not really.
I yank my bowtie free, throw it on the nearest chair, and pull out my Zippo from the pocket of my jacket. The urge to have a cigarette is almost stronger than my compulsion to bash Nate’s head against the nearest object.
