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I took him down like a linebacker.
Someone pulled me off him—to this day, I still didn’t know who—and I was raging.
“I’ll kill you if you ever put your hands on me again!” I snarled. “You won’t live long enough to regret it.”
I struggled against the arms holding me back.
I kicked and punched and screamed. In my madness, I was willing to take out all my anger on him. I wanted him to feel my anger, my pain—all of it.
“Hank, come on now!” The voice cut through the ang when I looked down into his face, all I saw was blood. “Look at him. I think he got the message.”
When I looked down at Daniel, his face was covered in blood and bruises. His left eye was already swollen shut and his nose was crooked.
Later I found out it had been broken.
I regret nothing.
Later that night, someone had asked if I meant what I said about killing Daniel.
“I said what I said.” Was my reply before I walked away.
Afterward, his father stopped talking to mine. The man even started crossing the street when he saw me. Daniel vanished from our small town about a week later.
Rumour had it, his father sent him abroad to boarding school.
I didn’t care.
Now, after all these years, up he popped, wanting to meet about a job he thought I’d be interested in.
Sighing, I pulled into the parking lot of the luxury building, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Still, I parked, climbed from the truck, and made my way through the shiny glass doors. The security stopped me to have me sign in, then called up to Daniel’s penthouse to get permission to let me in.
It was a struggle not to reach across the desk and clubber this idiot.
Swallowing my irritation, I turned on my heels after he gave me some instructions to access the section in front of Daniel’s door.
Every step of the way, I wondered why I even agreed to meet with him. Still, it was too late to turn back.
When I stepped out of the second elevator, the door in front of me caused me to arch a brow. It was painted gold—at least I thought it was paint. There were two large plants sitting on either side of it, with an unnecessary welcome mat.
I didn’t get a chance to knock—an older man opened the door.
“Hank Patterson.” He greeted me with an extended hand. “I’m Andy Klein—Daniel’s manager.”
Reluctantly, I shook his hand. “Hello.”
“Come in.”
Removing my hat, I entered the foyer of the penthouse. I didn’t want to be there as the bad feeling was still swirling in the pit of my stomach.
Andy closed the door and walked me further into the space. When I entered the living room, he motioned to one of the comfortable looking sofas, but I remained standing.
“Um—would you like something to drink?” Andy asked. “Tea, coffee—”
“No, thank you.” I replied. “Where’s Daniel?”
“He’s on his way.”
“He wants to meet with me, and he couldn’t care enough to show up on time?” I demanded.
