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And, well—
I need to do this with her.
For her and for me.
So, of course, I say, “More than okay.”
She beams. “Can I pitch you my vision?” Cassie asks Lisa. “I’ll make it fast. I promise.”
“Only if we can do it over drinks.” Lisa stands and stretches her arms. “Bryce, babe, can you grab us some ice?” She looks to Cassie. “What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic,” Frederick says.
Lisa raises a brow interesting, but she doesn’t mention it. “You don’t mind me borrowing your girlfriend, do you, Mr. Webb?”
“As long as you return her in one piece,” I say.
Her smile is wicked. Just like Bryce’s.
Is she flirting? Or am I jealous of everyone and everything?
It’s an unfamiliar feeling. I’ve never cared enough to feel envy.
Still, when Cassie shoots me a please look, I melt. How could anyone turn that down? She’s such a fucking music nerd. It’s adorable.
I nod. “Text me when you’re ready to go, baby. And not too late. Your sister is staying with us.”
Cassie laughs at the thought of Laurel wanting to leave a party or wake up earlier than either of us. But she still nods. “An hour, max.”
Lisa escorts her to the bedroom and closes the door.
Jealousy rises in my throat. It’s not the same as the acid I taste over Frederick. I don’t hate the woman for hurting her.
I don’t hate her at all.
She’s the kind of person who could win Cassie’s heart for real. And that’s really fucking scary. Too scary.
Just when I think my night can’t get any more complicated, I run into the one person I don’t want to see.
My father.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damon
The great Miles Webb is working the room. Even though he’s old as fuck, he charms every person he sees. The second he bats his baby blues, the ladies swoon. The guys sigh. If only I could be with slash be like him.
The party is in full swing. The executives in designer suits pretend they want to let loose. The interns in H&M jackets limit themselves to three drinks. The talent—
Well, anything goes there.
Typical music industry stuff. Loud music, laughter, liquor. There are a few reasons why I haven’t been in touch with my creative side lately. My inability to face the metaphorical music is only one of them.
The other is here, in neon letters.
Yeah, the term is still sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, but it’s really closer to booze, booze, music industry, drugs.
No doubt there are people in the bathroom—or upstairs, or by the pool—with party favors.
A guy who used to offer me cocaine shoots me an I got you smile.
And right then, at that very moment, Dad spots me. He follows my eyeline to Mr. Coke and shoots the asshole a fuck off Papa Bear stare.
It’s bullshit. Dad probably knows the guy supplies because he’s bought something harder from him. But now that he’s on the straight and narrow, we pretend like he’s not going to fuck up again. Like he’s not waiting for me to fuck up again.
Dad crosses the room to me. He says nothing about the dealer. Instead, he pulls me into the fray and introduces me to a dozen groups of people. My son is so talented. He must get it from his mother, huh?
Everyone laughs as if we’re some big, happy family.
It’s fucking torture.
Then it gets worse. He leads me outside, back to the pool where Cassie poured her heart out, and he sits down on one of the lounge chairs, like he’s expecting me to follow her example.
Cassie isn’t a fuckup.
It’s a whole different ball game.
Maybe if I dive into the pool—
Will that save me from this conversation?
“You want to sit?” Dad asks.
No, but protesting will prolong the pain. I sit on one of the loungers opposite him.
He looks me in the eyes. He does have the same blue eyes I do. That’s what Mom always says. That’s what everyone says. You look so much like your father.
They don’t come out and say you’re a fuckup, just like him. They only imply it.
“Is this your first event?” Dad doesn’t add since you got sober. He leaves that implied too.
I should answer sincerely. That’s the responsible thing to do. That’s the mature thing to do. That’s the smart thing, too. It suggests I understand the importance of my actions. It suggests I can handle living at my parents’ massive mansion, alone. It suggests I deserve their charity.
And it is charity, no matter how much I hate it.
I should say something honest.
I really should.
But I can’t. “Yeah, what’s this industry called again? Moo-Sick? Is it about keeping cows well?”
“If you’re going to be sarcastic, at least be clever.”
That’s fair.
Dad doesn’t take the bait, of course. He continues with that torturous I’m Miles, and I’m a drug addict sincerity. “Do you know how old I am?”
“I can’t count that high.”
