Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 142764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Clearing my throat, I demand, "Tell me.”
Giving the surrounding space a cautious glance, he leans forward. Most of the seats near us are empty.
"Wait, it’s not…" I pause, not wanting to offend him. "It's not like prostitution, is it?"
He shakes his head. "No, it's not that. Not even close." I watch as he slowly eases his hands apart, holding one up before cocking it back like a gun. There’s a crushing reality of what that means. Guns. Weapons.
"Oh. Okay." Can I live with that? Do I need to know the particulars or...
Shit. The ethical ramifications swirl through my head. Then I jolt..."Does Drew?"
He grins and shakes his head. "Nope. The Marshalls are too good to dip their toes into the illegal dealing of weapons. Lyle is in charge of the money. Most of the organization's money. But that will change soon after everything went down."
The memory threatens to surge up, and I push it back. "Yeah, I don't think I'm going to hate it if that guy gets knocked down a peg or twenty."
"You and pretty much everyone else. He's just so damn good with the numbers. Or at least his employees are. He's good with people, cajoling them, threatening them, doing whatever it takes to get their money."
I blink. I know someone else who is good with people too. Not that I'd admit I found any similarities between Drew and his father to his face. He seems to hate the man, as I do. As does Seb apparently.
"So why is he holding the meeting if everyone hates him?"
"Good question. He’ll be asking himself that question after the meeting too if things go the way I want."
There's so much threat in his tone I sit back, putting some distance between us. I haven't heard that tone since before we found out the truth of our relationship. Back when he thought I was a pretty amusement for Drew.
"Well, tell me what I need to do," I whisper. "I can handle it."
He nods and smiles, his eyes softening, his shoulders slipping down now. "I know. We've got this. Together."
I nod, feeling not so alone anymore. "Together."
19
DREW
The desire to go to her calls to me. I want to see her, to be around her, to hold her, and be beside her, but I can’t. Not when I’m like this. In the past, I didn’t give a fuck about taking my anger out on her. I used her body as an outlet, and well, I wouldn’t have a problem with that so much if she wasn’t already fragile enough. I can’t risk doing something stupid and breaking the fragile trust building between us.
I pull out my phone and send her a quick text: I miss you. I care about you. I can’t wait to see you. I clutch my phone for a second, thinking about deleting it. Maybe it sounds stupid or too sappy. But I shake my head, lock my phone, and take a deep breath.
I can’t allow my anger to lead me. I’ve done that before, and it’s only ever left a path of chaos in its wake. I need to do better. I can do better.
Why didn't I destroy him? Time and time again, I've had the opportunity, occasionally, to take him out, but I’ve always hesitated. Pussied out. And why? Because he's my father? Before, I could see that, but now that I have the knowledge that I do, there’s no reason.
Yeah, he usually has guards with him. Their standing orders are always to punch first and ask questions later. The thought of my fist marks on his skin is enough to reignite the anger I'd started to feel simmering away. I want to crush his throat, slam his face into a wall, and punch him until he can't see straight. All things he's done to me over the years.
I'd take the pain to my hands, my knuckles split from hitting him, all of it. I'd revel in it, and then I'd show Bel so she'd understand what I'd done, that I had stood up to my father, and that I was done playing his little games.
I clench my fists and jog up the steps to the football team's training gym. The heat and anger blazing through me might keep me away from her for now, but I'll see her soon. I need to see her.
A few guys from the team are lifting weights when I enter. Weights line the mirrored room, leaving the middle of the floor open. The scent of sweat and rubber is overwhelming, but I ignore it. It's certainly better than the overfull gym on campus that the rest of the student body can use.
I drop my bag by an empty bench and turn to eye a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. This is what I need. I'm a damn good football player because I practice. Now, the next time my father comes at me like that, I’ll be ready.