James harrumphed and then turned his attention back to me. “Nothing to say?”
I felt like I was in front of my school principal. God, this man was the most condescending prick I’d met in a long time. “Do you always greet your artists this way?” It slipped out before I could stop it.
“In what way?”
“Interrogative. Condescending.” I couldn’t be stopped. It was that word boy.
He pressed his lips together in displeasure. “I’m your boss. Not the other way around.”
“But surely it’s your policy to keep your artists happy? Not make them feel like they’re about to get detention.”
“Only when my artists are making me money and not bleeding me dry.” He cocked his head, narrowing his nasty gaze on me. “Has it always been your policy to be rude to your label head, Miss Finch?”
“Actually, my current policy is to give zero fucks.”
Killian exhaled a shuddering sigh, rubbing a hand over his head like he couldn’t believe I’d said that.
James gave his nephew a look filled with such disdain, a lesser man would have buckled under it. “I hope you know what you’re doing, boy.”
Oh, if he called him boy in that snotty tone one more time!
He marched away before I could say anything, hopefully to exit the building and relieve us of his toxic personality. How did someone like him make a business out of music? Janet Wheeler, the head of Tellurian’s label, was unbelievably passionate about music. Yes, she had a business degree, but her passion was ultimately what drove her.
But James . . . that guy was all coldhearted, soulless business. And you did not make a label successful by talking to your artists like they were crap on your shoe!
“Can you believe that guy?” I gestured toward the empty hall.
“That guy,” Killian bit out between clenched teeth, “is my boss and your label head. What the hell were you thinking?”
Surprised by his anger, it took me a second to respond. I sputtered out, “You’re mad at me? God, if that guy called you boy one more time, I was going to push him out of a window.”
Killian blinked as if he wasn’t expecting that response at all.
“He’s an asshole.”
His face darkened. “Right now, he’s not the asshole. This is my job, Skylar, and you made me look incompetent in front of my boss. Was it deliberate? Are you trying to sabotage this and get out of our deal?”
That he would even ask that floored me. Hurt on top of the hurt I’d already been experiencing over the news that there was a Yasmin made me feel even smaller than his uncle had. I hated feeling small. “No. I just . . . I didn’t like him.”
“Well, sometimes we have to work with people we don’t like,” he said pointedly.
That sucker punch knocked the breath out of me. Hurt didn’t cover how I felt. It obliterated my sarcasm shields, leaving me entirely defenseless. The only option left was to retreat until I could reboot them.
“You know, I think we should finish the tour another time.” I turned away, unable to look at him. “My wrist is making me irritable.”
“You think?” he snapped. He disappeared into his office, returning a couple seconds later with my sweater. I took it from him, careful not to touch him, and hugged it into my chest as I marched ahead down the hallway toward reception.
Before we turned the corner, a door burst open on my left and I nearly collided with the young woman who came out of it.
“Oh, sorry.” She smiled apologetically up at me and then froze as our eyes met.
Confusion and shock drew me to a halt.
It was Shelley, the police sketch artist.
What the . . .
She threw Killian a look over my shoulder and whatever she saw sent her scurrying away from us.
Shelley worked for him, not for the police?
I stumbled forward, my mind whirring. What did that mean? That Killian found those boys before the police—
Oh my God.
I was vaguely aware of someone calling goodbye to us as we stepped into the elevator, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything other than my current realization. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind us, I whirled on him.
“Did you have those boys beaten up before you turned them over to the police?”
Killian stared ahead, refusing to look at me.
“Killian?”
He glanced down at me out of the corner of his eyes, apparently bored. “Well, I’m a dick, right? Dicks do those kinds of things.”
I ignored his jab and pressed, “How? How did you get to them first?”
Shrugging like our conversation didn’t matter, he replied, “We found them through Shelley’s drawings. My birth father has connections. He owed me one, so he had them interrogated. They were a bit more thorough than the police and they fessed up.”
“That’s why Welsh was in worse shape than the other kid.”
Did he care beyond obligatory moral outrage that I’d been attacked? Was that why? I needed to know. And if he did, how could he be such a goddamned bastard to me now if he cared about me? It was as if that sexually tense moment in his office had never happened.
“Why?”
We stepped out of the elevator and Killian said goodbye to the burly security guard before guiding me to the exit. He didn’t answer me as we walked out. It wasn’t until we stopped at his car that he asked, “Why what?”
Impatience itched in my fingers but I stayed calm. “Why? Why did you do that?”
“To teach the little shit a lesson he wouldn’t forget.”
Which suggested he cared. So why was he acting like this? “Did you also persuade those boys to plead guilty? Is that how you knew it wouldn’t go to trial?”
“The McCrurys promised they would make them disappear if they didn’t plead guilty.”
“The connections your dad has . . . it’s that gang you mentioned?”
“Aye.”
I knew from the little I’d gleaned that he and his father had no relationship to speak of. So wasn’t it a pretty big deal that he’d gone to the man for me? “So . . .” I felt vulnerable asking but I needed to know. “What? You did all that because he hurt me?”
Killian took in a deep breath, gazing down the street. The muscle in his jaw ticked a second before he replied, “I did it to make sure the publicity goes the way we want it.”
I didn’t believe him. “You didn’t need to have the shit kicked out of that boy to do that.”
His head whipped back around and he scowled at me. “Are you mad I did that?”
“No.” I wasn’t exactly Miss Perfect. My moral compass was a little skewed these days. Those boys had followed, intimidated, and stolen from me, and one of them had tried to rape me like it was his God-given right. I wasn’t broken up that someone had meted out payback. It was doubtful a short stint in prison would stop him from doing the same to another woman. But maybe fear would. Right or wrong, that’s how I felt.
And I was confused. Because I felt utterly safe in the knowledge that Killian would do apparently anything to protect me. Yet at the same time, he was completely incapable of protecting me from himself and his casual callousness. “I’m confused,” I offered honestly.
“There’s no need to be confused. I take my job seriously. I want this album to be a success and to do that, I need to control every aspect of it, including the PR.”
He really wanted to hide behind that lie? Really? I pushed. “So, it was only about our deal?”
Finally, the mask slipped and he glared at me in warning. “What the hell else would it be about?”
Was this nastiness because of my treatment of his uncle? This inability to admit the truth? “Oh, I don’t know, O’Dea, maybe something involving your heart. Or at least your dick. Or are you too pissed to admit that? Because you don’t forgive me for using the F-word in front of your uncle.”
Not missing a beat, he scoffed, “To forgive, there usually has to be an apology first.”