Kiln’s shoulders heave. “How do you expect me to stop?”
One hand beneath his chin, Dad begins to pace. I don’t fucking care about his support anymore. I’m wealthy. Whatever he throws my way, I’ll hire lawyers to fight. I’m not a fucking murderer.
“I’m a respected businessman, Sloane,” Dad gloats. He knows me, so he understands what I’m thinking. Our world was perfect once upon a time. Me, Mom, and Dad. That’s why he knows each of my weaknesses. “You can walk away and defend the charges I bring against you, but it’ll be my word against whose? Yours? A drug-loving, alcoholic, pussy-loving, spoiled, entitled rich boy who’s done nothing but fucked countless girls and given his poor father all types of grief for years.”
His words catapult me back to square one. Self-disgust curls through me in a sickening wave. The sting of Kiln’s witness to Dad’s vitriol is lessened by his blazing jealousy. He asked Dad a question, but Dad ignored it to torment me. I’m always first with him because the woman he loved completely gave birth to me.
Whether I had any say so in the matter or not, it’s my burden to bear.
I close my eyes, tuning my father and brother out, and conjure up Georgie’s little face. It’s memories of the loneliness in her gorgeous eyes that refocuses me and those words, her words, “Sloane, please….”
If I went to her and told her how I felt, she’d understand. Although she isn’t visible to anyone—but me—I’m everywhere. Still, we’re anathema to our families. In that, we relate.
“If you don’t shut the fuck up about Dietrech and Steffie, I’m firing you as Sloane’s personal bodyguard.”
Dad’s added insult to injury by waiting a full five minutes to even begin to address Kiln’s question. A master manipulator, he breeds fucking competition and resentment between us.
“You’ll end up a homeless fuck.” Although he’s talking to Kiln, he smirks at me. “Sloane can hire anyone he wants to guard him.”
And, now, I get the stupid fucking gloat.
“Sloane will end up winning this feud. At least between you two. You believe that young piece he’s smelling around is going to be his downfall?” Dad shrugs. “Either sit back and wait for it to happen or exit now, Kiln.”
If looks could kill, both me and Dad would be dead. Kiln’s glare turns him into the Abominable fucking Dickhead, reminding me of the intimidating motherfucker he once was to me.
He nods in agreement.
Dad didn’t say I could fire the prick, but I scored by getting him to shut Kiln the fuck up. It’s good to know I have this over his head. It’ll be his job if he mentions Steffie or Dietrech again, and I tell Dad. I could find a way to enjoy the fuck out of this if Kiln didn’t piss me off every time he spouts his venom.
“Are there any more questions, boys?”
“No,” Kiln bites out.
I’m halfway to my bedroom when Dad says, “Remember my eye witness.”
He’s a lying sack of shit. If there had been an eye witness, they would’ve seen him murdering Steffie.
“Since she was drowned, there are no fucking fingerprints and no fucking crime scene,” I snarl over my shoulder. “So it’s fucking easy to pin your shit on me.”
I don’t stick around to listen to whatever else my father has to say. I stalk to my room, slam the door, and tell myself again to stay the fuck away from Georgiana McCall.
Chapter Seven
Sloane
Six days before I leave Houston. The past eight have been like every other place—press junkets, practice sessions, timed appearances, alcohol, and sex with groupies.
The more time I spend on the road, the less meaning I find to anything.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I push my dick into the girl’s mouth. She’s a pickup from the bar last night. I didn’t even get her fucking name. She didn’t need mine. Who on this fucking planet doesn’t know me?
She sucks me harder. I twist her hair in my hands, slamming against her mouth, touching the back of her throat. I do it again and she gasps. Once, twice, threefourfive before I shoot off and hold her head in place, filling her mouth with my cum.
I immediately turn away from her. In my head, she’s already dismissed. Her features blur with all the others I’ve fucked since I walked away from Georgie’s hospital room. Grimacing, I grab a pack of cigarettes and light one.
“You need a ride to…wherever?”
“Um, no,” she says in a small voice, as if I’ve treated her any worse than she fucking behaved.
I shrug and head to the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I’m cleaned up and groupie free, and so fucking ready to leave Houston I can hear the jet engines roaring away. In the time I’ve been here, I feel as if I’ve aged two decades.