“I’m thinking pretty clearly for the first time in my life, actually.”
My cool temper only makes him angrier, and I love having that power over him. His anger fuels something inside of me, pushing me to fight back. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like apologizing or playing the good son. Seeing how my rebellion enrages him only makes me want to do it more.
“Do you have any idea what this is doing to our family? To me? Your reputation? Any chance of taking over after I’m gone is dead now, son. Do you understand that?”
“I don’t care,” I reply coolly, even though it feels like a lie.
“I don’t care about my reputation or the family’s. And least of all yours.” I let out a chuckle as I lean against the counter, staring at him with humor.
“What about that little slut of yours? Do you care about her?”
Something in me tenses at the mention of Sage.
“We’re just having a little fun,” I reply with a smirk. “And we met because of you, so thanks for that.”
“Don’t get too attached, Adam,” he says like it’s a threat.
At which I laugh again.
“You let me worry about my love life, old man.”
His anger morphs into something far more menacing. “If you care about her at all, you’ll end this now. Because I can’t ruin you, but I sure as hell can ruin her.”
Before I know it, I’m charging toward him. His back slams against the front door loudly with my forearm pressed against his windpipe.
“It’d be so easy too,” he mumbles as he struggles to push me off of him. “She has no one, Adam. No family. No money.”
I release my arm against his throat and clench my fists with the desire to punch him so hard he’d be out cold.
But like the brainwashed coward I am, I don’t.
“Do it,” he says in a cruel dare. When it’s clear my fist won’t leave my side, he laughs. “You always were a pussy.
Couldn’t think on your own. Couldn’t fight on your own.
Couldn’t do shit on your own. At least Isaac had the nerve to leave.”
With rage boiling to the surface, I grab him by the back of his shirt and tear the front door open, tossing him out in one quick motion. Just before I slam the door on him, I hear him laughing, and it chills me to the bone.
Then I pace my apartment in anger. I let him get to me.
And I said I wouldn’t do that.
Why didn’t I say something? Why couldn’t I open my fucking mouth and threaten him right back? And why the fuck couldn’t I punch him? It’s like he has me so trained I can’t utter a single word against him or lay a single hand on him.
And I hate him for that.
Flipping the dead bolt closed, I pick up my phone and call Sage.
She picks up on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“Let’s film another,” I say with urgency. She senses my anxiety immediately.
“Now?”
“Yes, fucking now. Bring your tripod and come over.”
There’s a second of silence before she responds, “I can’t right now.”
“Why?” I reply in a dark mutter.
“Because I have plans.” Her tone is weak, with a hint of sweetness. And it’s grating on my nerves.
“What plans?” My teeth are clenched and it’s bugging the hell out of me that her first response isn’t, Yes, Adam. I’m on my way.
She clears her throat. “I have a book club meeting.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me.”
“You’re welcome to join,” she replies jokingly. “This week, we’re discussing The Rake and His Reluctant Bride.”
“Are you fucking with me right now? Because I’m really not in the fucking mood.”
I expect her to argue back. Give me some quippy, sarcastic reply, keeping the conversation light on her end, even though
—I’m aware—my attitude fucking sucks.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, the line goes dead.
Nineteen
Sage
T he margarita machine whirs loudly behind us as Gladys, Mary, Sylvia, and I set up the card table with various dips and snacks, our single, shared copy of The Rake and His Reluctant Bride in the center.
Sylvia crocheted the blue-and-gold doily in the middle on which the book sits. Gladys is whipping up the margaritas, which I already know will be so strong I’ll be drunk in minutes. And Mary is arranging potato skins on the tray like she’s about to present them to the king of England.
As for me, I sit curled up on the black folding chair, watching the three of them setting up, wearing a smile on my face because book club night is my favorite night of the month. And the start to my day wasn’t so bad either.
Even if I did have to hang up on Adam just now for being a pompous, self-righteous, bossy asshole. Instead, that moment this morning on the couch, when he had his hand around my throat and his rough words in my ears, has been playing on repeat all day.
And yeah, I did let out all of that built-up tension with the magic wand after he left, but the effect it had on me lingers.
Brett was never very rough in bed, but then again…Brett was never very anything in bed. Sadly, the same goes for nearly every other guy I’ve slept with. There was the occasional ass slap or hair pull, but the dirty talk was never anything more than “Fuck yeah” and “Don’t stop.”
But the way Adam looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to fuck me like he hated me altered my brain chemistry.
Even if it wasn’t real. I felt those words in my bones.
I’ve never wanted to be so used before. Like that night in my apartment, I got off on him getting off. And that’s something I could never say for Brett. Does it have to do with the fact that Adam is slowly getting corrupted? Am I the one corrupting him?
Do I want to be?
The flutter of butterflies in my belly answers that question.
“Okay, let’s get started,” Gladys says, clapping her hands together. The rest of the ladies gather their chairs and circle around the table. Then, Gladys dives immediately into her personal likes and dislikes of the book, just as she does every month.
As for The Rake and His Reluctant Bride, she loved it. But then again, Gladys always loves the broody alphas.
“He was so…cruel to her,” Mary replies, looking a little uneasy.
“He only acted that way, but deep down, he really loved her,” Sylvia adds.
“I just don’t understand why. If he was on that ship for so long, why was he so mean to her when he returned? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Men don’t make sense,” Gladys says, popping a chip into her mouth.
“It added conflict,” Sylvia replies, making a scowling expression. “If he had come back to her happy and ready to marry her, there wouldn’t have been a story.”
I let out a laugh. “I think it’s deeper than that.”
“How so?” she asks.
But as I remember the rake in the story and how cruel and dismissive he was of the heroine, I’ll admit I’m struggling to find the depth I’m looking for. “I don’t know. I just think there was more to his brutish attitude than just a lame story device.
He was broody and rough, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Besides…