Page 47 of The Pact

Turning, I walk back to the couch and grab my phone. Damian doesn’t miss the opportunity to lock his icy eyes with mine. “Cole can answer any questions you might have. I’m sure you’ll have a few. The only question I need answered, princess, is if you want to be shared.” Princess? What a pig. Unlike his brothers, there’s not an ounce of remorse in his voice—only a challenge.

17

THEA

I couldn’t give them an answer. Although, I should have said no right away. My head felt like it was going to explode from the revelation that these guys were asking me to be in a relationship with all of them.

In no way am I prude, however, four men is… a lot. I left without much of a goodbye and they didn’t fight me on it, thankfully. My answer is no. Not only for the fact that it’s messy and complicated, but they all lied. I don’t know if I can forgive them for that. Although I did let Cole kiss me goodbye when he walked me to my truck, mostly because I was afraid that it might be our last one.

That broke me a little.

Sleep came restlessly and only after I shamefully fantasized what it might be like with Sutton, Wesley, Cole, and Damian at the same time. The emptiness that followed my release crashed into me hard.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t weighed the decision in the back of my mind all day. Imagining a life without Cole, despite him withholding this important part of his life from me, hurts too much to not give it some consideration. Still, it’s a no. It can’t work.

The visit from my parents might be a welcome distraction. That’s something I never thought I’d feel. Willing patience and a forced smile when I hear three raps on my door, I take a deep breath and welcome them in.

“Mom. Dad. Good to see you.”

We exchange superficial pleasantries as I offer them a seat.

Their eyes sweep over the entirety of my home. It’s tiny, so it’s a quick assessment. It feels strange having company over when they can see my bedroom from the living room and my kitchen from my bedroom.

“It’s not much,” I admit. “But the rent is reasonable and my neighbors are quiet, mostly. I’m happy here.” I hope the last part fills them with some sort of satisfaction. The hope is quickly dashed when my mother purses her lips at the word happy. It’s a foreign concept to her.

She drilled into me growing up that money equals happiness. Things satisfy you. And never wanting was the ultimate goal in life. Her vision never sat right with me, even from a young age.

My creative little heart couldn’t care less about things, aside from my camera. They reluctantly bought me my first one after two years of only asking for that on my birthday and at Christmas.

I think they believed I’d get bored with it and find something else to fill my time with, a hobby that could lead to what they considered a successful career. That didn’t happen. It only fueled my passion. I cherished that camera for years, nearly crying when I had to replace it.

When it came time to check out colleges, my mother refused to indulge my desire to get my degree in photography. Instead, she pushed for a business degree. Even going as far as threatening to not pay for school unless I pursued the path she’d laid out.

I couldn’t bring myself to accept what I knew would be wrong for me. So, I applied for countless scholarships, earning just enough to get through the degree program of my choice. The look on her face when I told her I didn’t need her money was priceless.

“Here, dad. Happy belated Father’s Day.” I hand him the wrapped book Sutton helped me pick out. The thought of him makes my heart lurch a little. My father smiles gingerly and thanks me, although he doesn’t open it.

Alan Griffin isn’t nearly as bad as my mother, at least vocally. His scrutiny comes in sighs and stern expressions when he doesn’t approve of my choices. But mostly, he’s checked out these days, letting my mother run wild with her need to control and nitpick everything I do. Having my back has never been important to him.

We sit in an awkward silence for a few moments before my mother speaks again. “When is the last time you had a manicure?” I glance down at my nails and notice the chipped polish. “You should make time to do those small things, you know, keeping a presentable appearance.” My lips press into a tight line as I swallow a harsh reply.

“You look nice, mom.” Every strand of her perfectly styled short, dark hair is in place. My hair is the same color—as dark brown as you can get, yet not quite black. I’m much less concerned with my longer wavy style looking polished. It kind of has a mind of its own, anyway. I have my father’s blue eyes, the ones that are staring off into the distance now. He’s probably wondering how much longer he’ll have to sit through this.

My mother sneers. “It’s not polite to give compliments you don’t mean.” My tongue might behave, although my eyes betray me as they roll at her inability to see some kind words as just that, rather than something backhanded.

The beeping of the oven timer makes me hurry to the kitchen, desperate for a moment of space from tweedle-mean and tweedle-dull in the living room.

I’m not much of a cook, not like Cole. Fuck. Stop that, Thea. The best I could do was to grab some ready-made dishes at the store. I threw them into pans and popped them in the oven. They’d be none the wiser that the BBQ chicken, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw weren’t made with love by me.

Thankfully, my father inhales his food. Not because it's good by any means. I can tell he’s eager to get back home and eating quickly is his way of speeding this visit up. My mother, on the other hand, keeps pushing the same clump of potatoes around on her plate. I don’t bother asking her if everything tastes alright. I already know there will be a long list of complaints. Not asking is a little win for me since she’ll take any opportunity to criticize.

“How has everything been with you guys? Work good? Anything new and exciting going on?” I don’t expect much. Their responses are usually short and clipped. Why did she insist on visiting if she was going to spend the evening being miserable? Nosiness, I answer my question.

She shrugs. “Same as usual, I suppose.” I’m pushing a forkful of coleslaw into my mouth when she casually adds, “We ran into Gavin a few weeks ago. He’s looking great.” I nearly choke.

The food barely clears my throat. “What?”

“We saw Gavin. He’s doing very well for himself. Right, Alan?” I stare at my father, who nods as if he hasn’t heard a word my mother’s said. “You know, you might want to give it another go. I even suggested he come up here and try to talk some sense into you. Have you heard from him?”

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