Page 60 of Ruthless Wars

“You can’t see Margot.” Everett’s words are just above a whisper, the sentiment more solemn than when we started this whole goddamn conversation. Like it never happened.

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously, dangerously close to losing my shit. “Why the hell not? I’m not using her, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I catch myself before I unleash the “L” word.

After what looks like a private tug-of-war in his own mind, Everett sighs out his words in a reason so explosive, I’m stunned into a long, uneasy silence.

“Because I’m your father.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Coop

From the panic in his eyes and the tightness of his lips, I can tell Everett Long believes every one of the four words his trembling lips just uttered.

My light chuckle widens his eyes and chokes his breathing, and I find myself enjoying this way more than I should.

I’m totally picturing him in a black-on-black get-up, waving a light saber, speaking with asthmatic sounds resonating from beneath a full-face helmet for the big reveal of Coop ... I am your father.

Which makes me Luke Skywalker and Margot the fiery-hot Princess Leia. One metal-clad harem bikini, coming up!

I’m half tempted to really fuck with the guy—maybe holler out, “Nooo,” and bolt from the room. Or toss out something like, “So, sleeping with Margot? Bad idea?” Or, “We’ll keep it on the down low. And from here on out, she’s not allowed to call me Daddy.” Or better yet, “With the way she swallows my cock like a champ, don’t worry. We won’t have kids.”

But my love of humanity gets the better of me. Or the fear that I’m going to be stuck giving the kiss of life to the impending heart-attack victim who I just filled with liquor.

“Relax,” I say with the calm collectedness of certainty. “You’re not my father.”

“Yes, Coop.” Regret and sorrow shimmer in Everett’s eyes in equal measure before he hangs his head with a solemn shake. “I am.”

And there it is again. That opening that’s so perfect for a line like, “What if I promise to only fuck her in the ass?”

Instead, I huff through my internal double-dog dare to ask, “Who told you that?”

“What?”

Everett seems offended that I dare challenge this scandalous piece of information. But with the way he’s carrying on, he was long ago convinced that this was the truth. And I’ve got to know. Who convinced him? My mom or my dad?

I can guess who it was, and my eyes lock with Everett’s as we say in unison, “Scott Byrne.”

“Scott Byrne,” I say again with disbelief and disgust. “The compulsive liar who swindled you by selling you his company for way over twice its value? And I’m guessing he never showed you any photos of you and my mom, because the moron couldn’t use a camera to save his life. Face it. You’ve been had. I’m not your son.”

“How—how can you be so sure?”

Everett’s skeptical of my words, but I can tell he wants to believe me. And if Margot has mentioned me at all, let’s face it, the poor bastard has to be so tortured, he needs to believe me.

“Maybe we should do a paternity test,” he says hopefully.

“No need,” I say to reassure him as I settle back in my chair, folding my hands across my abs, comfortable that we’ve killed the idea of being related to each other. Just two tycoons shooting the breeze, making absolutely certain we’re not a stone’s throw away from some inbred fucked-up family tree.

“I don’t need a paternity test because I’ve already had one. By the time I was thirteen, he couldn’t lay a hand on me. We stood eye to eye. At fourteen and a half, I towered over him and damn near killed the son of a bitch. Told him he was a dead man walking if he ever laid a hand on my mother again. All of a sudden, he demanded paternity tests. Even at the time, it seemed a little late, but the thought of it actually gave me hope. Maybe he wasn’t my dad, and my real dad was someone else, some rich, powerful guy who’d rescue me from the hell my life was.”

The remorseful look in Everett’s eyes is too much, so I let him off the hook.

“I figured he was just being a dickhead, finding any excuse not to support us. But whether I liked it or not, and the answer is not, that asshole’s blood pumps through my veins ... and my siblings’.”

The glint in Everett’s eyes is brighter as his shoulders relax, but I can tell he’s still bothered. No doubt, dumping nearly thirty years of pent-up guilt has him weirded out. I’m sure I hear an audible exhale before he drops his head in his hand, which might also be due to sucking down bourbon like a sailor.

“You want a ride home?” I ask.

“Hmm?” Perplexed, he looks up at me. He takes a minute, seeming to ponder what should be a simple question before asking, “Where does this leave us, Coop?”

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