Page 45 of Coaching Prince Charming

If he was trying to intimidate me, it was laughable.

“I wanted to know why you’re missing work,” he said in a worried tone before sighing. “But now I’m more concerned about the bruise on your face, Uncle.”

I swirled my whiskey in the glass. The ice had melted long ago, and I couldn’t be bothered to fetch some more. “Get me some ice, could you?” I handed him my glass.

“Get your own ice,” he snapped. “Or, better yet, stop drinking that shit. It reeks in here.”

I moved my gaze over the large window where the darkness of the night ate all the light from the world. The faint orange glow of lights far below my apartment was barely noticeable. “Fine. I don’t need the ice.”

Beckett rubbed his face. “I gotta call Caden,” he said in a huff. “I can’t deal with this shit alone.” As he stepped to pass by me and move into the hallway, I caught his wrist and looked up at him.

Beckett shot me a questioning frown.

I didn’t want to ask for favors, but I absolutely didn’t want Caden to see me like this. Someday, that kid would be part of our family, and unless I tripped down a flight of stairs very soon, I would have to look into his eyes and be reminded of the state in which he’d found me here. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Beckett was inside. Had he not been leaning against the doorbell for five minutes straight, I wouldn’t have let him in.

“Can you…wait?” I asked in a low murmur.

Beckett’s expression didn’t change. “If you can’t talk to me, I need him to lecture you.”

I closed my eyes. “Beckett, I can’t…” I went quiet, releasing his wrist, but my nephew remained where he was.

The silence dragged on for a while. I opened my eyes and directed my hollow gaze at the piano just to let him know I hadn’t fallen asleep in the middle of the sentence. I wished I had. I wished I could sleep for a whole year until the worst of it passed.

“If you don’t want Caden seeing you like this, then you’ll give me that glass,” Beckett said. “Nothing’s gonna happen until you do that.”

“I’m not…drunk,” I said. I was tipsy, admittedly, but I had some self-control. It was simply that I didn’t care enough to get drunk. Or, to be precise, I didn’t care about numbing my feelings like that. Just now, it felt disloyal to pour all the booze into myself and forget what it felt like to break that young man’s heart.

I needed to feel it as sharply as I could take it, but I couldn’t take it completely sober, either. It was a fine line I had to walk.

“Give it,” Beckett said without leaving any room for compromise.

I thrust the glass to him, and he pried it from my fingers.

“It’s like raising a goddamn child with a midlife crisis,” he muttered as he walked away from me.

I exhaled in frustration and got up from my armchair. Scratching the two-day stubble that had a few too many gray hairs on my chin, I decidedly avoided looking in the mirror as I followed Beckett into the kitchen.

By the time I got there, he had already cursed several times about the smashed guitar pieces and the overturned chair in the middle of the room. Empty food containers littered the kitchen island.

Beckett sloshed the whiskey down the drain and picked up the containers from the countertop. He tossed them into the trash can and put water to boil. He didn’t look at me or the mess on my side of the kitchen island. Instead, Beckett went through the cabinets until he found a jar of instant coffee and a mug. He put more powder into the mug than was advisable, but I understood what he was trying to accomplish.

“I’m not drunk,” I said, barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re drinking it,” Beckett said without looking over his shoulder. He poured the boiling water over the coffee powder and stirred roughly, spilling some over the counter before bringing the mug to the marble surface of the island. His body seemed all taut with tension. He looked me over and shook his head. “What happened, Uncle?”

“This? It’s nothing,” I said, waving over the bruise. It barely even throbbed. It was hardly hot. It would go away.

“For a moment, I thought you had one of your I’m-getting-old fits, got drunk, fell somewhere. But that can’t be true. Not with the king of cut you have. And not with Carter’s smashed guitar on your kitchen floor.” He crossed his arms on his chest.

My heart hammered as if panic was about to give me a heart attack. I wouldn’t have minded one just about now. I stared at the mug. “How did you…?”

“The rainbow strap,” Beckett said tightly. “You have no idea what kind of things are going through my head, Uncle. Did he rob you? Did he punch you? He’s a kid, and you’re a grown-ass man with over twenty years of conditioning and exercise.”

“He’s not a kid,” I said grimly. He wasn’t a kid, but he was still too young to have his future wrecked. No matter which industry he chose, he couldn’t break through with a stain like this on his resume. What else could I have done? I didn’t doubt Carter’s ability to still play music and work on making his dreams come true. He would get there. And he would get there sooner without the burden of a sex scandal.

“So, what happened?” Beckett asked. “You can drink that.”

I shot him a frustrated look and picked up the coffee. It was so bitter that it sobered me up just by firing my defense systems. I swallowed a few sips, burning my tongue in the process. “Nobody robbed me, Beckett.”

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