Page 122 of Remy

That little fucking shit stain.

I’d laugh if the baggage from his childhood trauma didn’t have him so messed up.

“Yeah.” He kicks back, hefting his sock-covered heels onto the table beside the fake coke. “They seemed like good people.”

“I’m sure they did.” I discard my suit jacket and throw it over the back of the sofa. “You better not let it go to waste then.”

He blinks in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean snort that shit and then clean up your mess. I’m starving, and there’s this place around the corner I want to try for dinner.”

He sits taller, his feet thumping back down to the floor. “You want me to do drugs?”

“Well, I’m not going to encourage you to waste them, am I?” I start for the kitchen, desperate to hide a smile.

“But… you don’t mind?”

I open the fridge. Grab a bottle of water. Crack the lid. “You know my work delves into some shady shit. Who am I to judge?” I watch him from the corner of my eye as I drink.

The poor kid is traumatized. Expression stark. Lips parted.

“Go on.” I jerk my chin at him. “I’m getting hangry.”

He glances from me to the baby powder lines then back again.

“You know how to do it, right?” I raise a condescending brow.

He cautiously scoots from the sofa to kneel before the table. “Yeah, of course.”

Fucking liar.

“Go on then.” I round the sofa to tower over him as he hesitantly leans toward the drugs.

He’s about to take a reluctant sniff when I lightly tap him over the back of the head with an open hand. “Don’t be a fucking moron. I know it’s not coke.”

He fumbles onto his haunches, remorse swimming in his usually playful eyes.

“You need to quit this testing-boundaries shit.” I jab the water bottle in his direction. “I’m not going to kick you out.”

He lowers his gaze to the table like a chastised puppy. “You will… eventually.”

A part of me dies every time he says shit like that. Every time he thinks I’ll give up on him. I may not be the best parental figure. I’m no Carlo Pelosi. But I’ll do everything in my power to make sure I’m nothing like the man who raised me.

I can bite my tongue.

I can be patient.

“Then you don’t know me very well, kid. I’m not the type to give up. I’m more likely to cuff you to your fucking bed and leave my men to guard your door until you wake up to yourself. Do you hear me?”

He keeps his gaze lowered with dejection.

“I said, do you hear me?” I jab the bottle into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Good. Because your folks may have taught you that ditching parental responsibilities was easy, but mine gave me a thorough education on how to use and abuse minions until they’re rung dry. You’re a smart kid and a valued commodity. I won’t be letting you walk out of here anytime soon.”

He blinks up at me, his eyes wide with alarm.

---