Page 22 of Fool's Gold

Why did I even worry? I drop to the edge of the couch with the bottle between my knees and my hands wrapped around the head.

“You’ve seriously been in my fucking scotch?” Marcus gets back around dinnertime and stares me down.

He grabs the bottle like it’s me and he wants to strangle the life out of me.

“It’s older than you and more expensive than your outfit.”

I scowl up at him with my chin jutted forward. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have left it out in the open like it’s a party favor for guests.” I’m slurring, and my lips are three sizes too big, but at least I feel better.

More prepared to take him on.

“You’re not a guest. This is—”

I hold up a hand to stop him and blink when it divides into two, then four, in front of me. “Please don’t tell me I’m family or some other kind of fucked-up sentimental shit,” I say, the words all connected.

I’m going to scream in his face.

No… I’m going to cry.

I’m going to puke.

One of those three things is certainly bound to happen soon, and I’m not sure which one. A queasy sensation travels like a plague through my body, and my arms go hot and cold at the same time.

“What do you expect me to do when I’m here? You fucking left me.”

“To go to work. To do my job.” He’s playing it cool, but I know him. A little more pressure, and he’ll lose it. The little vein is already starting to throb on the side of his neck. “To keep you safe and to make sure we know exactly what we’re up against.”

I slouch back against the cushions, and the movement only adds to my queasiness. “Which is why you brought me here. Yeah, thanks. I got it. I know the pressure I’m under.”

“We’re under.”

I hate the way he corrects me. And right now he’s staring me down and categorizing me as another stressor, another block added to the line of them, all weighing him down.

Or worse. I’m a pawn for him to move around the board. Like my life doesn’t really matter.

Like who I am as a person doesn’t matter, only what I can do for him. Or what I can provide when he has an itch he needs to scratch.

But not go too far. Oh, no. He’ll never go too far. Hot Daddy Marcus can only get so hot before he comes to his senses and realizes it’s me.

“This script”—I hold it up in front of him and wave it, fluttering the pages—“is garbage. This movie is garbage, and I’m garbage in it. You need to cut me out of it and find someone else who can handle the part because it’s not me.”

There, I’ve finally said it in a way he’ll get.

Marcus sets the bottle down and rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this. There’s no backing out. And now, our timeline is pushed up. So, get fucking sober, stop screaming in my face, and learn your lines.”

I’m screaming? Things do seem overly loud. My ears are ringing.

He grabs me by the wrist when I go to slap the damn script across his smug smile and wipe the floor with him.

“You can’t hold your liquor for shit.”

Maybe not, but he’s touching me, and a different sort of heat climbs into my stomach. “You lost the right to lecture me when you signed those papers dissolving your guardianship.”

Once again, the words slur and the world is a little fuzzy, tilting on its axis. But there’s Marcus, and he feels like the only real and solid thing here even though he’s furious.

“You lost the right to lecture me when my parents died instead of you.”

His face goes white.

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