Page 98 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Did you know he’s never once mentioned his family? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

His grin grows, eyes flashing. “Oh, I know why. Ethan’s family? They’ve practically begged me to expose him. Seems even his own blood thinks he’s a fraud.”

Bingo. I can barely keep my satisfaction in check. “Go on, Raymond. What else?”

He laughs, dark and triumphant. “The guy thinks he’s untouchable. But I’ve got Jake Roland, and his own cousin. They’re handing me stories that’ll bury him. He doesn’t deserve the fame, the spotlight—it should’ve been mine.”

The confession, the jealousy—it’s all there, laid out perfectly. I let the recording run a few seconds longer, then pick up my phone and casually end it.

Raymond’s smirk falters as I tuck my phone into my bag, my own smile wide. “Thanks, Raymond. That was illuminating.”

His face goes pale as he realizes. “What did you just do?”

“Just helped the truth come out,” I say sweetly, standing up. “Enjoy your fame while it lasts, because it’s going to melt faster than a snowball in July.”

I stride out of the café, feeling lighter with every step. The truth is finally on my side, and, with any luck, Ethan will be, too.

34

ETHAN

The living room stares back,blankly silent, in that unnerving way only December 25th can bring when it feels like the world has leapt forward without you, celebrating something that doesn’t feel meant for you. The line of beer cans on the coffee table glints in the gray half-light—a sorry little squad of my own Christmas soldiers, waiting to see which one’s brave enough to take the first hit.

The Christmas lights are still flashing in smug bursts of red and green along the wall, blinking like they’re in on the cosmic joke. A twinkling reminder of what the season’s supposed to mean. For me, though, Christmas has been nothing but a hollow routine since David died. It’s funny, really, how you can be surrounded by so much color, but everything around you stays drained and muted.

The couch holds me like a reluctant host, my fingers barely brushing the lip of a half-open can when my phone rings. The harsh buzzing snaps me out of my half-drunk haze like a bucket of ice water. Frank Carter.

My thumb hovers over “Decline.” It would be easy enough. I’m no stranger to ignoring calls. But I don’t press it. Something makes me linger, thumb still, eyes stuck on his name.

I press “Accept.”

“Frank.”

“Ethan. Surprised you answered my call on Christmas morning,” he says, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, smug as ever. “Finally realized we’re family?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mutter, voice low, just edging on contempt. “Only answered because I want to remind you of all the blood on your hands.”

“Ethan, listen?—”

“No, you listen!” The words explode out of me before I can stop. Years of pent-up bitterness spill out like I’ve been keeping them bottled and they’re just now breaking free. I tell him everything—the way he twisted my life and David’s to fit his agenda, how he handled our careers like assets to buy and sell, and how he turned David into a product and left me with nothing but scars.

A pause, stretching too long, too quiet. I can almost see Frank on the other end, shifting into his version of a magnanimous elder—a role he’s always been terrible at.

“You know, for what it’s worth, we tried to help you,” he says finally, like he’s really sayinglook at how ungrateful you are, Ethan.

I let out a laugh, dry and humorless. “Help me? Is that what you call it? Demanding money. Using me to clean up every mess, like I’m some bottomless safety net for your failures?”

There’s another pause, heavy. “I’m sorry, Ethan. You’re right.”

My pulse hitches. I wasn’t expecting that. Didn’t think Frank Carter had the capacity for an apology, even a half-baked one. “Listen,” he continues, his voice softer, almost reluctant, “if thisis about David, well … David’s death wasn’t on us, and it sure wasn’t on you. You know that, Ethan.”

My breath shudders out, almost foreign in my chest, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe normally. I picked up the call for answers, maybe even a little closure, but here’s Frank, cutting through me with a painful honesty I didn’t expect.

“I know that,” I say, my voice wavering, surprising myself. “But everything you’ve done since then. I don’t know how to forgive that.”

He exhales, sounding almost tired. “Look, you’re right to blame me, Gloria, the kids—all of us. I probably don’t deserve forgiveness for it. But don’t go blaming us for something we couldn’t stop. David’s gone, and no one can change that. And he’d want you to move on. Even if it means cutting us off, Ethan, you deserve to move on.”

His words twist something deep in my ribs. David. What would David even say to this? I can practically see his easy, crooked grin. “Do you think I’d want this to be your life?” I hear him say, almost like he’s right next to me.

---