Page 63 of With This Ring

When I got dressed in a haste, I had no destination in mind. I wanted to walk, to get out of my own head for a while. Men were everywhere, patrolling the perimeter like we were the fucking Pope. It took too long for me to sneak past them, but I managed it, walking in the direction of where I ordered my cab.

I tell the cab driver to take me across town to a bar that I scoped out before. It’s not owned by the Whitlocks, but they pay them protection money. So, they’re in the Whitlocks pocket, but they won’t know who I am. It’s the perfect place to drown my sorrows.

Pop is dead. He’s fucking dead. A bullet sheared off half his face. No matter how many times I repeat it, I can’t wrap my head around it.

I haven’t known how I felt about him for most of my life. I wanted his attention, his approval, but I’m not sure I loved him. So why am I so broken up about him dying? I can’t explain it. I just know there’s a gaping hole in my chest that I don’t know how to fill.

Sitting at the bar, I point to the top shelf vodka and hold up five fingers. The man looks at me with a raised eyebrow but sets out five glasses and pours me five shots. I toss three back quickly, allowing the burn to settle something deep within my chest. It doesn’t make me feel on the level by a long shot, but it stops my thoughts from spiraling too much.

Pop should have been at home. Dominic told me and Carter that, as heads of the St. Clair and the Whitlock families, we were expected to show up. We were there to represent the family. So why was Pop in attendance?

I scoff as I take the fourth shot, shaking my head as I flip the glass over and set it on the bar. He showed up because he hated me. He never wanted me to do anything on my own. As I sit and think about it, I realize that I was an accessory to Pop. A way to tell people he had an heir that would take over for him, but he never had any intention of letting me do it.

Why didn’t I see this so clearly before? I knew he didn’t like me, but I didn’t want to believe he loathed me.

I knock on the bar once more and hold up five fingers again. The bartender walks over to me, leaning against the bar. “You got keys, friend?”

“Not driving and not your fucking friend. Pour me the drinks or give me the fucking bottle.” The bartender just shakes his head and pours me five more shots. I waste no time swallowing two of them down. The burn has eased, making it easier to toss back the third. The rest follow quickly, the burn now nonexistent.

My limbs feel light, and I get a spacey feeling in my head. I feel tipsy, but it’s not enough. I want to be drunk off my ass until I can’t think. I don’t want the events of tonight running through my head. Not just about Pop, but Carter.

He could have been killed tonight too. The fucking Fensters almost took the love of my life away from me.

I saw him go down with a body on top of him and I thought he was dead. My heart seized, thinking I would have to be without him forever. That bloody lump in my chest didn’t start beating again until he stood up and called my name.

Carter saved me tonight in more ways than one. I wanted to fight against him when he handed me that vest. I’ve never worn one before and I didn’t plan to start tonight. But when I saw the earnest look in his eyes, I knew I’d do anything for him.

“Fuck.” I lower my head to the bar but snap it up again. A feeling of deja vu washes over me. I look around at the bar patrons, checking to see if three men will jump out of nowhere to rob me.

Shaking my head, I stand up from my stool and weave my way to the door. There won’t be a repeat of what happened the last time I pulled a disappearing act. I make sure I go through the front door, nowhere near the alley. No one follows me out, even though the bartender keeps his eyes on me. I give him a two-finger salute before I turn back to the street.

I pick a random direction, and I start walking, trying not to sway too much. The night air helps clear my mind and I’m able to focus on where I’m going. I have no destination in mind, just want to walk to get away from myself.

A faint smile crosses my lips when I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants. InCarter’ssweatpants. Then my smile drops. Fuck, he’s going to be pissed. I try to keep a hold of that thought, but nothing sticks. After a while, I let it go. That’s a thought for sober Kaison. Right now, I need to take my mind off my father’s death and how he was missing half his skull.

When I get my hands on them, I will fucking execute the Fensters. Every single one of them. With Carter by my side, we’ll wipe them off the face of the Earth and I’ll have a smile on my face the entire time. They fucked up not only by killing Pop but almost killing Carter.

A jolt flashes through my mind as I replay the burst of blood that clouded the air when someone aimed at him. My chest feels tight as I remember the pain I felt when I saw him go down. I couldn’t get a good shot at the man that aimed his gun at him and only Nico’s hand around my waist kept me from running out to make sure Carter was okay.

I don’t know how long I walk. After a while, I let my mind wander away from the events of tonight. It felt good not to think about anything too heavy. I would continue to walk for the rest of the night, but my steps are getting sluggish, and my vision is starting to double. I sway on my feet and end up against the wall of a building. Putting my hands on my knees, I breathe in through my nose and blow it out through my mouth. Over and over I breathe so I don’t vomit. Maybe that last shot was too much.

My head clears marginally, allowing me to stand and continue walking. Through my drunken state, I recognize the street I’m on.

Weaving down the sidewalk, the grungy building comes into view, and I smile. At least I have somewhere to sit for a few minutes.

Checking my pockets to make sure I at least have my wallet—I do—I enter The Devil’s Den. Rubbing a hand down my face, I stand up straighter and hope I don’t look as drunk as I feel.

I just want somewhere I can sit for a while to sober up. I can’t go home to Carter like this. He’s already going to be pissed that I took off during the height of this war, the same night we were shot at. I want to at least have a coherent conversation with him about it.

My fingerprints are taken after I show my ID, and I’m allowed admittance to the club. The Devil’s Den doesn’t serve alcohol, so I plan to order a water, hoping to sober up. I’m notsure what I was thinking with ten shots of vodka. I never drink vodka, so I didn’t know it would hit me so quickly.

I take a seat at the bar and order a water and a Coke. The server looks at me questioningly, but hands over my drinks. I guzzle the water, my mouth feeling dry and my tongue thick.

The coke I drink slower, taking small sips, hoping I don’t feel the urge to vomit again.

“Hey,” someone says, touching me on the back. A woman in a leather bustier and a spiked collar sits next to me. “Want to play? I’m looking for a Dom to punish me tonight.”

“I saw him first,” a male voice says from behind me. I try to turn to see who it is, but the room starts spinning so I stop. A man that has the same collar as the woman and a fishnet shirt stands on my other side. “I think he might be on my team.”

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