Page 2 of Burn With Me

Paris continues to glare down at me. “If you’re gonna be like this, why don’t you crash here or find your own ride home?” he asks. “Because I’m two seconds from being done with you tonight.”

“No, let’s just take him home.” Shep’s words get my ass moving.

Pushing myself up from the lounge chair, I waver on my feet before regaining my balance. “Fuck no,” I argue. “I’m gonna go back to the house and get laid.”

“Yeah?” Paris looks me over as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You really think that’s gonna happen, whiskey dick?”

“Fuck you!” I throw out the curse, but I don’t mean it. I know I’m just talking through my ass. He’s right—with the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, there’s no doubt I won’t be able to get it up for shit tonight. Fact is, I don’t even want to get laid. I just don’t want to go home. Not when I know that fucker is there.

Paris sighs and lowers his arms before moving towards me. “Come on, Isaac,” he says. “Let’s just go back for the night. We’ll even crash on your floor if you want.”

Shep moves in to my right and grabs an arm, lifting it over his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything to Paris’ offer, but I know he’ll do it. I lower my head and inhale. Fuck, I really don’t want to go back. I don’t want to do this shit.

“Isaac?” Paris repeats my name.

“Shit.” I hiss the word through gritted teeth. “Fine.” I don’t know if the two of them are relieved or what, but the second they get my drunken approval, Shep and Paris practically whip my ass out of the garden and start up the steps making our way around the big mansion towards the parking lot.

Before I know it, I’m being pushed into the backseat of Shep’s Hummer. The engine roars to life and the sound of the two front doors snapping shut reaches my ears. I lay down long ways on the backseat, one foot propped at the edge and the other flat on the floorboards. I throw one arm over my eyes to block out the street lights as they pass over my face with every passing mile.

I’m so quiet, Paris must assume I’ve fallen asleep because after several minutes go by, I hear the creak of leather on his side of the vehicle before he starts talking in a low tone. “He’s real upset about the wedding shit,” he says. “He hasn’t gotten this drunk in a while.”

My teeth grind together at the mention of it. “It doesn’t help that Damien’s back for the time being,” Shep grunts from the driver’s side.

Paris’ seat creaks again. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

“Isaac or Damien?” Shep prompts.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Paris replies. “Isaac?”

“Don’t know.”

“And Damien?”

“Don’t know,” Shep repeats. A man of few words—he’s my damn favorite right now. I wish Paris would shut the fuck up. I can feel myself sobering up, and it’s not a good feeling. The more time that passes, the clearer my head gets. The more I remember what’s waiting for me through the doors of the Icari estate.

Paris and Shep grow quiet for the rest of the drive and after a while, I feel the familiar slow of the car as we come to a stop in front of the gates of my childhood home. Shep’s window rolls down and he leans out, inputting the code he’s known for years. There’s a pause as he waits for the gates to slide open and then we’re on the move again.

I don’t sit up until the car comes to a complete stop and Shep turns off the engine. “You good?” Paris glances back at me as I turn and look up at the three-story mansion I’ve both revered and hated for fucking years.

Although it’s well past midnight, there are lights on. Of course there are. For a man like Damien Icari, business never sleeps and neither does he.

“Yeah.” I deadpan. “I’m just peachy.” Then, before Paris can ask another stupid question, I slide to the edge of the seat and open my door. “Let’s go.”

The three of us make our way to the front door and head into the house. Already, my father’s men are hard at work—it’s like that shit never stops in this house.

Two months,I think. Two months and I’ll be free—relatively speaking anyway. At the very least, I’ll be able to escape to Hazelwood University with Paris and Shep.

“Isaac.” I freeze at the bottom of the staircase leading up to my room, and at my side, both of my friends do the same. Slowly, I pivot back to face the man that called my name.

My father steps out of his office dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit. It’s so cliché it almost makes me laugh. A fucking modern mobster hiding behind his businesses is still just a mobster.

“Come.” That’s all he has to say and I’m no longer even somewhat intoxicated. It’s like he sucks all of it right out of me. I’m stone cold sober.

I inhale sharply and shoot a look at Paris and Shep. “Go on ahead,” I tell them. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Loyal friends that they are—and knowing what they do—they each glance between my father and me, silently asking … but I just shake my head. No doubt, all he wants to do is remind me to behave myself when his new wife arrives tomorrow.

I turn down the hallway and follow my father back into his office. The door shuts behind me and I feel like I’m being locked in a prison cell. My father waits until he circles his desk and takes his seat before speaking.

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