Page 62 of Waiting Game

Fuck, years.

Getting to my feet, I grab a hold of his neck and draw him in for a hug. “Hey, asshole.”

He smirks at me. “Hey, yourself. You doing all right?”

“Yeah.” I cut him a look. “You heard this bullshit about Callan?”

“Let’s get this over with.”

I dart a look at the door and see Colt’s arrived, though his phone is glued to one ear and his glower would make anyone not in this room wince at the sight. His presence and Callan’s absence tell me Pops only wants his so-called biological sons around him as he opens the letter.

I’m used to the low-voltage anger I feel whenever I’m around Pops, but the desire to throttle him is increasing every minute I’m in his vicinity.

After Colt shuts the door, he strides over to the window and leans against it like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders and only looking at our family land can ease his stress.

Cody remains standing at the foot of Pops’s bed. I retreat to the armchair again, watching Colt finish up his conversation.

“I swear to fuck if you didn’t check that fence—” Colt rubs his eyes but I know his growl has enough bite to get the other guy to respond: “Just goddamn do it.”

Cody even straightens up at the tone—Colt really should have been the soldier in our family. He’s got CO vibes for sure.

“Did your heels click?” I taunt Cody, who scowls at me.

“It was better back in the day when you could fire people without any warning,” Pops mutters.

“Oh, yeah, no employee rights were the best days,” I mock, crossing my legs at the ankle.

Pops ignores me. “The northeast quadrant again?”

Colt shoves his phone in his pocket. “Don’t even pretend you know where that is.”

I can totally believe that. Pops has never been one to get his hands dirty. He only inherited the ranch because his twin brother, older than him by five hours, died when he was forty-six—single and childless. Unlike Pops, Colt took after Uncle Clayton—they were both born for this shit.

Pops huffs as I snicker, but Cody snipes, “I told you last night that I don’t appreciate being drawn back home on lies so get on with it?—”

“I wasn’t lying! Iamsick. I could have died. That my sons are this upset about being dragged home tells me how much I’m appreciated.”

My eyes ache with how hard I roll them. “Pops, you lied to us. This isn’t your deathbed.”

“I’ve got arrhythmia. I thought it was a heart attack. It’s not. There—are you happy now?” He tears at the envelope and pulls open the letter, not that he glances at it. Instead, he wafts it again, declaring, “This’ll tell me the truth. Your lying bitch of a mom was cheating on me. I know she was.”

Though I frown at him, I watch as Cody snatches the letter from his grasp, and while Pops’s flailing around for it, he opens it, scans it, and arches a brow at Pops before he tosses it on his lap.

“Callan’s yours.”

“It’s a fucking lie,” he snarls, snatching the letter and scanning the test results. “He’s not my son. I’m telling you! Why will no one fucking listen to me?”

“Dammit to hell, Pops, you have the proof in front of you,” Colt roars.

For the first time, there’s dead silence in the bedroom.

Colt might not blow his gasket often, but when he does, it behooves you to listen.

“He’s not mine,” Pops insists like the spoiled brat he is.

“You took the DNA test, you sent it all in, and the results are back—he’s your kid. And it’s a disgrace that you thought otherwise.” Colt pinches the bridge of his nose. “What were you hoping to achieve with this mess?”

Pops bows his head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

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