Page 83 of Ashes of Saints

“It’d be much easier if you text me each year so I can just copy and paste my response.” I grab my wallet and walk through the living area.

“All you have to do is call him and say happy birthday.”

“No. I don’t. Yes, I know it’s his sixteenth and I will say the same thing on his twenty-first and thirtieth, etc.”

Grandma sighs.

“What harm will it do, Parker? He’s a nice boy.”

Well, good for him.

I might’ve been a nice boy too if people hadn’t shoved their cocks in my ass every weekend.

But here we are.

“Another reason I shouldn’t be near him.” I shake my head, forcing back the words I’d like to say.

But this woman saved my life, so she deserves some of my respect.

“Parker.” There’s sadness in her tone, and I cringe.

I don’t want her pity or to discuss the past. Again. What’s done is done. But seeing my brother living a normal happy life—the one I deserved—fills me with so much hatred that I will not put myself through it to please everyone else.

Despite it not being his fault.

Poor him.

Whatever.

If the worst thing Michael has to deal with is a messed up, absent older brother, then I’m sure he’ll survive.

“He’s better off without me and the knowledge of what happened. You know that.”

“Then don’t tell him.” Grandma snaps.

I bark out an angry laugh. “You mean protect him? Like I never fucking had.”

“Language, Parker Stone.”

Shaking my head, I pour two fingers of Macallan and toss it back. She won’t let me end this call until I make a promise we both know I’ll break.

“I’ll think about it. Right now, I have to go.”

“Tell me you’ve met a nice girl. That you’re finally dating. You deserve to be happy, Parker.”

I deserved to be protected, too, but that never happened.

I also deserve revenge and will make damn sure I get it before I take my last breath.

I throw my grandmother a bone and hear my voice soften as I think of Aurora and say, “I have, you’d like her. She’s beautiful and a talented painter.”

Which reminds me. I swipe the phone and reread the email from Jean Michelle, a well-known New York art collector. I sent him a few photos of Aurora’s paintings and asked what he thought.

Introduce me. Who is this artist?

Smiling, I click reply. I knew she was good. I wouldn’t call myself an expert in these things. I like what I like. But there is something about her paintings that touched a deep part of me and I wanted to know if I was alone.

I type a reply.

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