Page 38 of The Broken Note

But why do I feel so freaking torn up inside? Why do I want to bust someone’s head off their neck?

I turn down another hallway and stop short. Lucien and Ron—my dad’s personal bodyguards—are standing outside the music lecture room.

Ron, the one on the right, is dad’s favorite meathead. He’s nothing but a big, hulk of muscle and an empty can for a head. Anything dad says, Ron does without question.

Lucien is a little slimmer than Ron, but what he doesn’t have in mass, he makes up for in cunning. There’s something about Lucien’s eyes, the way they slice into you like a knife, that’s always set me on edge. I would prefer to pick a fight with the brainless shark Ron, than to tempt fate with Lucien.

A crowd of students are in front of the classroom, eagerly peering inside. Some of them have signs.

‘We love you, Jarod Cross’

‘Marry me’

‘Jarod Cross’s Number One Fan!’

Brainless zombies. All of them. Clamoring for someone who doesn’t give a damn about them. Breathless and waiting on his every move.

Idiots.

I storm toward the classroom. The crowd goes silent and, like they did in the hallway, they move out of my way.

Ron gives me a grim nod.

Lucien doesn’t bother acknowledging me. Not until I get close.

He suddenly bars me with an arm out. The snake.

“Sorry, Mr. Cross,” Lucien rasps. “You can’t go in.”

“Try and stop me,” I hiss. Slamming his arm down, I stalk past him. Dad lifts a finger, a quick but powerful gesture to his underlings. Lucien adjusts his suit jacket and returns his attention to the crowd.

I stalk toward my father, my anger bristling in my veins. I haven’t spoken to him since that disaster of a ‘family introduction’ dinner. The one where he announced Miss Jamieson as our step-sister and crushed my twin’s heart with a freaking stone. Zane’s stopped his destructive drinking binges, but he still hasn’t recovered from that.

Maybe he never will.

“What a pleasant surprise, son. I was told you and the others didn’t often attend this lecture.” Dad’s voice is smooth. Oily. He’s made an unbelievable amount of money peddling that voice to women hungry for the fantasy. The dream that a man with everything—money, looks and talent—could be singing to them and only them.

If they knew what their dirty fantasy does in the dark, would they still worship him?

Something tells me they would.

I glower at dad. “What are you doing at Redwood?”

“I told you I’d be teaching a class.” Dad tilts his head, showing the tattoo behind his ear. “Yesterday was my first lecture. I was a little rusty, but I’ve been told I did well for my first—”

“I meant,” I step closer, “what are youreallydoing here?”

My eyes scour his face, searching for any signs. We both know that nothing dad does is a coincidence.

Slowly, the facade of the warm-hearted father disappears. Dad’s eyes glint with the cruelty I know lurks deep in his bones.

“I heard you’ve been talking to Miller,” he growls.

My lips quirk. “Is there some reason I can’t talk to the chairman of the board?”

“What are you planning, Dutch?”

“Nothing you need to know.”

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