Page 34 of Beautiful Desire
“About time you answered the damn phone, Son,” he spits out, his gruff, authoritative tone raking over me like nails on a chalkboard.
“Well, hello to you too, Daddy Dearest,” I drawl, grinning to myself as I imagine the scowl he’s wearing. Nobody does distaste quite like him.
“Cut the bullshit, Fletcher. I’ve called several times this week, and you haven’t returned a single one of them. What’s going on with you?”
“Did it ever cross your mind that I might be busy?” I ask.
He scoffs. “And just what the hell are you so busy doing that you can’t pick up the goddamn phone?”
Clenching my jaw, I force myself to take a deep breath before answering.
“Let’s think about it for a second, Dad,” I mutter sarcastically. “School’s keeping me pretty busy, for starters. You know, the program you’re insisting I finish before you give me a share of the company I’ve been promised since I was a kid, even though a master’s degree was never part of the plan? Or I don’t know, maybe I’ve been a little busy with work. The job I had to get after you completely cut me off and banished me from my own home, like some heartless heathen.”
“Watch your tone when you speak to me, Fletcher,” he seethes. “I’m not in the fucking mood for your theatrics. Tell me, Son. If you’re so busy, then why the hell are you failing your classes?”
“Bullshit! I know for a fact I’m not failing any of my classes.” My skin tingles as my body flushes, heart thundering. The thing with my father is, his baseline reaction for absolutelyanythingin life that even minutely irritates him is full speed and aggressive, because, god forbid, he ever bring things up calmly or without accusation. He’s been this way my entire life, and I know he’s never going to change, butfuck, I cannot fucking stand this shit.
“Damn near close,” he growls. “You’re currently receiving a seventy-four in your competitive analysis class, and a seventy-two in decision making and behavioral economics. That’s unacceptable, do you hear me?”
“Those are passing grades, first of all,” I point out, forcing myself to keep my voice down. From a lifetime of experience, I know yelling at my father will do nothing but make the situation a whole lot worse. “But I’m curious how you know what my grades are in the first place, because I certainly didn’t tell you them.”
“Don’t be so obtuse,” he grumbles. “Your professors email me weekly about your progress. Or I suppose it would be your lack thereof, as does Georgia. It seems to be semi-decentnews on that front, surprisingly. Although, if you spent less time rollerblading, like some California kid, you’d probably have better grades in school.”
“Excuse me? Weekly progress reports? What the fuck, I’m not a child!” As I make a right onto Georgia’s street, my ears are ringing, and my knuckles are blanched from how tight I’m gripping the steering wheel. “Pretty sure it’s illegal for the school to give out my personal information, especially when I don’t recall signing anything that gives them permission. And what the hell do you mean you’re getting them from Georgia too?”
“Fletcher, I’m the one paying the bill,” he mutters. “I don’t give a damn how old you are, I will ensure it’s money well spent. If you don’t like it, you’re free to pay the tuition yourself. Same goes with Georgia. How else am I supposed to know you’re not screwing around?”
He’s such a fucking asshole.
“Is this all you called about?” Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the engine but make no effort to get out yet. “Because if so, my grades are fine, they will remain fine, and I will graduate in the spring as planned. Believe it or not, Dad, I know what I’m doing.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” My father huffs a chuckle, the sound condescending. “You wouldn’t be in this situation if you did. Get those grades up, Fletcher. I mean it.”
He doesn’t bother waiting for a response before the line disconnects, because it was never up for discussion. He doesn’t know how to have healthy, mature conversations, where both parties give input. No, hetellspeople how things are going to go; it’s how he’s always been. That’s how his father was, and his grandfather.
I swore I’d never be like them, but look where that’s gotten me.
Grabbing my backpack, I climb out of the car and head inside.So much for feeling good about my day.If there’s one person who has the power to ruin my entire mood, it’s my dad. Inside the house, I kick off my shoes, then drop my bag in my room before meandering into the kitchen in search of something to eat. I don’t see Georgia, but her car is out front and her bedroom door is closed, so I know she’s here.
Scouring the pantry and the fridge, I finally settle on some chili and cornbread leftovers from dinner last night. As I’m reheating everything, I hear Georgia’s door creak as it opens. A moment later, I turn my head and meet her gaze as she walks into the kitchen on her way to the laundry room, with a basket of clothes in her hands.
Her wet hair lets me know she just got out of the shower, and she’s dressed in a pair of dark pink pajamas that make my mouth water as I give her a quick once-over. The shorts areveryshort, and accentuate her thick, sexy thighs, and the tank top has the words“Do Not Disturb”scrawledacross the chest. She’s not wearing a bra, so I can see her hardened nipples and her sexy piercings poking through. The sight of her fresh from the shower and comfortably dressed has a bolt of heat shooting down my spine and settling deep in my balls, and it only intensifies when I catch a whiff of whatever sweet, tropical shampoo she uses as she walks by. I find myself inhaling deeper to breathe in the intoxicating scent before I can stop myself.
“Want some of this chili?” I ask her when she pads back into the kitchen a few minutes later after starting a load of laundry. “Also, why the fuck am I just now finding out about these so-called weekly progress reports you’re giving my father?”
She flicks her gaze over to me as she rests her hip against the edge of the counter, her eyes bright and intense as they watch me. I’m hit with the strongest urge to walk over and bury my face in her neck, breathe her in some more. Shaking her head, shesays, “Ask Alden,” she drawls. “They were his idea, and if I don’t send them, he hounds me. As for the chili, no, thanks. I’m gonna go lie down.”
“You have cramps still?”
And just like that, I can’t even be mad at her for this. Damn her.
The last several days have made me realize how little experience I have with women on their period. Sure, I’ve had girlfriends over the years, but they didn’t talk to me about it, and I never thought—or really, cared enough—to ask, but after seeing how miserable Georgia’s been, I find myself not only wanting to know how she’s feeling, but also wanting to find ways to help her feel better.
Hence the ridiculous basket I put together for her the other day.
“Sure do,” she quips, huffing a pitiful laugh as she grabs a can of diet Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. “Really love this for me.”
Georgia walks over to the counter beside the stove where I’m standing, opens the cupboard, and tries to grab the ibuprofen, but she accidentally knocks it over with her hand, sending the bottle to the back of the shelf. Sighing, she then raises up on the tips of her toes and attempts to reach it again, but she’s not quite able to.
