Page 8 of Unmask
I reached for a glass, pouring the liquor with shaky fingers. One swallow to take the edge off. One drink to dull the pain.
The booze and the pills went down smoothly, and I refilled the glass before dragging my ass into the family room, seeking the couch. I had to get off my feet. Walking hurt. Hell, any movement at all was torturous.
The couch more or less caught me as I plopped down, somehow not spilling a drop of whiskey, but before I brought the glass to my lips, a hand snatched it away.
“That’s enough.” The voice was firm, steady. Unyielding.
Annoyance joined the other aches and pains in my body. I lifted my gaze, and there he was. My fucking father.
He stood above me, the picture of cold authority, his piercing light green eyes taking me in with barely concealed disapproval. He held my glass between his fingers, the expensive whiskey swirling in the tumbler. “You smell like you showered in Jack Daniels,” he said, nose wrinkling in distaste.
I barely swallowed the urge to tell him to go to hell. I didn’t have the energy for one of his lectures, but being the good son I was, I rubbed the back of my neck instead, my temples pulsating as I leaned against the couch, exhaling through my nose.
“Where’s Kaylor?” he asked, his tone clipped as he crossed his arms over his wide chest. Back in the day, Daddy Dearest had been a linebacker like Maddox. Years of dedication and treating his body like some damn temple kept him looking fit.
I tensed. Just the sound of her name made my stomach twist. I focused on the glass tumbler in his hand, wishing I’d brought the bottle instead. “I don’t know,” I muttered.
Dad took a step closer, dressed in a crisp, pressed striped suit, and sat down on the coffee table so we were eye level. “What happened last night?”
I wasn’t in the mood for this shit. Not now. Not with my head splitting open and his voice scraping against my last nerve. “Ask Maddox or Mason,” I said flatly. “They were there.”
He exhaled, losing patience. “Get your shit together, Kreed. Go take a shower. Scrub the stench off you, and when you’re done cleaning up, we’re going to figure out a way to bring her back.”
I let out a bitter laugh, finally lifting my gaze to his. “She doesn’t want to come back.” My voice was hoarse, raw from all the yelling and all the drinking. “She knows everything. She knows what you did. How you basically kidnapped her.”
My father’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “That doesn’t matter.”
Something inside me went cold.
He threw back the tumbler of whiskey before setting the empty glass on the coffee table in front of me like a taunt. “I’m not done with her yet.”
The way he said it. So fucking casual. So damn final.
My temper flared bright, fast, and dangerous, curling up my spine. Leaning forward, I snatched the tumbler off the table.
“Get her back.” Dad straightened, turning his back to me, already moving toward the door, already dismissing me as if I were nothing but another chess piece in his carefully constructed game.
My teeth ground together.
I wanted to hit something. If I were being honest, I wanted to sink my fist into him. However, I did the next best thing. As soon as he was out of sight, I reared back and hurled the forgotten glass into the fireplace. The shattering crystal echoed through the empty room, the flames swallowing the pieces whole. Yet nomatter how much I wanted to, no matter how much I burned inside, the one thing I couldn’t destroy was the part of me that still wanted her.
The fire crackled, swallowing the shattered remains of the glass, but it did nothing to silence the chaos in my head. I turned away, running a hand down my face, and then I saw it.
Her hoodie. Well, my hoodie, to be precise, the one she borrowed and kept wearing.
It was draped over the back of the armchair; the same hoodie she always wore when she curled up in the corner after sneaking out to the porch for air. The same one she’d shrugged off absentmindedly last week when she was arguing with Mason over some bullshit movie trivia.
A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating.
The pain I’d spent the whole night trying to drown, trying to fight, came back with a vengeance, heaving into my chest with the force of a freight train.
I wanted another drink.
Needed one.
But the whiskey was gone, the roaring flame consuming it just like every last piece of her that had been left in this house, and I was too damn tired to get up and raid the liquor cabinet.
I had no one to blame but myself. Why the fuck did I care what Kaylor Steele did? Why the fuck indeed?
