Page 128 of Boss of Me
“Your father’s been here all night. Before he passed out at the blackjack table, he was bragging about his billionaire sons. We couldn’t wake him up, so I went through his phone and got your number. I figured I’d best call you rather than the police.”
“Thanks for the courtesy,” I grit out, my temple pounding with every syllable. “I’m on my way.”
I hang up and call my helicopter pilot to arrange a pickup. Then I call the head of security at Aspen Oaks and rip him a new asshole for allowing my father to sneak off the property.
When I’m done with him, I grab my suit jacket and storm out the door, stopping at Veronica’s desk outside my office.
“Something’s come up and I need to leave. You’ll have to cancel my appointments today, reschedule the taping and chair the logistics meeting this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir,” Veronica says with her usual brisk efficiency.
“If you need anything, you can reach me on my cell.” I start to walk away, then double back. “About the flowers . . .”
“Yes?”
“Send three dozen white roses with Hawaiian orchids.”
Veronica smiles a wise, knowing smile. “Excellent choice.”
Chapter Thirty
gunner
Ninety minutes later, i’m still fumingwhen I arrive at the WinStar Casino near the Texas-Oklahoma border.
The casino manager was kind enough to put my father up in one of their hotel rooms. I pay the bill and give him a ten-thousand-dollar tip, a reward for his discretion. He thanks me profusely and promises to alert me right away if my wayward old man ever shows up again.
When I reach the room, I find dear old dad sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He looks so pathetic that my gut curdles in shame and disgust.
As I enter the room, he glances up and smiles feebly in my direction. “Hey there, son. They told me you were comin’ for me.” His East Texas drawl is always more pronounced when he’s drunk. “Looks like I fell off the wagon again.”
“No shit.” I shake my head at him. “Same damn song and dance.”
He cackles, squinting up at me as I reach the bed. His blue eyes are bloodshot, his clothes are wrinkled and he reeks of cheap whiskey.
I glare down at him with seething contempt. “Get up.”
He struggles to stand, but he’s too shitfaced to manage the task.
With an impatient curse, I bend down, pick him up and toss him over my shoulder. I’m shocked at how light he is. He can’t weigh no more than a prepubescent boy. He’s fucking wasting away.
Concern wells up inside me, but I harden my heart against it. Pity is a luxury I can’t afford and a privilege he doesn’t deserve.
“Let’s go,” I mutter, striding to the door.
“Nice suit,” he slurs. “Armani?”
“William Westmancott,” I grind out. “Cost me seventy-five grand. If you puke on it, I swear to God I’ll slit your throat and leave you bleeding right here.”
He makes a rattling sound that could be a laugh or a sob.
I carry him out to the front entrance, where the valet is waiting with the Jaguar I drove from the heliport. I dump my father unceremoniously in the passenger seat, crouching down to buckle him in like a damn child.
Before I close the door, he reaches out and clasps my cheek in his callused palm. “You’re a good boy, Gunner. You make your old man proud.”
“Spare me the sentimental bullshit.” I slam the door and stalk around the car, tearing off my suit jacket and tossing it onto the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.
My father looks at the carelessly discarded garment and raises an eyebrow at me. “Seventy-five grand, huh?”
