Page 60 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“I’m sure Mr. Black would be happy to explain the difference between being read my rights and being held as a person of interest,” I say dryly. “Oh, wait, you should know. Didn’t you major in pre-law? Before your life fell to shit.”

He glares at me.

Coach, the original golden boy of Emery-Rose Elite, is as much of a walking disaster as I am. He just hides it better.

“Is that what you think?”

I shrug.

“You’re a fool.” He rubs at his eyes. “Honestly, Caleb. We all make choices. My life didn’t fall to shit. It just changed.”

“And you weren’t angry about it?”

He sits back. “I was at the time. Now, not so much.”

He’s a self-proclaimed bachelor with a well-hidden thirteen-year-old daughter.

“What’s your plan, son? You going to put this on your college applications?”

I grit my teeth. “Does it matter? I need to get into any shitty old school. Dad—”

“Dear pops.” Coach laughs. “Yeah, left you a fuckton of money. Buy your way into any old school and tell me how it feels.”

I smile. “I’ll tell you exactly how it feels, Coach. Happily.”

The bell rings, and I stand. I’ll be late to first period if I linger any longer, and I know a certain someone is counting on me to bring her schoolwork back.

“Sit,” Coach growls.

My smile falls away. “Why?”

“Because we have a visitor.” And then… he smiles.

The door opens.

My uncle fills the doorway, looking down his nose at me.

Subsequently, he blocks all the escape routes, too.

He closes the door behind him and takes his sweet time removing his coat, hanging it on the coat tree in the corner. And then he reaches over and shakes Coach’s hand.

He doesn’t so much as glance my way when he sits, slinging one leg over the other.

I have to admire the way he takes over a room. Dad would be proud.

“So, Caleb, I have to hear through social media that my nephew was held in a jail cell for two days?” His fingers twitch, like he really wants to hit me.

At least here, he can’t. Coach wouldn’t let him.

I resist the urge to touch the back of my head, which has finally closed up. The bruises have mostly faded, too. Time heals most things, but it hasn’t healed his sick head.

“You’re keeping me from class for this?” I ask Coach.

“I was the one who requested the meeting,” Uncle says. He adjusts his tie.

Looks like he’s going into the office for once. Crisp white shirt, a navy-blue tie and sports coat. He’s the picture of perfection, and just as deadly.

“Why?” I’m immediately wary of his plan. Because I’m sure there is a plan hidden in there.

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