Page 49 of The Damaged Billionaire

“Kid. Quit it!” I say louder, grimacing at my own voice as it rattles my brain.

“You need to leave,” he says again, firing another shot, turning his head on a slant. He looks like a gun crazy godfather, even though he is preteen.

“You got a problem with me, Josh?” I ask, sitting up, noticing that I am bare-chested, but still have my pants on. I’m trying to remember last night and why I am on Willow's sofa instead of her bed.

“You are my problem,” he sneers, firing another shot. His lips buck up at the ends like he is a cowboy in a western. Do all twelve-year-olds act like this? What the fuck happened to respecting your elders?

“Listen, I have had a late night and you are starting to become a pain in my ass,” I mutter, sitting fully, my bare feet touching the floor, before I immediately pick them up the minute I feel the sting.

“What the hell…” I say, looking down, the floor littered with staples. “Where the hell did you get that staple gun?” He looks at me furiously, like the descendant of the devil himself.

“This? It is hospital grade. Top of the line. The staples are extra sharp. The kind that pierce skin,” he hisses, and my eyebrows rise. Who the hell raised this kid? What the hell is he doing with industrial grade weaponry?

“I will say it one. More. Time, because for a businessman, you are really slow. You need to leave.”

“Or what!” I challenge, my eyes slitting, matching his evil look. Two can play at this game, motherfucker.

Sitting in the armchair, he lowers his weapon and leans back. I sigh and smirk at him. Yeah, back down, motherfucker, I won this round.

He pulls out a big shiny red apple from his pocket, along with a sharp knife that looks like it would do a good job of gutting me. Our eyes remain glued to each other as he slowly slices the apple, the piece peeling off smoothly, the knife razor-sharp, before he puts the piece to his mouth and chews. I think Willow needs to move. I will talk to Melody about getting in touch with my real estate agent and seeing if we can find Willow a new house. This kid clearly has anger management issues. Our eyes remain on each other, in a stare-off challenge, my eyes burning, but I refuse to blink first, as he continues slicing a piece off at a time. I swallow. He looks as scary as fuck.

“What are you? The godfather or something?” I say, blinking, my eyes now watering. The bastard won.

“Or something,” he says, his eyes still not leaving me, looking deranged.

“What time is it?” I have no idea where my phone is, and I want to get out of his gaze. Who knows what he has in his other pocket.

“Nine a.m.,” the kid answers, slicing another piece of apple and popping it into his mouth. He chews slowly. This kid is fucking getting on my nerves.

“Why are you up so early?” Kids usually sleep in on the weekends, don’t they?

“I'm an early riser. It appears you are too?” he says, pointing the knife right at my dick, where it presses hard against my zipper. My morning wood is now bigger than ever since I met Willow. As I think of her, I get a vague recollection of seeing her wrapped in a towel.

“You need to go,” he says again, drawing my attention back to him. He moves the sharp knife in his fingers, almost twirling it.

“I’m not going anywhere. I think you need to leave,” I push back, because this kid is not kicking me out of my girlfriend's house.

“You don’t want to know what I am capable of, Ninja,” he says, tilting his head again like he is in a mafia movie.

“Probably coloring in and Legos,” I snigger.

Ping.

The staple gun appears from out of nowhere and shoots me in the temple, barely missing my eye.

“What is your problem!” I hiss.

“You are my problem. Now leave.”

“I’m not leaving. Where is Willow?” I ask, looking around, my eyes now accustomed to the light, and I see it streaming in the window. I stand, trying my best to dodge the staples on the floor, feeling a few prick into my feet.

“Oh, I am going to have so much fun bringing you down…” he threatens, and I walk past where he is sitting, but he gets up and walks behind me quickly as I follow the noise I hear in the kitchen.

I stop mid-walk at the entrance, my eyes wide. The kitchen is a mess. There are cupcakes everywhere. Chocolate ones, red velvet, vanilla, marble. I even spot some pink ones cooling on the dining table. There are bowls, flour, trays, spoons, icing, and patty pans scattered over every flat surface. I can’t see a spare, clean area at all. I look at her then. Willow has her back to me. She is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, her hair pulled up haphazardly on the top of her head. She looks amazing, like she always does, but her shoulders are high, her stance tight. She stands at the kitchen counter, a large bowl under one arm, a big wooden spoon in her opposite hand, stirring the contents like it is her dying wish.

“Willow?” I ask timidly, taking a small step toward her. She stops abruptly but doesn’t turn.

“You’re a dead man,” I hear a whisper from the kid who is watching me from behind. My head flicks to him, and he lifts the staple gun again, firing another shot, this one hitting me in the chest before he leans against the wall, watching me. I scrunch up my nose at him, giving him an evil look. I am not letting some twelve-year-old punk push me around.

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