Page 4 of Good Boy

I dragged myself out of bed an hour later, scrubbing a hand over my face. My mouth tasted like shit and I desperately needed coffee.

In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at me. Dark circles ringed my eyes, stark against my pale skin, and the smiley piercing on my lip seemed out of place. Shaking off the memories, I threw on a pair of ripped black jeans and a faded Nirvana t-shirt. My combat boots were scuffed from years of abuse, the perfect accessory to my fuck-you attitude.

I headed down to the coffee shop on the corner, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling my senses. The familiar hustle and bustle calmed my frayed nerves, the sounds of clinking cups and idle chatter blocking out the whispers.

Sophie smiled when she saw me, already pouring my usual. "Rough night?" Her tone was knowing, laced with a hint of pity I didn't want to deal with.

"Something like that." I tossed a few bills on the counter and grabbed my coffee. "Keep the change."

Her eyes softened. "Darius…"

I held up a hand, cutting her off. "Don't. Just…don't."

She sighed but didn't argue, her gaze following me as I took a seat by the window. I leaned my head back against the wall, watching the city come alive through half-lidded eyes.

The coffee scalded my tongue, bitter and harsh, but it chased away the cobwebs clouding my mind. I could handle this, handle anything, as long as I didn't think. As long as I didn't remember.

I finished my coffee in silence, the voices fading into the background once more. The day stretched endlessly before me, filled with the promise of oblivion.

Just the way I liked it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me from my reverie. I glanced at the name and swore.

Of course, he would call now.

I debated ignoring it, but the old man was nothing if not persistent. With a resigned sigh, I answered. "What do you want?"

"Is that any way to greet your grandfather?" His voice was stern but held an undercurrent of amusement. The bastard always enjoyed these little power plays.

"You haven't been much of a grandfather to me," I shot back, tracing the tattoos on my arm. "So, forgive me if I'm not overflowing with familial affection."

He tsked. "Your insolence will be your downfall, boy. I'm growing tired of your antics and wild ways. It's time you learned some responsibility."

I snorted. "And I suppose you're just the man to teach me? We both know that's never going to happen."

"You leave me no choice." His tone hardened, edged with steel. "Either you come home now and take your place in the family business, or I will cut you off completely. No trust fund, no inheritance, no support of any kind. You can live on the streets for all I care."

My fingers tightened around the phone as rage and defiance warred within me. How dare he threaten me like this, try to control me as if I were nothing more than a puppet on strings?

I opened my mouth, a blistering retort on the tip of my tongue, when a flicker of doubt crept in. He wouldn't hesitate to follow through on his threat, and as much as I hated to admit it, I needed his money. I'd grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and the thought of losing it all made my stomach churn.

Checkmate. The manipulative bastard had me, and he knew it.

I bit back a snarl, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. "You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?"

"It's for your own good," he said smoothly. "You have a duty to your family name and a responsibility to carry on the legacy."

"The only legacy I care about is my own." Still, what choice did I have? He had me backed into a corner, and we both knew I'd give in. I always did.

With a heavy sigh, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. I'll come home. But don't expect a warm welcome or any fucking family bonding. The moment I secure my inheritance, I'm gone."

"We shall see," he said, a note of smug satisfaction in his tone. "The car will be there to collect you within the hour. Do not keep it waiting."

The line went dead before I could tell him to go fuck himself. I stared at the phone for a long moment, torn between rage and defeat.

Old fucking bastard.

I hurled the phone across the room, drawing the attention of everyone in the coffee shop when it hit the wall. Gritting my teeth, I shoved away from the table, picked up my phone and stalked out of the coffee shop, my hands clenched into fists. I was so fucking done with this nonsense, and if I had to go back home to get what was mine, then that's exactly what I'd do. But not without a plan first—I had no intention of being manipulated again.

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