Page 9 of Good Boy

Fuck them all.

I let the liquid fire coat my throat, each swallow a new battering ram, smashing against my already bruised windpipe until it yielded to the searing heat. I stared at the door, the anger coursing through me like electricity. Weston might have left the room, but his presence lingered, a suffocating reminder of the secret that made me hate him in the first place. He was everything I despised, and yet… there was something about him that made my skin burn and my heart race. I took one last swig of the liquor. I knew it wouldn't be enough to make me forget, but maybe it would warm my blood enough to survive the rest of this godforsaken evening.

I was fucked.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the door to the dining room and stepped inside. The conversation in the room suddenly stopped as all eyes turned toward me. My grandmother, dressed like she was royalty, rose from her seat. Her icy hands found mine, and she placed a bird-like peck on my cheek.

"I’m so happy you're home."

"You're the only one who’s happy."

She scoffed and raised a hand to let her slender fingers glide through my hair. "Don't be that way. You know Albert has a hard time understanding anything off the beaten path."

I rolled my eyes. "You mean he has a hard time understanding anything that doesn't align withhispath?"

Before she could say another word, a woman I didn't recognize touched her shoulder, stealing her attention. I was grateful, although dealing with my grandmother made the whole thing less sufferable. Her antics of lying to my face as if I were a naïve eight-year-old had lost its effect. With the sound of a bell, everyone settled in their seats. I spotted Weston, sitting at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with Cole. I shot him a narrow look as I took a seat, but his features didn't change. The man had a stone-cold facade. It was yet another Ashbourne trait I lacked. My expression spoke volumes even before I said a word, my thoughts ringing loud and clear without me having to actually mouth the words “fuck off” or “suck my dick.”

The canopy of chatter picked up, everyone engrossed in some form of useless conversation. Ignoring Weston was impossible. Every time I looked at his face, I wanted to punch it. Fixated on whatever Cole was saying, he listened with intent, his hands intertwined thoughtfully, leaned into the chair.

Bored out of my fucking mind, I dug in my back pocket for my phone, only for my movements to still once the room silenced again.

My Grandfather, Weston’s father walked in and found his rightful place at the head of the table. We all looked like little bobble-headed minions as we looked up at him. The man really was tall as fuck. He spoke, giving us the same ole horseshit story about how he built his name from nothing.

I had the fucking thing memorized. It was like a piss stain engraved on my brain. No matter how hard I tried to bury the whole thing down in the depths of my brain, his gruff voice always seemed to make it resurface. Everyone’s eyes roamed the room, boredom trying to fight its way through the stoic faces at the table.

"Now for the announcement. The reason I called you all here."

Our spines snapped into place, we lowered our glasses, and locked our eyes on the skeleton of a man in front of us. Weston tugged at the lapels of his dinner jacket with his head held high. No doubt the rod shoved up his ass just found another two inches. Pompous prick.

Looking around the room, Grandfather halted his gaze when he met mine, then placed his hands behind his back.

"After great deliberation, I have decided that I will be stepping down as chairperson of the Ashbourne company at the end of this upcoming quarter."

If a stranger were to walk in, they would have thought the world was ending with all the gasps and exasperated expressions. I couldn't blame them, though. None of us thought this day would come. We were sure Albert Ashbourne would have keeled over behind his desk, with a pipe in one hand and his gold-plated pen in the other. Weston threw me a look, but I ignored his heated glare. Not bothering to engage in speculation, Albert left the room, chin held high and brandy in hand.

* * *

Dinner continued, the conversation drier than fucking dirt. Weston lapped it up, his ass-kissing skills in overdrive as he chatted with a few of Grandfather's closest friends. I snuck away from the table, my belly full of expensive meats and seasoned veggies. I couldn't complain. I needed a well-cooked meal after two years of bar food and two hundred dollar tequila. I needed a smoke, some peace, and a distraction from all the uppity fucks. I headed toward the garage, the one place in this massive house where visitors never found themselves lost in.

As I approached the entrance, a house worker did a double take, then their curiosity faded away once they realized who I was. Luxury cars and a few vintage classic ones lined the walls. I ran my hand along one of the hoods, admiring its beauty before heading to the back corner. There in all her glory sat a matte-black sportster motorcycle. A sleek design with chrome trimming and a black leather seat. The thing looked like it could eat the roads for breakfast and still come out asking for more. My fingers twitched as I reached for the handles, and in a blink, I found myself straddling the classic beauty. Memories ran through my mind as I pulled a cig out of my jeans pocket and lit it. Everyone said I was just like my mom, but motorcycles and the open road were something I got from my dad.

"Don't you know the rules?" Weston asked, his tall, lean figure stopping in front of a tuxedo black 1969 Chevy Chevelle.

I met his gaze. "Which are?"

"No smoking indoors. If you break it, you buy it." He stepped closer. " And don't touch shit that doesn't belong to you."

I rested my arms on the handlebars, and let the drag of smoke pass through my lips. "This is your bike now?" I straightened my spine, my eyes trailing the curves of the beautiful beast as a smirk pulled at the corner of my lips. "I don't believe it. Weston Ashbourne: the man, the myth, the fucker who never learned how to ride a regular bicycle."

"I don't ride. I collect. It's a hobby. Something you wouldn't know anything about." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress trousers and turned to face the car-littered driveway in the distance.

"I have hobbies," I said, kicking the stand as I straddled the 500-pound beauty.

He fought a losing battle against himself, his chin defying him in spite of the silent command to keep it still. He jerked his face just enough to catch a glimpse of me swaying ever so slowly from side to side, my movements drawing his gaze to me.

"Does it bother you?" I asked, the smoke flowing through my lips.

"Your existence? Yes it—"

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