Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stone
Three weeks later …
This is the place, according to Personality, otherwise known as Oscar, she comes to on the last Sunday of every month, with her husband at 2:00 p.m. That gives me twenty minutes to go inside and find a spot she won’t see me until I want her to.
The restaurant in Miami is the type she will have been brought up to dine in. She probably expects this standard now too, and I hate the thought of not being able to offer her what she wants and deserves. It’s for sure out of my comfort zone. Hell, having a meal with them was a luxury, let alone at some fine-ass palace-looking place that probably serves steak on bone china.
I push off my car and head toward the door. Elijah’s money has lasted me longer than I’d expected. I guess I grew accustomed to having none, so I became frugal when I did. Despite the O’Connell brothers issuing me credit cards, I’ve refused to use them. I don’t need anything more from them than what I already asked for, and this is more than enough. This is everything.
A doorman opens the door as I approach, and I marvel at the little red carpet as I wander in with a smug smile on my face. My mind reels with how the other half live outside of a dank bedroom or torture chamber.
The room is large and open plan, with a wine bar straight ahead and dozens of circular tables with odd-looking chandeliers above each one. The busyness allows me to slip in without being noticed, and I head straight to the bar, which is surprisingly full for a lunchtime. I pull up the only vacant bar stool, and the server comes straight to me.
“Yes, sir. What can I get you?”
I jolt, so used to referring to my father as sir, that someone using it for me is a shock to my system.
I clear my throat. “Scotch on the rocks.”
“Coming right up.”
I nod, and he goes about his task while I keep my back to the restaurant. He places the glass in front of me, and I scan my card to pay. “Keep it filled.”
“Yes, sir.” Again, with the fucking sir. I grit my teeth and knock the drink back, emptying the glass.
The door is pulled open, and a draft sweeps through the bar, then the hairs on my neck prickle with awareness. She’s here.
A burst of adrenaline floods my bloodstream as laughter fills the room, and I close my eyes at the pain that ripples through me at the sound of her happiness.
How dare she be so happy when I’ve been living in perpetual misery? Did I mean nothing to her at all? I grind my teeth so hard a dull ache splinters through my jaw, and I grimace, a stark reminder of the time my jaw was rewired.
My face throbs, and I will the tears not to fall. I don’t know what I did to deserve this agony, but my father was really pissed that I fucked up last night’s match. He had three guys pin me down, then stomped on my face.
But it was his words that crushed me, not the shoe that shattered the bones in my face. He said I was nothing, that nobody would miss me if he killed me, a worthless piece of shit only useful to make money and to let his men have their fun with.
Soft hands wrap around my hand, encompassing them with their own and bringing life back into my veins. Her fingers draw circles on my palms, and I delight in her tender touch.
“I made you some soup,” she whispers.
I want to smile, really, I do, but the wire attached to my jaw prevents me from moving. “You’re going to love this soup.”
I turn in my chair to face her, and a savage bolt of fury hits me in the chest, turning my blood to poison as I stare at her and her husband making small talk with pompous pricks.
My eyes narrow in on the man my girl bats her eyes at. He’s everything I’m not. Well put together, with a shirt and tie. I glance down at my white shirt and black pants, purposely chosen to get in this restaurant and totally not me. I’ve always dressed how others wanted me to, but I’ve found I’m most comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. So, reverting to smart clothes was a difficult move for me today, a reminder of their control.
The prick is smaller than me, a lot smaller, maybe five-foot-seven. I scrub a hand over my shaved head while surveying his carefully styled hair, then I look over his hands, clear of tattoos, and his entire face clear of scars.
Nothing like me.
Nothing at all.
Is this what she likes? This clean-cut look. My mouth becomes dry, and I loathe myself, knowing I will never be like him, even if I wanted to be, which I would, for her.
As if sensing my gaze, her head snaps to the side, and her eyes lock with mine. Time stands still as we stare at one another, and my heart hammers. The glass she’s holding slips through her fingers and shatters on the floor, distracting her long enough for me to make a quick exit.