38. Jackson
THIRTY-EIGHT
JACKSON
“What do you want? I can’t stay. We’re en route to Vegas.”
I guzzled a post-workout protein shake, hoping for some energy to clear my head, while I struggled to listen to Coach’s end-of-game speech. In a rush, I showered and changed then reluctantly went to find Kyle in his suite— my suite.
He’s not drunk, but it’s early.
A group of men huddle around him, confidently sipping cocktails without a care in the world. Their voices ricochet off the walls, adding to my throbbing headache. It’s that loud, overly enthusiastic, arrogant cover that politicians seem to be bred with.
To Kyle’s dismay, it never passed down to me, neither through him nor my maternal grandfather, a prominent senator.
I’m an all-around fuck-up in his eyes.
“I know. That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss. We’re following you. We should hang out tonight. Remember the last time we hit Vegas? Huh?” He puts on a forced smile, projecting his words for all to hear.
He makes me fucking sick.
I shake my head, worsening the migraine, and I wince. “That’s not happening.” I lower my tone, not wanting to ignite an argument. “I’ve got an important game tomorrow, and you know Coach won’t let me play if I show up hungover.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m willing to bet,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “a beach house you do.”
I try to remain unaffected, but my body betrays me. My knee bounces, and my fists ache with the need to lash out, to release this pent-up frustration.
“That’s my trust fund. Given to me by my mother.” My words vibrate through clenched teeth, the tight muscles in my jaw blending with the headache pounding behind my eyes.
“It doesn’t matter. I remain your trustee.” He raises his chin, dismissive and superior. “You’re not allowed to purchase real estate without my consent. You already own two additional properties. It’s not in your best interests.”
Kyle doesn’t give a fuck about my best interests , a harsh truth I learned a long time ago while he was beating the shit out of my mother then ditching me at a boarding school after her death.
Pain pierces my temples, the pressure becoming unbearable. “Those two properties I bought independently. I haven’t used that trust for anything else. You’re the only one who makes use of that account.”
“Hockey is an expensive sport. Not to mention multiple private schools and the cost of keeping you out of trouble. I have to monitor you at all times. It adds up.”
He gulps bourbon, and my mouth goes dry. I roll my neck, attempting to ease the discomfort.
“We can delve into that tonight. Perhaps you can convince me of this beach house. Although, I’m sure it has something to do with you getting a gold digger pregnant—allegedly.” He tacks on with a pointed stare.
He doesn’t need to know anything about the baby, and I keep my mouth shut.
But he presses the issue. “Another matter we must address. You’re not ready for the responsibility of a child. It needs to be dealt with.”
My stomach swims, and I swallow the bile in my throat. “That’s none of your concern.”
He slaps his palm against the table, and heads turn our way. “You’re letting this girl strip you of everything. Wake the fuck up.”
His jealousy of Aurora is blatantly obvious, and I don’t know how I missed it before. Most frightening is his focus on the baby. But why? What threat does having a child pose?
It’s not about money. I have plenty without Kyle, and I have Ethan’s help, although he’s unaware of that. Kyle believes this baby is mine.
And that’s a problem, but I can’t tell him the truth. He’ll find a way to make it public, to ruin Aurora and Ethan, to kill our relationship.
Seven months. He’ll be out of my life once I turn twenty-six and gain full access to my trust. I need to stay sober and keep my composure. Then, he’ll have no leverage to prolong the conservatorship.
“She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know about the trust and has her own income.”
“Please. Don’t delude yourself. Her measly pay is spare change compared to yours.” His tone shifts, and he clasps my shoulder. “Let’s enjoy ourselves tonight. We can hash this out later.”
There is no hashing this out. This disagreement isn’t about the property or money. It’s about power, control, and my fight for freedom.
And as I sit here, locked in a battle of wills with Kyle, I can’t help but wonder how much longer I can endure this suffocating existence.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl, knocking his hand away. “I want no part in your idea of fun. If you want me to arrange something for you and your entourage, fine. But that’s all I’ll do. Where do you want it? The Hard Rock again?”
“That sounds perfect, son. We can meet there and talk about this house you’re interested in. Let’s ensure it’s a memorable night, shall we?”
Kyle wears a smug grin, confident of his victory.
My twenty-sixth birthday can’t come fast enough.