Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
KAI
Y eah? Then you’ll know no matter how much you kiss his ass and try to be the perfect son, he’ll never fucking love you. Why do you insist on trying to get his approval when you’ll never get it?
The words Carter threw at me run a loop through my head as I pull on the rowing machine. I’m not stupid. I know Pop hates me, wishing he had a son that was straight and could give him heirs or whatever archaic views he has. But to have someone else see it? That fucking stings. Especially when that someone is Carter.
Seeing how worried Dominic was when he heard Carter was almost killed, then how freely he showed his love for him when he saw him with his own two eyes? That shit hurt. It shouldn’t have—Pop has outwardly hated me since I was twelve. I’ve had over a decade to get used to it. But seeing that a man as ruthless as Dominic had the capacity to love his son made me want . I want what they have. And it hurts ever more when I know I won’t ever have it.
I yank on the machine hard enough to almost hit myself in the face with the bar, but I don’t care. I want to row until my fucking arms fall off. I need to get away from my thoughts, from my failures, from my shortcomings as a son.
Nico comes over, kneeling beside me with a look of understanding on his face. I only get like this when some bullshit goes on with Pop. It’s doubly bad now because Carter is added to the mix. I didn’t think my enemy would have the power to actually hurt me.
“How long you gonna keep this up?”
I pant, pulling against the rowing machine with all my might. I want to tell him to fuck off, but that would require me breaking concentration to answer him.
“Wanna tell me what happened? If it’s shit to do with your dad, you shouldn’t beat yourself up. You know how he is. He’ll die before he changes.”
Of course, Nico understands. He’s bi, and his dad had shit to say about it too. But Nico and his dad worked through their shit before he died. As one of the inner circle members for my dad, I figured Nico’s father would rub off on Pop. That was a fucking pipe dream.
God, wanting my dad to say for once that he’s proud of me is fucking pitiful. I’m a grown ass man, secure in my sexuality. I shouldn’t want Pop to look past it to love me when I love myself.
Shaking my head to get sweat from my eyes, I pant, “Carter…too.”
“The fuck did that asshole do?” he practically growls.
I stop rowing, chuckling at Nico’s reaction. I really appreciate that he’s the one person that has my back. Or is he? Carter was aiming a gun at my dad’s head because he was taking up for me. Does he have my back too or was he trying to save face because we’re married?
I glower at the ring on my finger, but don’t take it off. For some reason, I like looking at it. I’m a fucking fool.
“He did nothing. Just told me the truth as he saw it.”
“He’s still an asshole.” Nico hands me a towel. I drag it over my face, collecting the sweat as it drips down my forehead. “You want to talk about it?”
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” I say, standing from the machine and stretching my arms out. “I want to take a shower and lie down. This day has already been too much.”
Not only am I thinking about the shit that went on at Indigo Arc, but a weird feeling settled in my chest when Dominic told me and Pop that Carter was almost killed. I shouldn’t care. If he died, I’d be free of this marriage, and we’d still have the support of the Whitlock family since I would be widowed. But for some reason, the thought of Carter no longer in the world made me feel . I didn’t release a full breath until he walked through the door of the conference room.
After wiping off my sweat from the machine, Nico and I head upstairs. It’s close to ten at night, which means I’ve been in the gym for close to three hours. It’s been a while since I’ve worked out that long, needing to get out of my own head. Now my arms feel like lead and some of the uneasy feeling that was settled in my chest starts to dissipate.
But I’m still feeling antsy. Being cooped up in this house—in Carter’s house—makes me anxious.
I tell Nico I’m going to chill for the rest of the night, but I have no plans of being in this house longer than I have to.
After taking a quick shower, I get dressed in a fresh suit and slip out, leaving my cell phone behind so Nico can’t track me.
It’s probably not the smartest thing to do, slipping my bodyguard, especially with someone trying to take down my family. But if I had Nico tag along, he’d take me to places my family or people that are close to the St. Clair family frequent. I don’t want to go to those places. I don’t want to see anyone I know. For tonight, I want to be Kaison. Just Kaison, not Kai St. Clair, heir to the St. Clair family.
What would my life be like if I weren’t born into mafia royalty? Would Pop have accepted that I was gay? Would my mom have stuck around? Would I have grown up like a normal fucking person? There’s no way to answer any of those questions, so I forcefully push them out of my head.
I walk down the street and meet the taxi I ordered before I left the house. Once I’m settled in, I tell him to take me down to Shell Village, the city on the opposite side of the bridge. Right now, I want to find a club to sit in, letting the bass beats drown out my thoughts as I get drunk. I’ll have the bartender call me a cab when I’m ready to go home. But not until I’m well and truly fucked up.
A long exhale leaves my lips as soon as we enter the city. My mind somewhat clears as I look around to find somewhere to drown my sorrows. As soon as I spot a club that looks lively, I have the taxi driver stop. Reaching for my wallet, I pay him his fare, along with a hundred dollars for a tip since he didn’t try to make small talk.
At the door of the club, I slip the bouncer a hundred and he lets me through. I’m searched—though he doesn’t find the blade at the small of my back—then allowed entrance into the club proper.
It’s not even midnight, but the place is packed wall to wall. The patrons on the dance floor writhe against each other, their bodies pressed tightly together. I move as far away from the dance floor as I can. Don’t want to run the risk of someone trying to drag me out to make a fool of myself. Besides, I came here to get shitfaced, not hook up.
Once at the bar, I take a seat on one of the free stools and order some top shelf tequila. If I’m gonna get fucked up, might as well do it with something that will get the job done quickly.
The bartender pours me a shot, but I stop him before he gets too far away. I tip the drink into my mouth, the burn of the tequila like liquid fire in my gut. I grimace but hold up the glass for another. He pours a second, then slides two more glasses on the bar and pours me shots three and four. I salute him with the fresh glass and tip it back as well.
Handing the bartender my card, I yell, “Start a tab,” over the music. He nods and takes my card, hooking it to a clipboard behind the bar.
The burn of the tequila lingers behind my ribs, and I wait for it to dissipate before I take the next shot.
I still shouldn’t be getting in my feelings because of shit Pop says. But him talking about my business always gets under my skin, especially because I know it’s profitable. I’ve been over the books after my accountants and know I’m well into the black. St. Clair’s Construction is worth over ten million dollars. I know it’s not failing. But what is Pop’s angle? Why does he always have to knock me down?
Shaking my head to clear it of Pop’s bullshit, I take shot number three, then number four follows quickly behind it. The burn is still there, but it’s lessened. I’m starting to get tipsy, but it’s not fast enough. I wave the bartender back over. He nods and comes back over with the bottle. He lines up four more glasses and tops them all off. In rapid succession, I toss them all back, the burn now gone completely.
I turn the glasses over, stacking them on top of each other as my mind starts to go in different directions. Even with all the alcohol in my system, Carter’s words continue to reverberate in my skull.
Yeah? Then you’ll know no matter how much you kiss his ass and try to be the perfect son, he’ll never fucking love you. Why do you insist on trying to get his approval when you’ll never get it?
It shouldn’t sting as much that he saw through Pop’s bullshit. Anyone with eyes knows how he feels about me. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. I don’t have a mom. From what Pop told me, she dropped me off when I was barely a year old and never looked back. Like me, he’s an only child, so I have no aunts or uncles. No grandparents. It’s just me and Pop. Even before I told him I liked other boys when I was barely a teen, we were never particularly close.
So why does his lack of affection make me feel like shit? Seeing what Carter has with Dominic must be what’s getting to me.
Why does Carter pointing it out make me feel so alone? Even more so than I usually am. Nico has always been in my corner, but we grew up together. That’s to be expected. Other than Nico, I have no one. I thought, after our explosive time in his office, that Carter would reconsider hating me, and I don’t know, be someone else in my corner…
That’s not to be. It’s been weeks since we fucked, and he hasn’t even tried to talk to me more than saying a few snarky sentences. It seems like for the rest of my life, or the rest of the time I’m married to Carter—whichever ends first—I’ll be alone.
Thinking about Carter now leads me to think about how he took me over his desk. He was so commanding of my body, so in charge of my pleasure. He owned me like no one else ever has. But that was his point, wasn’t it? He said he owned me after he shoved his cum back into me.
His dick tunneled into me like he had every right to be there, like my body belonged to him and only him.
Groaning, I put my head down on the bar, hoping a few knocks will dislodge the image of Carter, but that does nothing to stop him from overtaking my thoughts. His hard, tatted body. How fathomless his eyes are when they land on me. And his lips. Fuck, his mouth on mine made me burn . What would it be like if he took his time with me? If he let me touch and lick him all over? If I could study him while I rode his dick, watching every expression cross his face.
“Get out of my head,” I mutter, banging my head against the bar a few more times. I’m supposed to be hating my husband, not lusting after him.
“Having a bad day?” a soft, feminine voice shouts in my ear. I’m slow to respond, since I’m starting to feel the tequila in a big way. When I lift my head, I see a white hand with long red nails, dragging over my forearm. “I’m a good listener.”
I roll my eyes and hold up my left hand without making eye contact. “I’m married.”
“Well, I don’t see her anywhere around,” the woman says. I look up at her, meeting dark brown eyes that are void of any emotion other than greed. I’m sure she’s clocked the Vacheron Constantin watch I have on—one of my least expensive watches—and the Cartier cuff links and thought she’d find an easy mark.
I turn to her with a lazy grin. “ He’s at home. We like to give each other space to do our own thing sometimes.”
Her smile stays in place, but I see the hope dim in her eyes. “Oh. Well, that’s good for a healthy marriage. Excuse me.” She moves away from the stool she perched on, then slinks up to some other poor slub. As soon as I said I was married to a man, she must have known she had no chance. The guy she chose eats up her attention, facing her fully with a wide smile on his face, like he just hit the jackpot. Good luck to him. Hope he knows she’s going to bleed him dry.
After another round of tequila and a beer, I have to piss like a racehorse. Stumbling over my feet, I make my way to the restroom, which is blessedly empty. I go into a stall, not wanting to embarrass myself if I have to lean against the wall to take a piss.
I relieve myself, thankfully not making a mess with how heavy and sloppy my hands feel. I wash my hands and head back to the main floor to get the bartender to call me a cab. Now, I wish I hadn’t left my phone at home so I could get in touch with Nico to pick me up. Or even Carter. Carter would give me shit about getting shitfaced, but he wouldn’t be mad right? I don’t want my husband to be mad at me.
A brief chuckle escapes my lips, causing a few people I pass to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. I have a fucking husband. One that I’m supposed to hate, but don’t really. We don’t talk, we argue when we do exchange words and we fucked one time, but I think I want more. I think I want to get to know him, to see if I’ll really be unhappy with him or if I’m so used to not having anything that I resign myself to unhappiness.
An arm comes around my waist and steers me towards a back door. I look up at the person touching me, expecting to see one of my men or a Whitlock guy, but I don’t recognize the person whose arm is wrapped around me. “Come on. We’ll help you get home.”
“Who the …. fuck are you?” I slur when someone else guides me to the door. I bring the second man into focus, but don’t recognize him either. “Geoff me.”
I push at them both and throw my arms out wildly, but I may as well be hitting them with feathers for all the good it’s doing. They manage to muscle me outside into a back alley, where another man is waiting, leaning against the green dumpster.
In my inebriated state, I stagger as far away from them as possible, to make sure I have them all in my sights.
Two have blond hair like me, but with brown eyes and the one that was waiting outside is black haired. As much as I can, I catalog their features, knowing if they don’t kill me, I’ll fucking come after them.
I’m drunk off my ass, but I try to clear my head enough so I can memorize as much as I can about them. One of the blond men is taller and slimmer than the others, with a tattoo of words on his neck that says Lover Boy. Lover Boy? The fuck kind of shit is that? Carter has tattoos all up and down his body, but he’d never tat some dumb shit like that on himself.
The other blond man has a scar above his eyebrow that trails down the side of his face and pockmarked skin. Mr. Black Hair is classically handsome with a square jaw and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. If I wasn’t practically obsessed with my husband and his deep aquamarine eyes, I’d try to shoot my shot at my possible attacker, even now knowing they don’t mean me any good.
The blond with the shitty tattoo steps closer to me. “Give up your wallet and we’ll let you keep your life.”
Chuckling, I worm my way out of my jacket, tossing it to the ground so I can get to my knife faster. “Do you know who the fuck I am?” I slur, the words almost blending together.
“Don’t fucking care who you are,” black hair says, bending down to pick up a discarded bottle. He cracks it over top of the dumpster, the jagged ends flashing in the pale moonlight. “The wallet. Hand it over.”
“I ain’t givin you shit.” It’s not smart. I could toss them my wallet and try to get away, but that’s not me, drunk or sober.
My head is fuzzy, and my fingers don’t want to work, but I try to reach for my knife. My hand grabs at nothing, so I take my eyes off the men for a split second. That’s all it takes for them to be on me, fists and kicks aimed at me.
I fall to the ground, my head hitting the asphalt behind me with a thud. Over and over, kicks are aimed at my face, my gut, my back. Anywhere they can reach. I feel none of it because of the alcohol coursing through my veins, but I do feel myself slipping. Before I sink into unconsciousness, I want to give them something to remember me by.
Rolling onto my side, I make it seem like I’ve given up. That stops the ass whooping and someone bends to take my wallet from my pocket. Gripping the handle of my blade that I finally found, I bring it up in an arch, slicing through flesh. Blood sprays on my face as whoever took my wallet cries out.
“Fucking son of a bitch.” Mr. Black Hair. I open my eyes and see blood leaking from his cheek.
“Messed up your pretty face,” I mutter with a grin.
He snarls and grabs me by the collar of my shirt. With an angry shout, he slams my head on the ground three times.
Gasping, I try to hold on to consciousness, but it’s a losing battle. My vision fuzzes out, the last thing I see is their backs as they run off down the alley, leaving me here to die.