Shooter
I t o o k a long drag of my blunt, the smoke curling around me as I drove away from the Whitmore estate. The low purr of my car’s engine was the only sound against the silence, the tinted windows shutting out the rest of the world. My mind kept circling back to Parker.
She had looked nervous as hell sitting beside me, but she hid it behind that smart mouth and pouty lips. I smirked, the memory playing in my head. I liked my women soft, obedient, sweet on the tongue. Parker was none of those things. She was fire and resistance wrapped in designer silk, with a mouth that knew how to cut deep.
She was also fine as fuck. That body? A problem. That defiance in her eyes when I told her I wanted her? A challenge. One I was looking forward to winning. By the time I pulled into the underground garage of my building and parked in my private space, my blunt was finished.
I killed the engine, I sat there for a second, letting the quiet settle before stepping out. The second I walked into my penthouse, I knew I wasn’t alone. I smelled the liquor before I saw him and rolled my neck and shoulders. My father sat in my living room, the lights dimmed low, a crystal decanter of Hennessy on the table. He held a glass in his hand, swirling the dark liquid lazily. Another glass sat beside it, ready to be filled. I closed the door behind me and took my time removing my hoodie.
“Didn’t realize I was havin’ company.”
My father smirked, taking a slow sip. “Your security slippin’.”
I didn’t respond. I knew damn well my security was tight. If he was here, it was because he wanted to be. I stepped forward, my gaze cold. “What up?”
He leaned back, watching me with the same sharp, assessing stare I’d grown up under. “We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Business.”
I inhaled deeply before exhaling slowly. “It’s handled.”
He studied me. “Is it?”
I sat down across from him, legs spread wide, one arm resting on the back of the couch. “What’s the real reason you’re here, old man? I know it damn sure ain’t about Parker.”
He chuckled low, setting his glass down. “You know why I never looked at you to take over, Sebastian?”
My jaw tightened. I truly hated when muthafuckas called me by my government. “We both know why, but what’s done is done now, right?”
His expression didn’t change, but I saw the flicker in his eyes. The grudging acceptance. The truth that neither of us could ignore. “What’s done is done,”
he said, leaning forward. “But if you gon' wear the crown, you better be ready for the weight of it.”
I met his gaze, unblinking. “I was born ready. Regardless of who you stuck your dick in, I’m here and I got this.”
Silence stretched between us. Then he reached for the decanter, pouring whiskey into the other glass. He slid one across the table to me. “To more wealth and power,”
he said, raising his glass.
I picked mine up, eyeing him as we both took a slow sip. This wasn’t a moment of fatherly approval. This was a transaction. A silent agreement. He didn’t have a choice but to acknowledge me now. And I would make damn sure he never regretted it.
He didn’t linger. He never did. After finishing his Hennessy, he stood, straightened his suit, and gave me one last look, like he was sizing me up, measuring whether I was worth the name I carried. Then, without another word, he left.
I sat there for a long moment, the taste of Hennessy sharp on my tongue, my mind running over every unspoken thing between us. The tension, the resentment, the guilt, the years of being kept at a distance while Silas was molded into the perfect heir. Now the golden boy was dead, and the bastard was left to carry the weight.
I let out a slow breath before downing the rest of my drink. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, a sea of lights blinking against the dark. The world outside was sleeping, but I never did. Not fully, anyway.
So I did what I always did when my thoughts got too loud. I worked them out. I made my way to the private gym on the lower level of the building. The weights were already lined up, the bench press waiting. I stripped off my shirt, the cool air hitting my skin as I wrapped my hands, flexing my fingers. My muscles ached from tension, from all the shit sitting heavy on my shoulders.
I pressed play on the sound system, and Duffle Bag Trappy’s latest EP filled the room, the bass vibrating through the floors. Then I got to work.
Breath after breath, pushing the weight, feeling the burn, letting my body drown out the storm in my head. By the time I was done, my arms were tight, my chest burning, sweat slicking my skin. My body felt lighter, but my mind was still tangled. I rolled my shoulders, exhaling deeply before heading back into the penthouse to shower.
The water was scalding, just how I liked it. I let it run over me, washing away the sweat. My hands pressed against the cool tile as I let the steam rise around me, my thoughts circling Parker. The way she looked tonight. The way she covered her fear with attitude. The way she sat in my passenger seat, arms crossed, chin lifted like she wasn’t already mine. Still thought she could outmaneuver me.
After drying off and throwing on a pair of boxer briefs and sweats, I made my way to my master bedroom. I sat down, rolling a blunt and lit up, taking a slow drag as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
The wedding was in three days. In three days, Parker Whitmore was gon’ be mine. And no matter how hard she fought, she’d come to understand one thing real soon. There was no getting away from me. This shit was just the beginning.