Chapter Eighteen Everest （Kane）
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EVEREST (KANE)
A crash echoes through the classroom as someone knocks Sam’s books off her desk and into the aisle on their way out. I’d been just about to make my own exit at the end of class when the sound stopped me.
Sam jumps to her feet, fists balled up tight, spine snapped straight, and a fire blooming in her eyes.
Fuck. I recognize that look on her face.
Before I know it, I wedge myself between Sam and the guy, my shoulder slamming into his chest. Not hard enough to drop him, but enough to warn him.
“Back off,” I demand.
Glaring at him, I silently hope he gives me a reason to lose it. But he doesn’t, and walks away, mumbling something under his breath.
I don’t know why I do it, but I crouch to scoop up the mess of papers and textbooks. It’s certainly not because I like her, or care, for that matter.
When she reaches for them, our gazes lock.
There’s a softness in her eyes for once, gratitude brimming in her irises.
To make sure she doesn’t get the wrong impression, doesn’t think this means I’ve forgotten what she’s done, I move my hand out of reach, letting them fall to her desk with a loud slap.
Her gasp cuts through the silence, but I don’t care. I step around her, our bodies brushing ever so slightly. A jolt runs through me at that brief contact, all that pent-up frustration rushing to my dick.
Sam’s glaring at me in disbelief as I adjust the front of my jeans and walk out of the door. My head’s a mess, my hands twitch, and all I want to do is destroy something.
Maybe destroy her.
While the other girls preen for my attention, Sam couldn’t care less. While the other girls would kill for a chance to be touched by me, Sam would break my fingers to keep me from touching her. And it’s not like we don’t know she’s capable of doing just that.
She’s the only one who isn’t fake when she looks at me. I know exactly what I’m getting with her. She’s real, unlike my facade at school and unlike everyone else who worships me because of my chance at going pro.
She hates me, plain and simple.
And, honestly, it’s best that way.
Every time I sit in this chair, the air around me feels poisonous. Tainted with deep-seated, unadulterated hate. The kind that eats at you, haunts you until all that’s left is hate of your own. It festers, picking at wounds—old, new, and those formed in between.
You’ve tried to heal them, patch up the damage, keep them from consuming you. But this hatred is too strong to bend, too rooted to erase. And what’s left is the shell of a person who’s fighting demons only they can see. That’s been my life, and with each passing day, I grow closer to acceptance.
So I do what I always do, and that’s hold my head up and keep it moving.
I let out a breath, checking the clock on the wall, mentally counting down the seconds. The chair squeaks when I shift, the leather groaning as if it despises me here just as much as he does.
He’s made me wait more than ten minutes now, which is ironic considering he’s the one always going on about not wasting his time.
I guess that only applies to him. At this point, I’m convinced he does it on purpose.
Simply because he can, because without him, my mother doesn’t get the care she needs, bills don’t get paid, and my life would look much different than it does now.
My eyes fall to the paper in my lap. It’s the reason I’m here.
The edges are torn from where I tugged at the corners in a mindless attempt to occupy my thoughts.
It’s crazy how one page that’s been clutched and folded too many times to count holds so much weight.
It’s a violent reminder, a leash made of ink.
I suck in a breath, my shoulders sore with tension and not just because of this meeting. Everything is riding on tonight. And when we win, I’ll be one step closer to putting this life behind me. I’m going pro, and this bastard won’t ever have to worry about me or my mother again.
But until then, this is what I’ve succumbed to—begging for support from someone who would rather see me burn.
I stare at the wall, my sight narrowing on the spot above the empty chair behind the large desk.
Multiple degrees stare back at me, a blurred shrine to the man whose name means more to him than his blood.
None of them has my last name on them.
No, he couldn’t be bothered to give me his, to include me.
Not that it really mattered until now. Before my mother’s mental health got worse, it never dawned on me that I didn’t have a connection to my father.
All my friends had theirs, and some of those relationships weren’t ones to envy.
And Mom made sure I didn’t want for a thing, made sure his absences were unnoticeable and unfelt. She did it all.
Every milestone, every scrape and fall, school crushes and wins, she was the one who held it all together. But then, she couldn’t, and we started spending more time in a mental health facility.
That’s where I met Sam. We were young, barely at the age of puberty, and vulnerable beyond what we could comprehend at that time.
I’d had more experience in this department than her, so when I saw her in that waiting room, tears pouring down her face, scared out of her mind, I comforted her.
I kept her close, protected her, helped to explain things that her dick of a stepfather never bothered to.
And then in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Never to be seen or heard from again. I’d hoped I would; every time I checked my mom in, I secretly scanned the faces in the waiting room, wanting for one of them to be hers.
She’d left and never came back. Leaving me to wonder if her life turned out better than it had been.
I was alone, but at least I had hockey and my boys.
They became my family. Mom eventually got better, and things slowly returned to normal.
It was great, but then something snapped, and we were right back where we started.
But this time, my mother seemed to be doing much worse, and all the responsibilities fell on me. Administering her meds, making meals.
One day, while I was looking through her files for banking information, I stumbled across more than I bargained for.
Documents, receipts, all evidence that showed our lives had been funded in secret, years of hush money disguised as support.
As long as it never got out that I was his son, we would be set for life.
That day, my world changed. I learned the truth, and every day since then, I regret ever dreaming he would accept me.
The door clicks open behind me, and my back stiffens, my fingers curling around the medical bill.
His footfalls hit the carpet, slow and heavy, like he owns every inch of the air I breathe.
My father comes into view—tall, his broad shoulders hiked around his ears, his light brown eyes almost a mirror to my own.
They bore into me, anger etched in them. It’s the only thing we have in common.
He slides the chair out and drops into it. No words. No verbal acknowledgment. Just that glare, brows cocked like my presence only annoys him.
Typical.
The clock ticks louder now, or maybe it’s the blood pounding against my eardrums. I clear my throat, swallowing the lump that’s formed there.
“What do you want?” is all he says. No, hello, it’s good to see you, son.
“I’ve been waiting over ten minutes.” I make fists against my thighs, trying to keep my nerves calm.
Papers shuffle across the desk, the scraping sound ringing louder than it is. “And your point?”
My jaw clenches. “You demand that no one waste your time. You can at the very least do the same.”
I expect him to offer a rebuttal, but he doesn’t.
I lean forward, tossing the crumpled-up piece of paper in front of him. And as always, he sits there uninterested.
“That’s a letter from the facility. The bill is past due. And my deposit wasn’t in the account this morning.”
Silence answers back, and it’s heavy enough to crush a man. The back of my neck burns, shame and rage racing through me. I grip the chair arms to still my temper.
“You know I can’t pay without your help.” The words barely make it out. I hate relying on him.
He hums, low and indifferent. “You mean without you begging.”
“Begging?” I sit up, my nostrils flared. “Last I checked, you don’t want your precious family to find out about your twenty-two-year-old secret.”
“Watch yourself, Everest. You and your mother would be out on your asses without me.” He takes his eyes off me, but his voice still rings in my ears.
I watch as he snatches open the drawer and pulls out a black leather billfold.
It’s the same every month. He claims to never want to see me and seems to be burdened by the fact I am a constant reminder for him.
This could all be avoided, this back-and-forth, us having to speak any more than either of us wants.
All it would take is him assuring that the deposit clears, and the funds are sent to the institute on time.
Instead, he makes it so that I have to come to him.
He opens his suit jacket, removing a fancy pen, black with gold at the center. Twisting it open, he lowers the tip onto the blank check, scribbling away. All that’s left is this—a quiet, ugly transaction.
I stare at the picture on his desk. They look so happy, father, mother, and son. Resentment builds, and I force myself to push it away. My father rips the check from the booklet, the sound traveling between us.
As he slides it toward me, the paper gliding over the polished wood with a soft whisper, I snatch it up.
I don’t say thank you… never do.
“And the monthly payment?” is what I say instead. I rush to my feet, the chair scraping the carpet in the process.
He stares at me for a moment in that deliberate way that he does—smug and condescending. My stomach turns, the rage lodging under my ribs, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’ll handle it,” my father finally responds, twisting his pen closed, returning it to his pocket while sitting back in his seat.
I turn to walk away, taking one last look at that picture.
“I’m your son, too. So why do you hate me so much? Am I not good enough?” I hate the words as soon as they fall from my lips. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t want the answers. The moment I learned who he was, the questions stirred. I just never had the balls to ask.
Nothing. Not a flinch, or even a twitch of muscle. Just that goddamn ticking clock mocking me. My jaw locks until my teeth grind together. My throat burns with things I can’t say, things I’m not allowed to say.
“Don’t mistake obligation for care. Naivety won’t get you far.”
My eyes fall without permission, that old reflex snapping my spine in half. The paperweight catches the light. A blend of brass and silver, a knight frozen mid-battle, twin swords crossed over its chest, bloodred pearls for eyes.
A monument to loyalty, strength, and honor.
Funny.
The man sitting behind it is none of those things. He’s the worst kind of evil, the kind that hides behind his wealth, buying the silence of those he hurts. No consequences, no reckoning.
I don’t need him to answer the question; the minute he decided to provide for us financially but not be in my life says it all.
The shame of ever wanting more from him automatically takes hold.
I hate that he gets to me. That he makes me feel like some stupid kid hoping the man who threw him away might reach back.
He never does.
And maybe that’s the real curse.
Because if I’m nothing to him, then why in the hell has Richard Williamsburg been paying to keep me alive?