Chapter 39 Jagger
JAGGER
We’ve fallen into a routine. I never thought I liked them.
Routines. They felt too predictable. Too boring.
Too…safe, maybe. The realization hits out of nowhere as Violet tucks herself into my side.
She’s been sleeping over more and more. I want to hate it.
To draw some boundaries under the guise of keeping things casual, but I can’t help myself.
When she isn’t here, I miss her. Hell, even when she is here, I miss her.
A sleeping Violet sighs, her full lips parted, and her hand on my chest. If this is heaven, I’m not afraid of dying. I close my eyes and fall back to sleep.
I’m not sure how much time passes when a buzzing wakes me. It could be hours. Or maybe it’s minutes. Honestly, I’m not sure. Lifting my heavy lids, I reach for my phone on my nightstand, careful not to jostle my Little Thief still passed out on top of me.
Who the hell is calling?
As I read the name, dread coats my insides.
My uncle’s warning resurfaces. Better answer the next time he calls.
Slipping out from beneath Violet, I step into the hallway and answer the phone. “You do know what time it is, don’t you?”
“For you? No,” my dad replies. “And I don’t really care.”
“So thoughtful,” I mumble. Pulling the phone from my ear, I check the time. “It’s four thirty in the morning, by the way. In case you’re curious.”
“Already told you I wasn’t. Hong Kong’s beautiful this time of year. I’d say you should plan a visit, but at this point, I don’t feel like paying for it.”
What a dick.
“You stopped paying for our things a long time ago,” I remind him.
“Around the same time you stopped listening.”
His words feel like a cheese grater against my ear drums. I’m really starting to regret listening to Uncle Judge and answering this stupid phone call.
“Can I help you with anything, Father?” I can’t help the derision tainting the familial title, though he doesn’t comment on it.
Hell, maybe he’s so used to it, the word would sound weird without the derision.
Or maybe not. Honestly, I’m too tired to care.
“Am I not allowed to check in on my oldest?” my father counters.
For a guy who’s an incredible liar—it’s literally how he makes every single dime—the lack of sincerity in his voice is almost disappointing. Rubbing at the corner of my eye, I point out, “Not when you’ve neglected me for years.”
“So ungrateful,” he mutters under his breath. “How are your classes?”
“Fine.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Fine.”
“And your brothers?”
“Also fine.”
“And working with Donahue?”
Feeling like a broken record, I repeat, “Also fine. Anything else, or can I go back to bed?”
“Have you asked him about writing a recommendation for your internship?” he prods. “Mercer Consulting doesn’t take anyone off the street.”
Mercer Consulting. Even after all these years, I don’t miss the slight undertone of resentment as the business’s name rolls off his tongue.
Talk about a small but poetic morsel of justice.
My dad begged my mom to found the company under his name, Harden, telling her there was no use using her maiden name when they’d be married one day.
Thankfully, she stuck to her guns and titled the company Mercer Consulting anyway.
Mercer Consulting was my mom’s brainchild from the very beginning. She wanted to create an actuarial firm that wasn’t all about profits but about people. Then, she met Dad in college and brought him on after graduation. Outside of marrying the bastard, it was her biggest mistake.
If it wasn’t for my mom’s legacy, there’s no way I would even consider working there. Trouble is, she founded the business, and my brothers and I refuse to let Titas Harden ruin it forever. It might take a while to undo everything he’s done, but if we don’t work there, we never will.
“Not sure why a letter is needed,” I mutter. “You’re the head of the board, after all.”
He’s also been pushing us since before we could walk to follow the family legacy, but I keep that part to myself.
His low chuckle grates on me. “And you say you don’t use the family name to get what you want.”
I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out how it must be genetic, considering he insisted on moving back to Harden Heights as a way to soothe his ego from the sting of the company not carrying his precious name.
My dad might not have founded Harden Heights, but his great-grandparents did, and he’s had no issue riding on their coattails for his entire existence.
Yeah, he’s definitely one to talk about using his family name to get what he wants.
“Donahue already sent his recommendation via email,” I announce. “Maybe ask your secretary to check it when she isn’t sucking your dick before you call me next time.”
It’s a low blow, but I don’t regret it. Even when Mom was alive, Titas was known for dabbling in the office roster on late nights. It didn’t come out until after she passed, but it happened nonetheless.
I hate him.
“Speaking of dick sucking,” Titas interjects, unfazed in the least. “How’s the girl?”
My blood turns to sludge. “What girl?”
“The one you’re slumming it with.”
Shifting my phone to my opposite ear, I lean my forehead against the wall, too tired to drum up a lie when I have no intention of letting Violet go, let alone giving in and losing my shit over his description when we both know it’s exactly what the asshole wants. “Her name’s Violet.”
“Pretty name.”
If those two words came from anyone else, I’d believe them. Would consider them a compliment. Something sincere. Genuine. Hearing them come from my father only makes the warning bells ring louder inside my skull. “Do you need anything else?”
“One more thing.”
I stay quiet, waiting for him to say his peace so I can hang up on him, bury myself inside Violet again, and forget this conversation ever happened.
“Is she coming to the banquet?” If I didn’t know him, I’d say it’s an innocent question. Non-threatening. Casual. Benign. Trouble is, I do know him, and I know every question has its purpose. The trouble is pinpointing it.
“Haven’t asked her yet,” I reply, too drained to play his games.
“You haven’t asked for my permission, either.”
I scratch my temple, grateful he isn’t in front of me or I just might deck the bastard. “If I do, will you let me hang me up without bitching to Uncle Judge about what terrible sons you have?”
“Did he tell you I bitched to him?”
Oops.
“Is that what he said, Jagger?” he growls.
That did it. I officially pissed him off. Or, at least his brother did. Hell, I almost feel sorry for my uncle and the earful I’m sure he’ll receive as soon as this call ends.
Sorry, Judge.
“Tell me something,” my dad seethes. “If you can’t keep your brothers in line, if you can’t even keep yourself in line, what makes you think you can keep Gus in line when he decides he’s done toying with me?”
Him? He thinks my arrangement with Gus is about him? I knew my dad was a narcissist, but this feels like a bit of a stretch. Add in how I should be sleeping instead of trying to keep up with his sporadic thought patterns, and I’m a little lost.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he spits.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Titas, but maybe this has nothing to do with you.”
“And maybe your naivete will get you or your brothers or even your little girlfriend hurt. Or worse, your little sister.”
“Cobie?” I ask. “You really want to bring Cobie into this?”
“This is on you, not me.”
And now, we’re gaslighting.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “If you really believe Cobie is in danger, why would you allow her to come home in the first place? Even if she was kicked out of school, you could buy her an apartment anywhere you want, so if Harden Heights is so dangerous, and Cobie reminds you so much of Mom—”
“I suggest you choose your next words very carefully,” he warns. His tone is laced with a lethal edge, one I swear could cut me through the satellites, but I’m too pissed off to care.
“What?” I challenge. “You don’t like talking about Mom? Are you afraid that how you killed her might come up?”
“I think we both know it wasn’t me who killed her, son. It was your brother. Or did you forget his involvement?”
My vision blurs with fury, my rage so loud it drowns out any trickle of logic or self-preservation.
How dare he? How dare he blame my brother for Mom.
Squeezing my cell with so much pressure, I swear the screen might crack, I breathe in deep through my nose, refusing to fall into his trap even if it kills me. “See you at the banquet.”
Then, I click the end button and rush down the stairs. Because if I don’t? If I don’t work out the fury burning me from the inside out, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
Just. Like. Him.