4. War
CHAPTER FOUR
war
I fiddle with my watch, the large rose-gold cage glinting as I triple-check the time. Since starting physical therapy, I’ve never been in a hurry to get there. Today, though, a current of urgency spurs me forward that has nothing to do with the brisk December air. It’s funny how something as simple as meeting a beautiful woman can change your perspective. Knowing I’ll see Laramie today—and hopefully learn more about her—is an unexpected bright spot.
She waltzed into Dr. Panter’s office like she owned the place, a natural swagger to her steps that captured my attention. We spent that entire first session staring at each other across the room, and even though we didn’t speak, it was the best foreplay I’ve had in a long while—to the point I had to take matters into my own hands when I got home. I didn’t even know her name then, but the idea of that lithe body riding mine is an image I still can’t shake.
Then, at our next shared session, I got to talk with her. Her husky drawl drew me in, as did her colorful language. Who knew someone cussing out a dumbbell could be adorable? I found myself lying for her and wanting to help her when she was hurting. When I walked into the aquatic therapy room and found her below the water’s surface in the hot tub, a surge of protectiveness and panic flared in me. Maybe standing up for Tuesday awoke some long-dormant instincts, but everything in me screamed to grab her and make sure she was okay.
There’s a magnetic force around Laramie, and it’s put me on a trajectory straight into her orbit.
It’s not like I haven’t dated over the years, but most of those were orchestrated interactions with socially acceptable women brought forth by my parents and their equally shallow friends. I’ve never had an immediate, instant attraction to another person like what I feel now. Everything about Laramie calls to me, despite knowing nothing about her.
Hell, maybe that’s why she appeals to me. She’s an unknown. Not a polished Pilates princess or a spoiled debutante hand-picked by my parents for her background and status. There’s something inherently untamed about her, something wild. Something that demands I let it pull me along.
Shaking my head, I dismiss my thoughts. This is stress and lust talking. It’s been way too long since I got laid. Nothing more. I pick up my pace, wanting to make sure I get to PT on time—for my health and no other reason—when my phone buzzes.
Tuesday
Heads up. Mom and Dad have been calling my lawyers around the clock. Making some pretty big threats.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, grunting out an apology to the man who crashes into my shoulder. Aggravation coils with physical pain as I reread my sister’s text. I hurriedly pull up all my documentation, confirming everything, before replying.
Davis Designs is safe. The new contract is bulletproof. You don’t need to worry.
But do you?
All it takes are three words to remind me of the difference between Tuesday and myself. Her concern for me comes through despite my not having done enough to earn it.
My phone rings, and my father’s information pops up on the screen. My muscle memory goes to answer until my newfound spine has me swiping ignore.
I’m not worried. No matter what happens. I did the right thing.
For once
Tuesday hearts my message, and I grant myself a smile. I’ll take that little digital heart. It’s another brick in the relationship we’re slowly rebuilding. We’ve texted more over the past few days than we have in years. Me, assuring her everything is going to plan here in Dallas. Her, sharing small, superficial snippets of her life in New Mexico.
My grin grows thinking of the pictures she sent yesterday of herself and her friends eating massive croissants drizzled with honey in a cute bakery. I bet Laramie likes croissants. And honey… My phone rings again, pulling me from the image of licking crumbs off a certain brunette’s lips.
Fuck. It’s Dad again. The twinge in my shoulder, the cold, and now phone calls from my father. None of these things are helping my mood.
I answer the phone in a clipped but professional tone, the one I’ve perfected over the years. “Hello, Father. How are you?” I’m still on the street, a block from Dr. Panter’s office, but I want this conversation done before I get there.
The chilly December wind howling between the Dallas skyscrapers has nothing on the ice in my father’s voice. “I warned you what would happen if you followed through with helping your sister. Did you think I was joking?”
Huffing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, and you’ve made it clear every day since. Do you have something new to say, or are you just going to bark the same toothless threats each time we speak?”
“Watch yourself, Warren. I’m still the majority shareholder of this company. The company I built. One call to HR and you’re out. Your job is on the line as it is.”
My job. Vice President of Business Development . Aka, my father’s second banana, overseeing the securing of new contracts and client relationships and perceptions. Perceptions. They are all that matter to him. And for so long, they were all that mattered to me, too. For the hundredth time since sending Tuesday to Trail Creek, I wonder why.
“Warren!” His shout of my name is sharp and cutting.
“Sir?” I curse myself for the automatic reply.
He chuffs, then says, “All you have to do is set this right. A quick shareholder meeting, apologizing for the… ugliness of the situation, and we can put this behind us. It may say Phillips Construction, but that doesn’t mean the company has to stay in the family.”
Disowning me and keeping the company from me have become his go-tos. It’s becoming clear, as I refuse to come to heel, he has no idea how to approach me. His word has always been law, but the more I defy him, the more his weakness shines. Putting a smirk into my words, I say, “Family? It’s funny you’d call us that.”
In the background, my mother’s appalled voice sounds. “Warren, of course, we are a family. Think of how much your father and I have done for you.”
This, more than anything else, tests my temper. “Here’s what you’ve done for me. You’ve shown me how to manipulate people, how to bulldoze and bully my way into getting what I want. How to never treat my own children.” I pause and let out a mirthless chuckle. “I should thank you for that last one.”
“Apologize to your mother. Now.” The heat and anger in my father’s words would have blistered me in the past; now, they simply warm my bones.
“No, I don’t think I will. It’s you who should apologize, sir.” I put years’ worth of disdain and disillusionment into the honorific. “You were and are wrong, and I’m done standing by while you alienate and abuse my sister.”
My mother’s scandalized gasp has me rubbing my temples. How did I let things get to this point? How was I so blind to their true natures?
“Don’t worry, Mother. No one is around to hear the conversation on my end. I know that’s what you’re actually concerned about. And it is abuse. Emotional, at least. I just hate that it took me so long to wake up. You’re goddamn wrong for it, but so am I for not protecting Tuesday years ago.” Guilt eats at me, and I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum. “Do what you will. Cut me off, remove me from the company. I don’t care.”
The words are out of my mouth before my brain can process what I’ve said. I wait for regret. Panic. Fear. Instead, there’s a lightness, an easing of the rock in my chest and tension in my shoulders. It’s a startling realization to find I mean what I said. I don’t care.
For the first time in my life, apart from the night I stood up for Tuesday, I genuinely don’t care what my parents think.
“You’re making a mistake. Mark my words, son.”
I can’t stop the scoff that slips from my throat. “Let me be clear: whatever control you’ve had over me is done. I’m not afraid to stand on my own. I’m smart, capable, and have a tidy bank account. There’s nothing you can hold over me.”
Shedding the weight of my parents’ expectations is easier than I ever dreamed. Why didn’t I do this years ago? For so long, I’ve convinced myself I wanted this life, to take over Phillips Construction and be the man my parents molded me to be.
Is this how Tuesday feels? No wonder she never wants to leave Trail Creek.
“This conversation is not over, Warren. If you think you can simply dismiss your mother and me this way, you’re sorely mistaken. I’ll make it so no one in the metroplex will touch you. If there’s no one to do business with, then you can’t branch out on your own. How will you find contractors and suppliers? Do you think they’d forfeit my business to take a chance with you?”
My harsh laugh sounds brittle. “I hope one day you grasp what you’ve done. How far you’ve pushed your children, to the point you have nothing and no one left.”
With nothing else to say, I hang up, send one last text to Tuesday in case our parents reach out to her directly, then put my phone on Do Not Disturb. My palms are sweaty, and I’d probably set off alarms if someone measured my blood pressure, but I fucking did it.
I parse through my father’s threats. They aren’t idle; I know that much. I’ve observed from the wings as Warren Phillips crushed competitors with smear campaigns and blackball tactics. Leveraging his multi-million-dollar business to crowd out the market. But it’s oddly relieving. I don’t want to take over Phillips Construction. I don’t want to do anything with construction.
What do I want? That’s a question I can’t answer yet, but the thought of unemployment isn’t as frightening as I expected. A glance at my watch has me jogging toward Dr. Panter’s office. The ramifications of what I’ve done can wait. I’ve got a PT session, a cute-as-hell cowgirl, and my entire future waiting for me.