21. Wilder
My knee bobs up and down uncontrollably, my eyes flicking back and forth between the time on my phone and the entrance to the restaurant.
This morning, my father arranged for us all to have dinner together to celebrate my invite to EWC, and currently there are only two people who haven’t arrived yet.
So when my dad finally walks in alone, I feel no sense of peace, not even waiting for him to fully sit down before I set my attention on him.
“Where’s Lamont?” I ask, my tone sharp, and his unhurried eyes meet mine in question.
“He’s not coming, he’s not feeling too good,” he tells me simply, and that heavy feeling in my chest, the one I have had all afternoon, intensifies even more.
He doesn’t feel too good, my ass.
I know exactly what his problem is, and it comes in the shape of his fucking father.
We’ve spent the last five weeks together, and not once have I ever seen the look in his eye that I saw today, when his father was walking toward him.
It wasn’t just surprise, it was panic, fear, desperation, a look that no father should evoke in their child, but he did.
The rich and respectable Prescott Lamont the fucking third, a man with power and influence and no fucking sense.
I remember everything his son told me about him, and I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a homophobic piece of shit, but that wasn’t what I saw today.
No, today he was cordial, everything you’d expect from what you hear about him from other people, people that don’t share his blood that is.
He looked completely presentable, and was more than polite as he introduced himself, but he had the same dead look in his eyes that I have only ever seen in Caden’s.
He didn’t come here to visit his son, he’s nothing more than a pawn to him, but he did come here for something, and I need to know what.
And more importantly, I need to know if my PR assistant is okay.
“What’s wrong with him? Did you speak to him?” I can tell my father is confused by my incessant questioning, which is valid. I haven’t shown any interest in my PR assistant in his eyes, but still he answers me.
“Yes, he called me about thirty-minutes ago, and said he has a migraine and that he would see us all tomorrow.”
A migraine? That’s bullshit.
Does he even suffer from migraines?
Did his father invoke one with his mere presence?
I have too many fucking questions and not enough answers, and every part of me wants to leave this table right now and go and find them. Except that would only raise more questions from everyone else, so I only nod and focus back on my menu.
The dinner is almost mind-numbing, even with them talking about the EWC and the rest of the PRI season.
I would love to be focused on that, on my career, on how fucking crazy this all is and how grateful I am, but my focus is only on one thing.
I answer any questions sent my way, offer up responses when needed in discussions, and make quick work of my starter, entrée, and dessert.
By the time they bring the check, I am already out of my seat.
“Thanks for dinner, Dad, I’m gonna head to bed, I didn’t sleep too well last night, so I want to catch up and be fresh tomorrow.” I spout the first bullshit that comes to mind, as he signs his name and gives the waiter his card.
“Yeah sure, okay, goodnight son,” he replies, beaming at me proudly, as if glad I am finally taking things seriously, but I don’t care about anything else right now.
I hear both Matt and Knox call my name, but I shake my head and ignore them both, quickly making my way to the elevators.
My dad managed to get us all rooms on the tenth floor of the hotel, keeping us close together, but since he left before we even went to our rooms, I didn’t manage to catch which one Reed is staying in.
I quickly pull out my phone and head straight for Laura’s shared drive.
She always uploads copies of the hotel receipts, and I scan all of them until I spot his room number.
I’m knocking before I can even talk myself out of it. “Lamont, it’s me, open up,” I demand loudly, ensuring he can hear me through the door, and then knocking three more times for good measure.
There is no sound at first, but when I knock again, I hear his muffled voice. “Go away, Miles, I’m sick,” he calls through the door, and that only sends a higher need to see him through me.
“I can't, this is an emergency,” I lie, wracking my brain on how to convince him to open up. “Or should I say a PR nightmare, please just open up so I can show you my phone.” I’m positive that will get his attention, and sure enough, only a few seconds pass before he cracks the door open slightly.
I’m barging inside before he can stop me, forcing him to stumble back a little, but then his head snaps down toward the ground. “What the hell, Miles, I already told you I’m sick.”
I trail my eyes over him, finding him in sleek black sweat pants and a long sleeve black top that covers the majority of his body.
The bed is still neatly made with only a few wrinkles from where he may have been sitting, but both his phone and laptop are on the side table.
If the so-called migraine story were true, then he wouldn’t be using either of them.
“You don’t look sick,” I state firmly, trying to step closer to him, but he instantly retreats.
“Well I am, so please can you leave.” His head is still cast toward the ground, and an uneasy feeling starts to take root inside of me.
Why won’t he look at me?
I try to dip my head to see him, but again he avoids my gaze, and it only pisses me off more. “Look at me,” I demand, taking a slow, measured step, which he matches with one away from me.
“Can you please just leave your phone and go away. I really don’t feel good.” He crosses the room so he is as far away from me as he can get within these four walls, and I assess him closely.
“I lied about the emergency,” I tell him truthfully, taking another slow step. “I just needed to see you.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you’re okay.”
I swear I hear him sigh before he whispers, “I’m fine, will you please just go.”
I’m across the room, cornering him against the bathroom door before he can even take another breath, noting the way he flinches. “I said look at me.” I grip his chin roughly in my hand, dragging his stare up to meet mine, and instantly my blood runs cold.
The usual ocean blue of his eyes is completely muted, drowned out by the swollen red rims surrounding them.
It’s clear he’s been crying, but that’s not what has me burning with a rage like never before.
No, that would be the black eye and busted lip he’s now sporting.
There is a splattering of red marks all over his face, disappearing down into his collar, black bruising under one of his eyes, and a cut on the bottom of his mouth.
My heart thunders in my chest, like a dead weight banging against my rib cage, that makes me feel like I’m going to be sick.
“You really should go,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, and it causes a physical ache in my bones, making my hand flex around his chin with the need to make someone pay.
He’s still not fully meeting my stare. “Who did this to you?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer is, but I need to hear him say it. I need him to confirm that his father is a bigger piece of shit than I even thought, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Please don’t make me say it, Wild,” he begs, dropping his head back against the door to reveal more bruising on his neck.
I slide my hand down slowly, not wanting to see, but needing to.
I gently tug down the fabric of his collar, and this time I’m the one that flinches, bile rising in my throat at the state of the marks around his.
“Fuck.” I don’t mean to curse at the sight, but I can’t help it. His neck is both swollen and marked, and my thumb brushes along it softly, committing every injury to memory.
“My father took the necklace,” he adds, tears welling in his stare again, as if that is all he is concerned about. “I’m really sorry, Wilder, I promise I’ll pay you back for it.”
I’m already shaking my head. “I don’t give a fuck about the damn necklace,” I snarl, rage churning through every cell in my body, not caring that this is the first time I’m acknowledging I am the one who bought it for him.
When I saw it on the plane this morning, a possessiveness ran through me that I can’t even describe.
I loved that he was wearing something I had bought for him, that he liked it enough to wear it, that I knew it would have meant something to him.
Except now, as I look at marks that could have only been left by it being held too tightly around his throat before being ripped off, I regret ever even getting it for him.
If I didn’t, maybe he wouldn’t have little red indentations at the base of his throat.
His father is going to pay for that.
“Where is he?” I ask darkly, his eyes flicking back, and for the first time in my life I understand the violent tendencies that plague my cousin. His urge to cause someone pain and suffering, because right now I could kill Prescott Lamont III with my bare fucking hands.
He only shrugs, a half smile cracking the cut on his lip.
“Who fucking cares,” he scoffs, the hatred clear in his tone.
“Besides, you shouldn’t be surprised, you already know I am accustomed to things that are bad for me.
” His words send more ice through my veins, because he doesn’t even sound in pain, just completely resigned, as if this has happened a hundred times before.
It probably has.
“Just because you were born from poison doesn’t mean you have to keep drinking it,” I tell him, and he laughs with a shake of his head.
“I think it’s a little too late for that, I’ve been absorbing it since the moment I was born with his last name.” I’ve never heard him sound so bitter before, and I fucking hate it.