6. Gavin
CHAPTER SIX
gavin
Genevieve’s sweet, breathless echoes have been playing like a loop through my head since last night.
Any time I close my eyes, hell, any time I stare off, I remember her soft Gavins and sweet-as-sin whimpers.
The orgasm she delivered over the phone did nothing for my sleep.
In fact, I tossed and turned all damn night.
My cock didn’t get enough. I’m beginning to think this hunger for her is insatiable.
Never mind the absolute destruction she wrought on my self-control.
Now, it’s not even midday, and I’m jonesing for her like an addict.
The need to hear her voice again has my knee bouncing up and down.
Better yet, I want my eyes on her, in the flesh, preferably naked and sitting on my desk, legs spread while I lap, lick, and suck on her pussy.
I lean back in my leather chair, trying to tamp down the raging need to say fuck it to work today and go after my woman.
“Mr. Rhodes?” My secretary’s voice buzzes through the intercom right as I am getting ready to call Genevieve to take her to lunch.
“Your son is here to see you. He says he doesn’t need an appointment.
” I let out a long, heavy exhale as the sharp edge of desire is instantly doused by a familiar headache-induced tension.
“Send him in, Martha,” I say, my tone turning to steel.
I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck as I brace myself.
The volatile, fractured relationship with my son is a constant shadow over my life, deeply rooted in a past I can’t change.
I wasn’t around him while he was being raised—not because I didn’t want to be, but because I had no idea he even existed.
A careless one-night stand over twenty years ago caught up with me later in life when my son turned seventeen.
His mother only reached out when he started getting into trouble, so serious it took my money to cover his mess and not ruin his future.
I coughed up the back child support. It wasn’t a big deal to me, money wasn’t the issue then, and it isn’t now.
He’s my son, so I stepped up, paid what was owed, and tried to step into his life to do my part, attempting to right wrongs where the innocent party had no choice in the matter.
What I didn’t expect was my child to be a spoiled, entitled brat.
He grew up with zero discipline, and the moment realization hit that his biological father is a self-made billionaire, all he wanted and still wants is an open checkbook.
Not fucking happening on my watch.
I worked my way from the bottom to the top, eighteen-hour days, building an empire from nothing through sheer grit and determination. Hard work, dedication, and earning your keep aren’t anywhere in my son’s vocabulary.
The heavy doors of my office swing open with an unnecessary force, and my son walks in, leaving the door open behind him.
At twenty-six years old, he carries himself with the attitude of a moody, prepubescent teenager.
Even now, he strolls across the room, comes to stand in front of my desk, drags the leather chair out with a loud scrape, and flops down.
Before I can even utter a word, he lifts his legs, kicks his scuffed sneakers up and straight onto the edge of my desk.
“Morning, Dad,” he says lazily, spinning a set of keys around his index finger.
I stare at his shoes resting on my desk.
The silence stretches between us while I try to get my annoyance under control.
Any other person who had the nerve to disrespect me like this would have run away crying for their mother.
“Take your feet off my desk,” I deadpan. He rolls his eyes, lets out an irritated sigh, and puts his feet on the ground, letting them hit the ground with a dull clunk.
“Relax. It’s not like you can’t afford a new one.” I’m beginning to think allowing him to enter my office was a mistake.
“It’s respect,” I correct, steepling my fingers. “Something you seem to forget the second you step foot into the building. What can I do for you?”
“Can’t a son visit his father?” he asks, leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You don’t visit. You show up when you need something. Let’s skip the small talk. What is it this time? Bail? A traffic ticket? A club tab?”
“Unbelievable. You always assume the worst.” His jaw clenches, a flash of resentment darting across his features.
“You’ve given me nine years of evidence to support the assumption.” I rest my forearms on my desk, bracing for the inevitable. “Spill it.”
“I’m starting a new venture, a start-up. High-end night culture, app-integrated VIP network. It’s revolutionary, and it’s going to dominate the market.” He shifts in his seat, adjusting his jacket, attempting a pitch for money.
“An app for clubbing,” I summarize.
“An interactive lifestyle platform,” he shoots back.
His voice rises an octave. “I need capital to get the beta testing started. Fifty grand to secure the developers, maybe another fifty for marketing. A drop in the bucket for you.” I sit in silence, watching him as he messes with the watch on his wrist.
“Where’s your business plan?”
“My what?” He blinks.
“Your business plan,” I repeat, leaning forward, testing him. “The market analysis, the projected revenue stream, the break-even timeline. You’re asking for a hundred grand. Where’s the documentation?” This isn’t like the winning bid on Genevieve, where I knew my reward would be her all along.
“I just explained it to you,” he scoffs, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s a start-up, a vision, not a bunch of boring spreadsheets. You’ve got billions sitting in bank accounts, and you’re busting my balls over a few dollars?”
“I have billions because I don’t throw money into black holes.
” My voice is razor sharp. “You haven’t held a steady job in years.
You dropped out of a management program I paid for, and the last ‘venture’ I funded you ended up using elsewhere.
No.” The two-letter word hangs in the air between us like a physical wall.
“What do you mean, no?” He stiffens in the chair; his face turns blotchy red with fury.
“N-O,” I spell out, my dark eyes locked onto his. “I am not now, nor will I be writing you another check, not for a hundred thousand dollars, not for hundred dollars for you to play make-believe for two months, only to abandon ship when shit gets hard.”
“You’re my father!” he yells loudly enough I’m sure the whole floor can now hear our conversation.
“You owe me. You weren’t around for years of my life.
You built all of this, you live in a damn palace, and you won’t give your own son a leg up?
” The low blow lands right where he intended, but I don’t flinch.
I stand up slowly to my full height, towering over the desk.
He moves back in his chair, his bravado faltering for a fraction of a second.
“I didn’t know about you for seventeen years, and the moment I found out about you, I gave you every opportunity.
A roof, an education, a clean slate. What I won’t give you is a free ride to uselessness.
I earned every dime I own. If you want money for a business, write a proposal, show me the numbers, or go work for it like everyone else. ”
“You’re a bastard. You don’t care about me at all,” he spits with bitter anger. I feel bad for all of two seconds. The condo he’s in is bought and paid for, the utilities are in my name and are paid for by me. He can pull this shit all he wants. I’m not giving in.
“The door is behind you. Take a good look at everything you have, then you’ll realize I’m not a bastard at all.
I’m the man who’s been picking up the pieces ever since I found out about you, Bryce.
” He stares at me, chest heaving, fists clenched, and for a second, he looks like he wants to take a swing but knows better.
Instead, he stands, turns on his heels, and storms out of my office, slamming my door so hard it rattles on his way out.
I rub my hand over my face. I hate the fights, I hate the guilt he weaponizes, and I hate watching my own blood act like a child throwing a temper tantrum.
My eyes drift to my desk, landing on my phone resting on the heavy dark grain.
I pick it up, unlock the screen, and navigate straight to Genevieve’s contact.
The anger melts away, replaced with a need for my baby girl.
I hit her name and bring my phone to my ear, waiting to hear her voice, more than ready to convince her to have lunch with me.