Bram: I know I messed up. I should have told you that your father was working at the company again. I love you, Kiana. Everything we shared… It meant more to me than you’ll ever realize. I hope it meant the same to you. Please take my call.
I’ve never been good at being patient. Now I’m tossed into a situation where patience is the only option I have.
I might as well go home and drink.
It’s too late to fix the situation at the office since everyone has already left for the day. There’s nothing I can do to force Kiana to pick up her phone. I don’t even know where the fuck she is. This is my penance, but I’m going to pray it doesn’t last long. I probably deserve to suffer. I just can’t handle it. Not until I know where things stand between us.
If it’s goodbye, then I need to hear those words from her. Silence is worse than those bitter fucking words rolling off her lips.
The drive to my house is miserable. Every second of it sucks. A drink doesn’t make me feel any better. It amplifies the anguish. I try Kiana a couple of more times and get the same result as before. The agonizing ring of a man ignored, followed by the sweetest voice that has ever spoke on a voicemail.
Maybe it would be better if I deserved it.
I know I don’t. That’s the worst part of all.
One drink turns into two. Two drinks turn into three. There isn’t much left for me to do except getting blackout drunk. Been a while since I tied one on that tight. I guess the punishment tomorrow morning will be as well-deserved as the sickness that the buzz is bringing. I don’t want to feel good. My body refuses to accept it.
I dial Kiana’s number one more time, just to hear her recorded voice if nothing else.
One ring.
Two.
It always drops to voicemail after the third.
But that ring doesn’t echo in my ear. Instead, she picks up.
“Kiana? Thank you for answering!” I lean forward, full attention, and the buzz in my head is sapped away by the glimmer of hope.
“Stop calling my fucking daughter, you son of a bitch!” It isn’t Kiana’s voice. It’s Lawson.
How does Lawson have her phone?
“Lawson, look. I know…” I try to find words that could possibly make sense. “I really care about Kiana.”
“Oh, I know what you care about, buddy.” His voice is seething. “You couldn’t find enough whores to fuck? You had to go after my daughter?”
“It’s not like that.” I feel a prickly sensation on the back of my neck, but I try to steady my nerves.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you. Leave her alone. If you call her again, there won’t be a body to bury. Got that, you bastard?” He growls his threat.
“Yeah.” I exhale sharply. “I got it.”
“Good. Now fuck off.” The phone goes dead.
The rage of an angry father. Threats that probably aren’t idle. Lawson was a soldier just like me. He knows how to hunt. He knows how to kill. I don’t think he would breathe one ounce of remorse if he took my life right now.
I let him hit me at the office, even though I could’ve defended myself. I welcomed it because I felt like I deserved it for putting myself in that situation—for putting Kiana and Lawson in that situation.
If it comes down to fight or flight with my life on the line, I don’t know what I will do. I won’t lay down and die. That means one of us won’t be breathing when this is all over.
Lawson might have been an asshole to his daughter her whole life, but there is a difference between a killer and a murderer. I won’t be able to live with myself if it comes down to him or me, and I preserve my own life by claiming his.
That isn’t a war worth winning.
I drink until I pass out, then I embrace the darkness where only my dreams can haunt me.
I wake up feeling like shit, but it’s exactly what I deserve.
It’s time for me to face the music at the office and try to repair the damage I’ve caused. I also have to face the reality of never holding Kiana in my arms again. If she went to her father, then she made a choice that had to hurt—the man who treated her like shit her whole life over the one who lied to her.
Maybe blood is thicker than anything else, even love. Or maybe she was just living out a fantasy, and it meant less to her than I thought. Once it was shattered, there were no pieces left to be put back together.
Every step I take is a memory of what we shared. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can imagine her still asleep beside me. If I walk into the bathroom, I can pretend I need to be quiet so that I don’t wake her up.
Even the shower reminds me of her.
I never imagined becoming some heartsick fool hung up on a woman. Damn it. This is a wound I’ll have to let time heal.
Other wounds can be healed with apologetic words, and those are the ones I have to focus on now.
I head to the office with my head aching from a hangover, and I don’t even bother with anything that could dull it. I need to feel that pain. Hell, physical pain is a lot better than the emotional one. I park my car, and the instant I step out a familiar face approaches—not one I want to see.
“Bram Ward. We meet again.” It’s the thug from yesterday.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m agitated by his presence. The second time in two days.
“Mr. Diaz wasn’t satisfied with the conversation you had with him yesterday.” He pushes his hands into his pockets. “I’m here to have a very different kind
