He let out a sigh that carried the weight of years spent working toward a future for his children and seeing it taken away. The cancer had eaten it away. Eaten all the funds through hospital bills and doctors’ visits, just as it had eaten away my father’s body.
“Dad,” I said, slowly. “Dad, I can make more money. I can open a restaurant. Your health is more important than memories and sentimentality.” And my childish dreams of running our family café and turning it into the place I’d remembered.
“Thanks, Nut.” He held my gaze for a second, his eyes watering, his balding head shining in the light from the TV. “You go rest. You work too hard.”
I gave him one last sweet smile before rounding the corner and heading for my bedroom, my heart threatening to tear into millions of little pieces. It was gone. McCutcheon’s was gone. Just like Mom was gone. Like my dreams were gone. Like…
Stop. Be positive. You’re going to get through this. Dad is going to get through this. You’re not going to lose him or anything else.
I let Piddlywump follow me into the room then shut the door and pressed my back to it. For the first time in years, I fetched the old shoebox from the top shelf in my closet. I brought it to my bed, sat down and popped the lid.
Memories yelled for attention, but I brushed aside the old letters, a hairband, dried flowers, and pictures until I found the Polaroid I’d been looking for.
It was worn with age and being touched, folded, and once, crumpled and thrown across the room.
Damien stared out at me from the picture, his arm around my neck, the cocky grin he’d worn as a badge of honor on full display as he snapped the one and only picture I had of us together. The one he’d taken on the day he’d snatched up my virginity and my heart.
I tucked it back into the box, snorting at myself, then carried it back to my closet and squirreled it away.
Nothing but a faded memory.
3 Damien
Hazel had wedged herself in my mind, wormed under my skin, stuck me like a fucking emotional splinter. Jesus, it was like the woman had magical powers. I’d whacked off to the thought of bending that sweet ass over the coffee table and going to town on her wet, pink pussy.
Just the thought of it sent a thrill through my balls. My cock rolled over in my suit pants, and I forced myself to think of anything else. Grandma, grapes and mayonnaise, my father. Ah! That worked.
My father killed the mood like a bullet to the brain, which was part of the reason my mind was wandering to more pleasant things right now. I was in the glass elevator in Woods Enterprises’ office building, heading up to Mortimer’s corporate den of snakes and ladders.
Except all the ladders led down into the pits of hell.
Maybe I’ll call Hazel. That’ll piss him off.
My father wanted me to focus on work and nothing else—a punishment for the shitty behavior in my past. He’d tried turning me into his corporate drone and had failed miserably.
The elevator dinged and the doors peeled back, revealing a polished wood floor that led toward his receptionist’s massive desk. Seriously, she looked like the only person who’d turned up to the Last Supper. Jesus included.
Maybe that was because the devil waited behind the gilded doors.
I strolled out, tucking my hands into my pants pockets, and the receptionist looked up. I’d already forgotten her name, but she was Karen in my mind. Blonde hair clipped close to her severe jawline, skinny and tall, young and pretty. Just as my father liked them.
“Good morning, Mr. Woods,” she purred. “How are you today?” She leaned over, presenting her cleavage through the gap in her button up blouse.
I ignored the blatant flirting. “He alone?”
“Your father has a previous appointment before yours,” Karen replied, squishing her tits together for all she was worth and fluttering her eyelashes at me. “Why don’t you take a seat?” She gestured to the two remarkably uncomfortable chairs off to one side—egg-shaped white things that looked like a mixture between modern art and the type of toy kids fished out of value meals.
“Hard pass,” I replied and walked past her desk for the doors to hell.
I opened them and entered.
My dad wasn’t on a conference call or in a meeting. Thankfully, he wasn’t boinking one of his assistants either. He sat behind the desk in his executive chair—no eggs for him—cutting an imposing figure.
He was tall, but not as tall as me, with a crop of silver hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and sharp blue eyes. He wore a suit and pored over papers on his desk, finger and thumb pinching his chin.
“You called?” I said.
He didn’t look up but turned a page. “Your manners haven’t improved. I hoped sending you to France would instill some culture in you.”
“Wrong again, Mortimer.” I hadn’t called him “Dad” since I was a kid.
He sniffed and turned a page. “If you’re not going to take this meeting seriously, leave.”
I turned on my heel and walked for the door.
“Damien,” he snapped. “You know that wasn’t a serious request.”
“A man can dream,” I replied, facing him again. “Why am I here?” I brushed off the sleeves of my suit jacket. “I was busy with something.”
“Drinking? Drugs? Women?”
“Try all three.” Lies. I didn’t touch drugs. And women? That was an occasional fling. Nothing that truly sated my sexual appetite, but I was too lazy to pursue women for long, not when there were more important matters to attend to.
In truth, I’d spent my “time away” in France working on a business idea my father would never approve of. As the founder of Woods Enterprises and one of its board members, he had the final say over which businesses we bought, when,
