If that’s not enough to drive a man to kill himself, then I don’t know what is. My poor father, I’ll never understand why he put up with her for as long as he did. Her and her drinking were always causing problems. Sometimes I wish he would have at least strangled her first instead of leaving her here to mess with my life.
I look up from the laptop as Pax saunters shirtless into the kitchen and takes a seat beside me.
“You still pissed I didn’t damn Satan back to hell?”
“You know that’s not why I’m mad.”
“I wasn’t thinking, Vix… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Whatever… it’s fine, just leave it alone,” I say, searching the web for a locksmith.
“It’s not fine. Will you look at me for a second?”
“No… I’m busy.”
Without warning he slams the laptop closed, spins his chair around to straddle it, and jerks my chair closer to his.
“I’m fucking sorry, Kirsten, it honestly slipped.”
I can tell by his face he feels guilty, but it still hurts to know he thinks the same thing everybody else does. I’ve been overlooked my entire life, traded in for my mother repeatedly because of her looks. Pax promised me that would never happen when we met. I don’t care if he sleeps with anyone else on the planet. I just can’t bear the thought of him laying with her.
He grazes his thumb lightly over my knuckles that are still red from how hard I punched him.
“Do you forgive me?”
“I’m working on it,” I mumble, not looking at him.
He lifts my chin and kisses my forehead; his stubble is scratchy and it tickles.
“I’m going to head down to the Club to pack up some of my stuff. Want to come with?”
“No thanks, I think I’d better stick around here and see if I can’t figure out what that bitch is planning to do with my dad’s book collection. Ride safe.”
“You know I will.”
He slips his shirt over his head and ties back his hair Pax style. It always halts my breath when I watch the way he moves with a sexy charm about him.
I make my way out to the main house as I hear his bike pull away, knowing the second I turn twenty-four I’m getting the hell out of here. I’ll be getting on the back of that man’s bike and I won’t care where in the world he takes me, as long as it’s far the fuck away from the Hill.
Three
Money Can’t Buy Sobriety
My father had a strong sense of family, was always determined to mediate the tension between mom and me. He was good at laying down the law when it came to her booze-fuelled tantrums, he’d often take away her car keys and tell her to walk it off and every few months he’d offer to take her on vacation as an incentive to get her to put down the bottle.
She was never sober longer than a week, but I loved my dad for trying even though I felt she never deserved his loyalty.
He worked hard, built his company from the ground up, and ran it for over thirty years until it became an empire. He was well respected by everyone, except my mother. Thirty-eight days ago, when he took his life, he took a piece of me with him, and the things he left behind don’t mean shit to me. What I care about now is making sure that ice cold bitch in the main house never gets her happily ever after. Not with no hotshot lawyer, and not so long as I’m still standing.
“Hey, Natasha,” I regard, entering the main house, “did you take the business card from the entryway table that douche lawyer gave me earlier?”
“No, it should still be wherever you leave it. I like hair by way,” she says, pointing at my head. “Dark looks nice on you? No?”
“Thanks… it helps set me apart from Satan. There will be no more confusion when someone comes up behind me. The twat can sport blonde better than me anyway. Speaking of the hell spawn, where is she?”
“Last I saw she was in library, drinking martini, and making big pile of mess in middle of floor. I clean it later when she finishes spat with self, yes?”
I shrug and nod, knowing Natasha wants to avoid being a target during one of Satan’s fits. I don’t blame her for wanting to stay out of the minefield of exploding valuables.
Creeping the corner, I watch quietly as mother blindly tosses books from the alcove behind her into a pile while slurring some incoherent rant I can’t make out.
“Mother… what are you doing?”
She turns toward me, spilling some of her drink down the front of her blouse.
“Damn it!” She hisses. “If you must know, I’m sorting through some of your father’s literary abominations… I mean who reads this crap? One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Sounds dreary.”
I watch the book land in the pile and shake my head.
“Maybe you should read that one. Fuck, Mom, you’re destroying everything Dad loved.”
“No, dear, you have it all wrong. It was your father that destroyed everything I loved.”
“Like what? He gave you everything and you walked on him, disrespected him, and yet he never quit on you.”
She laughs wickedly as if I’ve just crossed a line.
“I’d say he sure as fuck quit on me the day he killed
