“I’m pathetic?” I repeat. “Well if that’s true, it’s not because I’m like Dad. It would be because I was damned to hell and burdened with you as my mother.”
I dodge the book that comes barrelling at me but can’t avoid the glass as I screech and feel the rigid force of it crack against the side of my head. I hit the floor, dazed for a moment, trying to sort my thoughts as I pick shards of glass from my hair and study my fingers that are covered in blood.
I see Satan’s shoes as she stops and looks down at me, and for a second I think she might help me; my heart is pounding in my chest and tears are welling in my eyes from the pain that’s setting in.
“Christ, child!” she snorts, “Get yourself cleaned up and stop whining. We are Kings and Kings don’t have time to sit around crying… not when there’s drinking to do.”
She steps over me and hollers for Natasha as I stand holding pressure on my head with my sleeve. I breathe deep, knowing I’ll have to fix it myself and unsteadily I find my way back out to the guesthouse.
If I had my wits about me right now, I’d have a good mind to hop on the lawn tractor and drive it straight through the patio fucking doors and into the sitting room. Then I would turn it on and laugh as the blade chewed up her eighteen thousand-dollar Persian rug while I laughed in her Satanic face.
Instead, I’m busy picking her bloody martini glass out of my head hoping I don’t need stitches because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some doctor shave a section of my hair.
“CHRIST! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED THIS TIME?” Pax asks. He tosses his duffel onto the washroom floor and helps me down from the countertop.
“I waged war with Satan, that’s what happened,” I say, handing him the lawyer’s bloodied business card.
“Shit Vix! Let me see the damage.”
I take a seat on the toilet as Whiskey runs his fingers gently through my hair.
“Jesus! This is quite the gash; you might need stitches.”
“Nah, it’ll heal; these injuries always do. Just get whatever shards I missed out please and pour me a drink.”
“How about I get you some Advil instead?”
I roll my eyes as he scoops me up like a baby and carries me into the kitchen, seating me on top of the table.
“Now I can see what I’m doing. So, what’s the plan with the lawyer? Are you gonna try to have her share nullified?”
“Nope, I’m going to go for the kidney shot this time.”
“You know it will backfire. It always does when you mess with her,” he advises.
“Yeah? Well, you’re not talking me out of it this time. I’m done being her target practice, Pax. There is no way I’m going to survive another four years here and we both know it.”
I swig back the water and down the Advil he hands me as he begins to inspect my head again.
“Well, we could always leave without the money and come back when you turn twenty-four.”
“Are you crazy? And leave her here alone to trash the place while she drinks her miserable life away?”
“It’s just a thought,” he says, kissing my forehead. “There, I think I got all of the pieces out. You are such a good girl… didn’t even cry once!”
I laugh satirically.
“I’m a King remember? Kings don’t cry.”
He sighs, and his eyes meet mine, seemingly dancing with guilt.
“You know,” he pauses, tucking my blood matted hair behind my ear, “I think if you cried once in a while you might relieve yourself of some of that pent-up hostility you carry around.”
“Why would I want to do that when I have you to hate-fuck it out of me?”
His eyes narrow and I know he’s fighting off a smile because he’s trying to be serious.
“Come on Kirsten, let’s be real… I haven’t seen you let out a single tear since the day of the funeral. You need to grieve.”
“No, Pax, I don’t. His funeral was the last time I will ever shed a tear, I’m just glad you made it back in time to be there. I’m positive I would have shoved Lucifer into the plot with the way she was hammered, staggering, and fake sobbing.”
“I remember. I’m the one who undid your anger in the cemetery washroom. It seemed a bit inappropriate to fuck a dead man’s daughter on the day of his burial, but I have to admit it was pretty hot.”
I can’t help but laugh at his twisted humor or the wicked gleam in his eyes.
“My dad loved you, Whiskey. I’m sure he would have expected nothing less from you that day.”
“You call him pulling a baseball bat on me love?” he asks doubtfully.
“That was so long ago, and he thought you were committing a home invasion. I mean look at you… long hair, entirely inked with grizzly stubble, and torn clothing like you’re a bum. You can’t really blame him.”
We both start laughing to the point of tears.
“Ha! I finally made you cry!”
“Whatever, dork.”
“What did you just call me?”
His face goes completely serious as I contemplate running. He hates it when I call him a dork.
“I meant to say dick.”
“I bet you did. Now get on mine, you little badass.”
His tone is dark and dirty just like his mind and God knows sex could cure my throbbing head, but the doorbell rings.
“Hold that thought,” I tell him.
Shit! It’s the douchebag lawyer.
I open the door and unhappily wave him in.
“What brings you back here
