“Don't enjoy this too much, you faggot. I don't do this for your enjoyment.”
As if I could ever enjoy his touch— the man who had tried to hurt Matthew. His hands were a brush painting and layering evil all over me.
Satisfied I posed no further threat, he stood, gathered the wand and listening device I'd worn, and with a last smirk, left the room.
I stood alone with my father again. I debated walking out the front door. But I couldn't. At least with his discovery of the hidden recording device, my father might talk honestly.
I closed my gaping shirt— there were no more buttons to hold it together— and shifted on my feet. The soaked leather shoes squeaked. The wet socks squished between my toes.
My father stepped closer. He adjusted his tie and tugged the cuffs of his shirtsleeves in a practiced primp.
“Did you get my message, son?”
I snorted at his use of the fatherly endearment. “You know I did. Did you get mine?”
He stalked to the center of the room and spoke as if giving a lecture on a proposed tax bill. “I don't think you understood the choices I laid out for you.”
I stepped away from the ottoman but kept my distance from him. “I'm not leaving. You can threaten us all you want. I came here to make sure you understood.”
Rage descended. His eyes narrowed. With the storm brewing in him, I should have left. Richard would be furious that I stayed when my father gave me a look like that— that is if I ever got a chance to tell him or Matthew about it.
My father sighed, unclenched his hands, and sat. His voice softened. “Let me ask you this. You love them?”
My throat tightened. A chill crept over the base of my neck.
“Answer me, son. Do you love them? The one who so graciously donated to my campaign and the one who had the knife at his throat. Do you love them?” He screamed the last of his words.
I fended off the sting of tears. “More than anyone in my entire life.”
His eyes searched mine. He wasn't trying to understand me. He was trying to get me to understand him. “Well then, I'd have thought the choice to save them would be easy for you. I won't relent, Luke. I need my life and the lives of those around me to be perceived in a certain way if I'm going to move forward with what I want.”
“You mean if you're going to con people into electing you president?”
“Making the hard choices has helped me reach every goal I've ever set. I'm not going to stop now. I can do a lot for this country.”
I took a step in his direction. “Hard choices? Is that what you call stealing millions of dollars, interfering with Richard's financial investments, and threatening to kill my lovers?”
“Yes! Those weren't easy decisions for me. You think being a man with my ambitions is easy?”
I took another step. My hands clenched, ached to lash out. I refrained. I was the better man. “But you did it. You stole from investors— people who live in this country you supposedly serve. And you threatened to hurt people, to hurt someone I care about.”
His face reddened and his jaw clenched. “I'll do more than hurt them. If you could have just done as I'd asked. If you could have only pretended to be a good son, then none of this would have happened. You have never worked for anything in your life. You have never committed to anything more than yourself. You go from man to man and do what feels good to you. You don't know about making difficult decisions and devoting yourself to anything.”
This wasn't just about getting me to do what he wanted. He was punishing me for who I was. I staggered backward and slumped into a chair. I stared at the floor, but I didn't see the Oriental rug for long. I saw a smiling dark-haired kid and bright green eyes filled with compassion. When I spoke again, a quiet, childlike voice slipped out. “You'll really kill them if I don't do what you want?”
“No.”
I lifted my head and stared at him. “Then your threats are empty, meaningless to me.”
“I won't kill them because if you don't agree to my terms right here, right now, you'll never leave this house.” The twisted grin that spread over his lips and the angry, wrinkled flesh around his eyes were not the look a father should ever give his son. He reached inside his suit jacket.
I'd seen the gun before, of course. Fifteen years earlier.
I was a different man then. He wouldn't get the frightened reaction he once did.
“Didn't you know we had a break-in tonight? While my son was visiting. The grieving father makes for a much better image than a perverted son who prostitutes himself at a sex club, selling himself for his own sick pleasure.”
A laugh escaped me. The sound pierced the silence left by my father's threat. Richard had been right. Why was that funny? The man fretted and cared like no one I ever knew, but that wasn't what caused the odd laughter. The entire situation was too damned unbelievable, and the realization my father thought murder was his ticket to the White House and that he'd rather kill me than see me live my own life caused the tension-relieving laughter to bubble up and out of my mouth.
He gripped an arm of the chair and rose, holding the gun steady. “Stop fucking laughing. Do you find this amusing?”
I shook my head. The laughter abated somewhat. “No, none of it's funny. If you kill me, what
