Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Of course, he’s aware I’m fucking with my father, but then he’d have it no other way. He’d be bored if I simply lived life without drama and a knife in my hand no matter how he might declare otherwise. My father, on the other hand, has the briefest moment of panic flash across his already pinched expression before he rushes my direction with the lightning speed of a rush of adrenaline. The next thing I know, he’s latched his elbow with mine, facing us both forward, even as he waves at the crowd with his good hand.
“Is there a problem?” he demands through gritted teeth, and a fake smile stretched wide.
“Of course not, Dad,” I say, my voice sticky-sweet with a sarcastic undertone. “This is just me showing you support.”
“Liar,” he murmurs. “Am I about to get shot?”
“When I kill you, we’ll be alone having father-daughter time,” I promise him, the sweet vacated from my voice, and it’s right then that one of his entourage steps in front of him and motions him to the podium.
“They’re waiting on you to give your formal address,” the forty-something brunette states, and she’s beaming with pride over his win. I can almost feel the anticipation in her for his future and her own. But I can also feel my father’s resistance to her request, his clawing fear that has nothing to do with the election and everything to do with Ghost. I suspect I’ve done a poor job of comforting him and he still believes he might soon die of a well-placed bullet. And as much as I’m reveling in his suffering, this night will never end until he’s finally addressed his loyal subjects. “He won’t take what’s mine,” I promise him, certain he’ll understand my reference to his kill switch.
He glances over at me, hate burning in the depth of his eyes, before he caves to the roars of the crowd and untangles our elbows, speaking to the other woman, as he says, “Let’s give the people what they want.” A reply that has her beaming all over again. With that, my father heads for center stage, and thank fuck, his fangirl follows, nipping at his heels in her stilettos, a loyal pup in heat. I’d roll my eyes but someone would surely capture the defiant act on camera and I’d be forced to own up to my reaction in some crass way that would piss off my father and half the state.
Andrew appears beside me and just like Dad, links his elbow with mine. Sometimes, it seems, Andrew is far too like my father for comfort, and now he’s left Long Island, and his duty as sheriff to join my father’s staff. He might claim this is all about nestling inside my father’s operation and busting him and the Society, but I fear how easily he might find himself guided by their moral compass, not his own. “What is going on?” he demands. “What’s really going on?” he adds.
“Not sure what that means,” I say, my tone unaffected. He’s been a drama queen all his life. When I was ten, it bothered me. Now it’s simply a time suck I could do without.
“I know damn well he didn’t smash his finger in his dressing room door.”
“Oh that,” I say and shrug. “Later. Much later.”
“Now,” he insists. “Now, Lilah. I’m right by his side. I need to know—”
It’s right then that my father begins to speak and the crowd roars, successfully validating my inability to talk to my dumbass brother right now. To further that point, my father motions our direction and starts talking about his amazing kids. The feel of eyes on me has my gaze landing on the right side of the stage, where Pocher is presently looking at me as if he wants to gut me. If I have a little Dexter hidden inside me, a dark passenger buried deep, but guided by right and wrong, this man has his own, with nothing but greed for power as his guide. And I do believe I’ve made him feel like a caged lion.
He’s showing his teeth.
My blade is ready to cut them out.
Just to prove that point, I stay for my father’s entire speech filled with lies and promises. I even smile and wave to the crowd when it’s over. When me and my dear brother finally head toward the stage exit, Andrew has a hold of my arm. “We need to talk.” It’s a short-lived demand considering Kane is waiting for me at the center of the exit stairs, an action that shows impatience. The instant Andrew spies him, he releases me and slows, allowing me to pull ahead. I join Kane, noting the hard set of his jaw, and he captures my hand, guiding me down the stairs and to a small curtained off walkway beside the stage.