Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
"The cattle auction's next week," he says, not looking at me directly. "You will be there, right, Savannah? It's time to choose bloodlines for the coming year."
I stare at my plate, pushing eggs around with my fork. The yolks have congealed into a cold, rubbery mess, a metaphor for my life.
"We've got those Wagyu-Angus crosses to consider," he continues, as if I've shown any interest. "And that new bull from Calgary—"
"I know how the auction works, Cash."
He clears his throat, folding his napkin into a perfect square. "Well. It's good you're here for it. Especially with everything that's happened." His voice shifts, adopting that patronizing tone he uses when he thinks he's being insightful. "Legion being gone... it's a good thing, Savannah. For everyone. Mercy's safe now. You're back where you belong. This was the right call."
I don't respond. Don't agree. Don't even look at him.
The silence stretches between us like a living thing until Wyatt snorts from across the table. "Right call," he mimics, voice slurred slightly.
It used to be that Wyatt would make an attempt to hide his addictions. Back before Eleanor died. Now, he just doesn't care for the pretense, I guess.
"Like that Kane girl's gonna turn out any different than her trash brother or that knocked-up sister." Wyatt's laugh has always been a mean sound with no humor in it. "She's a lost cause. Just like all of them. Demons and whores—"
"You would know about lost causes, wouldn't you, Wyatt?" My voice comes out quiet, precise. Not angry. Just... factual. The table goes still. Some wounds don't need volume to bleed. "How many times has Cash paid off your dealers? How many rehab centers have kicked you out?" I set my fork down carefully. "If it wasn't for me managing this family's image, you'd be another homeless addict shooting up under a bridge somewhere. Another pathetic statistic. But please, tell me more about Mercy's future prospects."
Wyatt's face contorts, his mouth. "Your management?" He sneers at me. "Your management, Savannah? With your whore of a mouth wrapped around that degenerate's cock in that biker club? Is that the family image you’re managing?"
Holy shit, I'd forgotten about that leak. So many things happened since that day, it just… slipped my mind. I don’t go online to gossip. I don’t socialize anywhere. I don’t belong to any groups and I don’t covet and hoard hashtags like the professional influencers who view it as a job.
I post pictures, that’s it.
So I don’t really live in the same world as everyone else. Why should I? Even without the estate money, I have enough personal money for two lifetimes.
Legion was wrong about that. Thinking my money would run out in a year if we escaped and just gave into the urge to be ‘regular people’.
My money will never run out. I have stacks of it everywhere. In the safe, buried down in the bedrock. In the barn. Buried in various spots on the property. And that’s just my pocket money should anything happen with the legitimate stuff that’s in the bank.
Colt and I started doing this when we were young. Pretendin’ we were cowboys who robbed banks. It was a play thing. But then, as we got older, as the sums got real, we made a decision together that we’d stash half of what we got paid out in the trust each year.
Just in case.
I’ve always had plenty. My trust pays out two point three million every January like clockwork. Much more than his did. But he must’ve saved a lot over the last fifteen years since he came of age, because he didn’t blink when he walked away from everything so he could keep his child bride and brand-new baby.
"That's enough, Wyatt," Cash says calmly.
I sigh, pulling myself back to the dumpster fire that is my family life.
"No," Wyatt says. "She thinks she's so fucking high and mighty. So much better than the rest of us. She was on her knees, between his legs, sucking his dick like she couldn't get enough. It was disgusting. You're disgusting, Savannah.”
"That's enough," Cash repeats.
"Fuck off, Cash," Wyatt retorts. He's still looking at me. "You know why there hasn't been an uproar, Savannah? Do you have any idea why it disappeared so quickly? It was Marcus. He paid all those people—every person who posted it—five-thousand dollars to take it down and shut the fuck up. He paid for an army of bots to troll every corner of the internet searching for it, then threatened to sue anyone who didn't take it down."
He shoves back from the table, knocking over his orange juice. "So I don't wanna hear how you're the one polishing the Ashby image, Savannah. You're the trash we need to take out. And if it were up to me, I'd give you back to Marcus in a heartbeat. He paid enough for you. Might as well get his money's worth."