Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“I just… this is my only place right now.” He sighs. “I need this. I know you don’t understand that, but I do. Please just let me do my job.”
A sardonic chuckle lets loose. “You always thought you were better than me. Just skipped ahead of me with no warning. We were supposed to wait until after college and do that shit together. Instead, while you were playing for the NHL and getting adored on by your fucking groupies, I was here.”
Heavy silence fills the air. He won’t deny it because he knows I’m right. How in the hell am I supposed to respect him as a coach when I fucking hate him?
“It is what it is,” I mutter. “Just stay out of my way. This is my team. You can pretend all you want that you’re some badass coach because you played pro for a fucking minute, but we all know you’re a washed-up has-been who couldn’t cut it. Maybe if you’d waited until after college, you would’ve been better prepared.”
I swallow down the bitter pill with his name on it and walk out the door.
He doesn’t try to stop me because I’m right.
Finn is already dressing by the time I emerge from the office. His eyes assess me, worry shining in them. I flash him an arrogant grin and wait for him to gather his shit. Once he’s ready, we head outside. Cold wind rushes around us, and I note as always Finn’s underdressed. I yank out one of my many beanies and toss it at him.
“Keep that big head warm,” I grunt out, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. “You hungry for tacos? I’m craving tacos.”
Finn pulls the beanie down over his wet hair and grins. “When am I not hungry for tacos?”
We leave this bullshit day behind us, and my friend doesn’t mention my pissy-ass attitude.
Unfortunately, tomorrow it starts all over again.
I’ll be forced to face reality.
He’s back.
Shut up, Britney.
Her song plays over and over. Like a warning that the storm is coming. That storm comes in the form of size thirteen black Berluti calf leather loafers, a gray Emporio Armani wool suit, and a hazel-eyed glare fiery enough to melt glaciers.
Otherwise known as Dad.
He doesn’t knock. Nope. Why would he? He owns not only my apartment, but the entire complex. This one and about three other complexes in Hawk’s Landing, along with several lodges and entertainment venues. Dad may be the dean of Atlantic Pointe University, but that’s not where he made his money. Between Mom’s oil royalties and Dad’s commercial real estate business, I was born with the silver spoon shoved up my ass.
“Oh, hey,” I say, adopting a bored expression as Dad pushes through the front door with his phone pressed to his ear.
Britney stops singing from the coffee table the moment he cancels the call and shoves his phone in his pants pocket.
“Ashton,” Dad rumbles, infecting the air with his overpoweringly expensive scent. “You should answer when I call.”
“I was about to,” I lie, “but then you walked in. What’s up?”
I can’t help but rile my father. It’s a favorite pastime of mine. Mia says I’m an asshole, because for some lame ass reason, she likes the guy. I say I learned from the best.
Dad’s nostrils flare, a clear indication of how pissed he is at me, but takes a calming breath. Our therapist—yeah, we’re that fucked up in the Carter family—taught him that move. The only thing our therapist taught me was how to pretend everything is just fine so you can get the hell out of your situation quicker.
Which is exactly why I’m going to school for psychology, rather than business, much to Dad’s horror. I want to actually help people like myself, not fail at it like so many have done for me.
“Andrew will be here soon and I’d like it if you’d at least pretend you respect me. This guy is going through a lot, and I want to be there for him.” His dark brows furrow and his lips press together. “I don’t ask much from you, son, but I need you to behave.”
Wait…
He’s serious.
“Why?” I ask, trying to contain my laugh of disbelief. “Since when are you the good Samaritan of Hawk’s Landing? I thought everything revolved around money with you?”
Dad rolls his eyes, reminding me of myself. “Just don’t make it weird for him.”
“Weird…” I shrug. “Can’t promise anything there. I mean, have you met me?”
As if he’s just been reminded, he sweeps his gaze over my clothes. Earlier today, after a swim, I changed into a pair of old, holey jeans and a black vintage long-sleeved Led Zeppelin shirt. It’s a usual outfit for me, but Dad hates when I’m slummin’ it.
“I’d prefer it if you just stay out of his way and let him do what he came here to do,” Dad grumbles. “And, you know… don’t hit on him.” His face burns crimson.