Quinn smothers a laugh and follows me to the front of the room, where there’s a door leading backstage. It’s dark and we climb the handful of stairs carefully before finding a place to wait in the wings.
A gold curtain blocks us from view, and, not gonna lie, I wish I’d thought of this sooner because it’s the perfect place to pass a few hours making out with a gorgeous woman.
But I can’t say that because there are too many of my father’s lackeys around.
The door at the bottom of the stairs opens and my parents slip through.
“That reminds me,” Quinn says, whispering in my ear. “I finally figured out why you’re completely unfazed by Calamity Quinn.”
My gut clenches at that fucking nickname, but this isn’t the time to get into it.
“Your mom told me she has a klutzy side too, so I guess that means you’re used to it.”
Ice freezes my veins. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mom had a bruise on her wrist. When I commented on it, she told me you get your grace from you father and that she has a clumsy streak, like me.”
Sonofabitch.
A red veil drops over my vision just as my mother walks past, smile fixed in place.
“What is it?” Quinn asks, voice tinged with worry. “Did I say something wrong?”
My father crests the stairs just then, fully in politician mode, looking like the king of the world. He claps me on the shoulder and says something about DeLaurentis men being winners, but I don’t hear him.
I only hear the blood rushing through my ears, whispering the truth I’ve always known.
Abusive, cheating bastard.
Just like his father before him.
Like all DeLaurentis men.
Red-hot fury pulses through my limbs as I grab the front of his jacket and swing him around, slamming his back against the wall.
Quinn gasps and steps aside, but I only have eyes for my father.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” I growl, breathing hard. “Why is there a bruise on her wrist?”
His eyes go wide and he glances around for help, but short of calling security, no one’s getting between the two of us. Certainly not Elliot with his pinstriped suit and outdated pocket square.
“This isn’t the time,” he hisses. “You’re making a scene.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m making a scene.”
“Your father’s been under a lot of stress,” my mother says, her words a quiet whisper, as if even she knows they’re bullshit. “It’s not a big deal.”
Not a big deal?
No decent man puts his hands on a woman and the fact that he’s got her defending him, pushes my fury to a whole new level.
“From where I’m standing,” I grit out, “it’s a pretty big fucking deal.”
“You need to calm down, son.” Sweat beads along his hairline and I can see the wheels turning as he tries to weasel his way out of taking responsibility. “The ballroom is full of reporters. This isn’t a good look for either of us. If I recall correctly, Waverly has a strict no tolerance policy for violence.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He’s right. If word gets out I hit my father, my ass will be benched for the rest of the season. No championship game. No NFL combine. No draft.
