His back may be to the wall, but he still has all the power.
Just a few more months.
I bite back a curse.
“If I find out you laid one finger on her after today, there’s no amount of bad press that will stop me from beating the shit out of you.” He struggles, but I hold tight to the lapels of his jacket. “You will piss blood for a week, old man. Not. One. Finger.”
He doesn’t say a word, but for the first time in my life, I see genuine fear in his eyes.
Good. He should be afraid. He should know how it feels to cower and wonder if the next blow will be the one that puts him in the hospital. Or worse.
“Cooper.” My mother’s quiet plea breaks through the red haze clouding my vision. She touches my forearm, her slender fingers gentle despite the violence roaring through my veins. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”
Doubtful. The bastard’s as thick as a cinderblock wall.
“Let’s go, Quinn.” My jaw is clenched so hard it’s a struggle to get the words out. “We’re leaving.”
I’m not about to stick around and celebrate this bastard.
I release him with a rough shove, slamming his back against the wall one more time. Anger flashes in his eyes, but when he straightens, his face is a blank mask.
If only his constituents could see him now.
On stage, the emcee wraps up his introduction and thunderous applause fills the ballroom. I don’t spare my father a second glance as I kiss my mother’s cheek and promise to call her in the morning.
I turn on my heel and push through the fire door, exiting into the hall. Quinn is right behind me, hurrying to keep up with my brisk pace. I exhale and force myself to slow down.
She doesn’t speak as we descend the stairs and exit the hotel. It’s just as well. I have nothing to say about the scene upstairs.
Just the memory of the bruise on my mom’s wrist has my blood pressure skyrocketing again.
I rip off my tie and stuff it in my pocket as we wait for the valet to bring the Audi around.
It’s going to be a long ride back to College Park.
Beside me, Quinn looks shellshocked.
Can’t blame her. I doubt this is how she pictured the day ending. Or, maybe, like the rest of the world, she bought into my father’s bullshit family man persona.
Christ.
I hope she didn’t vote for him.
The car arrives, and I tip the valet before sliding in behind the wheel. We buckle up and I stomp on the gas pedal, more than ready to put this day in the rearview mirror.
I turn up the music, but the thumping bass does little to drown out my thoughts.
Just a few more months.
Once I sign with the NFL, I’ll have the resources to get her out of there. To protect her.
I’m so damn close, and yet there’s nothing I can do for her now. I don’t have the money or the connections to take on my father.
It’s frustrating as hell.
I just want to take care of her and make sure she’s safe, something she’s always done for me.
And part of that is keeping our story out of the press.
