Wyatt froze, his arm raised, and his eyes locked on his father’s reflection in the mirror. After a minute, his body came back online, and he jumped to his feet, his brain cycling through a hundred different ways to diffuse the situation. Somehow, he landed on snarky indifference. “Don’t have a fucking coronary, Dad, it’s just—” His father’s fist connected with his diaphragm and his words died on a ragged gasp, his breath forced from his lungs like he’d plummeted from a ten-story building. His chest was on fire, his lungs paralyzed, but it didn’t stop him from trying to suck much-needed air back into his body. His phone slipped from his fingers and he clawed at his chest as if he could will his lungs to come back online.
He should have seen the blow coming. It was his father’s favorite strike zone. No visible bruises but all the trauma. His panic came rocketing back. In some dark corner of his mind, he understood his body wouldn’t allow him to stand there and suffocate, that his lungs would eventually cooperate and allow him to breathe, but it wasn’t helping just then. It would serve his father right if he died like this, right in front of him.Good luck explaining the fist-sized bruise on your dead son’s chest, Monty.
His father wasn’t even in the room when Wyatt finally managed his first agonizing breath. He could hear him rummaging around in his bathroom, but he staggered to the bed, resting on the edge as he practiced pulling air into his abused lungs and pushing it back out. Each breath burned like his chest was filled with gasoline, but his father was unconcerned. He flung a wet rag at Wyatt, the edge catching the corner of his eye and setting off another fiery reaction.
“Wipe that shit off your face. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you really this stupid?”
Wyatt assumed the question was rhetorical. They both knew nothing Wyatt said would convince his father of his mental acuity, so he just sat there, waiting for his father to explain himself. When his father said nothing, Wyatt rasped, “Why are you here?”
“Well, I stupidly thought you might be in a hurry to get that thing off your ankle, so I called in a favor and there’s two of Miami-Dade’s finest out there waiting to take that thing off of you and get rid of the equipment. I didn’t expect to find you in here playing makeup and painting yourself up like some two-bit harlot.”
Wyatt forced himself not to snicker at the word harlot. Who even used that word anymore? “Gosh, Dad, what a nice thing for you to do. So out of character. Was that the only reason you stopped by?” Wyatt asked, his voice full of mock appreciation.
His father’s blue eyes shifted to the floor and Wyatt scoffed. Of course it wasn’t. “Now that you mention it, I need to talk to you about some things coming up with the campaign.”
Before Wyatt could ask for further explanation, the door to his bedroom creaked open to accommodate Linc’s large frame. Wyatt’s gaze dragged to him almost against his will. Linc frowned at Wyatt, and he felt another little piece of himself die. Now his chest hurt for two reasons: his father’s abuse and Linc’s disapproval. He didn’t know which was worse. But Wyatt supposed it didn’t matter. He and Wyatt weren’t a thing.
When the senator noticed Linc standing there, he shielded Wyatt with his body like Linc hadn’t already seen him in enough makeup to make a drag queen jealous. “Wash your goddamn face and meet us in the living room when you’re presentable.”
Wyatt waited until they’d both left before he threw the towel across the room and reached for the makeup wipes in the first drawer of his vanity. As he erased his hours of work in a matter of minutes, he focused on making himself numb. If he didn’t care, his father had no power over him and neither did Linc. At least, that’s what he told himself. He was tired of feeling like a raw nerve all the time.
When he was barefaced again, he threw on a pair of white jeans and a navy and white long-sleeved striped sweater. His hand was on the doorknob when his phone chirped from the floor.
He picked it up, frowning at a text message alert from an out-of-state number. There was just a single line, but his heart tripped in his chest just the same.
I thought you looked hot.
He left the room with the barest hint of a smile on his face. Two plain-clothes officers stood in the kitchen with his father. Linc was also there, off to the side, arms crossed over his chest like a sentry. He seemed to be doing his best to make himself invisible, but Wyatt could feel his eyes on him like a caress. It made it easier to smile and make small talk with the officers as they removed the contraption from his leg.
Once his father had taken the time to sufficiently kiss the deputies’ asses and ask for their vote in November, he walked them out. As soon as the door shut, his father’s affable nature and good ol’ boy smile slid off his face like melting wax, leaving only a sneer of disgust. “You could’ve cost me this election just now, boy.”
Wyatt resisted the urge to rub at the spot where his father had sucker punched him. He refused to apologize. “You said you wanted to talk about the campaign?”
For a moment, it seemed his father wasn’t ready to let it go, but then he sighed and reached into his suit pocket. “This is an itinerary of all my speeches and state dinners. My campaign manager says it looks suspicious that you haven’t been to any of the fundraisers and several people have commented on your absence.”
Wyatt found that hard to believe. Nobody ever seemed to notice he wasn’t in attendance. “Okay.”
His father’s cheek twitched in an aborted sneer. “Every event with a star next to it is a family event. You will make yourself available.” He turned on Linc, pointing a finger in his direction. “You will ensure he shows up and that he dresses and acts appropriately the entire time. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Linc grunted.
Wyatt wanted to puke. It was a fundraising dinner that had started the events leading to his accident that night. The incident with the cater-waiter in the bathroom. He hated those dinners. It was just shaking hands and kissing old ladies while they begged him to let them set him up with their granddaughters. He didn’t want to do that shit anymore. He just couldn’t. “I don’t think you want me around there, Dad. What if I do something super gay?”
His father gripped him by the back of the neck, dragging him forward until their foreheads touched and Wyatt could smell the coffee on his father’s breath. “Wyatt Edgeworth, you will show up when you’re told and you will do as you’re told or so help me, the next program you enter will make Light of God look like goddamn Disney. Do you fucking understand me?”
Something deep inside Wyatt withered, but he bared his teeth in a demented smile. “Yeah, sure, Dad. Whatever you say.”
When his father released him, Wyatt looked at Linc over the man’s shoulder. Every vein in Linc’s arms strained under his skin and he clenched his jaw tight enough for Wyatt to worry he might hurt himself.
“Things would be so much easier for you if you’d just learn to do as you’re told and stop all this attention-seeking nonsense,” his father muttered.
“Sure, Dad.” Wyatt didn’t have the strength to fight with him today. “I need to go get ready. Charlie and I are meeting for a late lunch,” he lied.
His father puffed out his chest like some preening bird, giving a dismissive sniff. “I need to get back to my office, anyway.”
Once he left, Wyatt closed the door and leaned against it in case his father tried to come back. When he was certain the man was long gone, he gave one last look in Linc’s direction, then went back into his room and closed the door.
He was wrong. This fucking apartment wasn’t his prison, his family was. As long as his father was alive, Wyatt would never be free. The thought had him crawling back into his bed and pulling the covers over his head. He just needed sleep. He’d worry about everything else tomorrow.
