“Come over here. You need to see the computer,” he orders.
“Liam—”
“Cole!” he snaps, interrupting me. “Get your ass over here. It’ll only take two fucking minutes.”
I push myself off the bookshelf and walk over behind his desk. He begins to press buttons on his keyboard, and I see him bring up his Skype on the screen.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.Who could he possibly be calling?
He doesn’t answer. Seconds later, a picture pops up. It’s of a small room that consists of concrete walls and floor. It’s bare with no tables or chairs. “What the hell is this?” It reminds me of the interrogation room they threw me in when I was taken in for questioning.
“Just watch.”
I hear a door creak open, but the camera doesn’t show it. Then a man is shoved into the middle of the room. He trips, falling flat on his face. He lets out a growl of frustration as he makes his way up to his knees. He wears an orange jumpsuit and faces the camera, but his head is down, and his hands are cuffed in front of him.
“What the …?” My voice trails off when another man enters. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with black boots. His head is shaved, and he looks like he belongs in the middle of a WWE ring.
“I know he sent you,” the guy snaps from his knees. “Fuck you, Liam! Fuuucckkk yyyyoouuu!” he screams.
My heart starts to beat faster. I recognize that voice.
The other man doesn’t say anything. Instead, he punches the guy in the face, knocking him back. He kicks him in the stomach, making him ball up in the fetal position. Then he kicks him in his back before hitting him on the side of the head. I stand motionless as I watch some random guy beat the shit out of Bruce Lowes until he’s unconscious. He never once asks him to stop or tries to fight back. He takes each hit, each kick, knowing that my father placed the order.
Bruce lies there, hands cuffed, face bloodied, and barely breathing when the man pulls away. He looks at the camera, nods once, and then walks out of the room. The camera goes black, losing its connection.
My father stands from his chair and turns to face me. I straighten my back as I swallow. “Why would you do that?” I ask.
“It’s out in the public now. Everyone knows that Bruce hired a man to kill you. You think I’d stand back and not do something about that?”
“You did when he did it!” I snap. I’m done pretending he didn’t fucking know.
His jaw clenches. “I did this for—”
“Not for my sake,” I respond flatly, interrupting him. Bruce deserved it for not only killing three of my friends but also for what he did to Austin. What he put her through when he shipped her off to her mother and her boyfriend who he knew touched her, hit her.
“Best friends or not, he had to be taught a lesson,” he growls.
I snort. “You think he cares that you beat him up?” I shake my head. “He’ll be sore for a few days, sure. A little pissed that you betrayed him, maybe. But I put him in jail for life. You wanted me to see that, why? This isn’t a competition.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I agree. It’s not. Because if it were, you would lose.”
I turn to walk out.
“You know that game you played where you held something over Bruce’s head in order for him to let you have Austin?”
I stop and turn to face him. “We’ve already had this discussion,” I say. In fact, it was in this very room. When he called Austin a whore and threatened that Bruce was gonna nail me to the fucking cross for taking something from him that didn’t belong to me—his precious fucking car. “What about it?” He can’t possibly expect me to give the car back. It’s not like Bruce can drive it.
“He could have ended you then. You actually thought you had leverage with that car.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t have shit.” He chuckles, and my anger turns to confusion. “See, that’s the thing, Cole, you think you’re all grown up and badass, but you still have so much to learn.”
“Enlighten me,” I snap.
“Sex,” he says.
I snort. “Gonna give me the sex talk? You’re four years too late.” I hope this isn’t leading up to him asking if we’re using protection like last time.
He laughs and shakes his head. “She was underage. And you were sleeping with her.”
I roll my eyes when I understand where he’s heading with this. “She was seventeen”—the first couple of months—“not thirteen. And I was only eighteen, not forty. I don’t see how that’s a problem.”
