“Dean,” my father warns me, but I don’t care.
Nothing he says is going to stop the storm tearing through me, the same one that’s been brewing deep inside of me for years, finally ready to be set free.
Time stills—or rather, I lose it completely. The next thing I know, I’m stretched over his desk, his collar in my fists with him hauled out of his seat.
“Hey!” Asher shouts as he grabs at me, not in defense of my father, but probably in shock that I’m falling apart. “Dean!”
I cock my arm back as my fist clenches, ready to land across his jaw. But at the last second, I stop myself, lowering my arm and dropping him back to his seat, my face twisted with a scowl.
My teeth are bared as I look him up and down with disgust. “She would be so disappointed in you.”
“You fucking brat!”
I see his hand follow through, driving across my cheek, and then my face stings like a hot iron hit it.
I’ve taken a lot of punches in my life, both in hockey and off the ice, but never from my father. Somehow, this cuts far deeper than any of the ones before.
His hand quivers as he covers his mouth in shock. “Dean, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” His words are rehearsed, as if he were speaking to an employee. At least he probably doesn’t hit them.
“Why did you replace her?” Asher asks, and I turn my head, finding him staring up at the glass window with teary eyes.
Slowly, my father shakes his head, and a small sparkle of emotion glistens in his eyes. “I didn’t replace her, Asher. I … I just couldn’t bear to see her there every day, feeling her look over me. With her there, I couldn’tfunctionor lead this family the way I need to.”
“Yeah? Well, neither could we. And you made us do it alone anyway.” I scowl.
Asher continues, his gaze still searching the panes as anger starts taking over, “Where is she? She wasrightthere. She wasperfect.” His voice breaks. His next words are cold and loud, cutting through the room. “Whereis she?”
“The piece is in storage. It’ll stay there.” He exhales unsteadily, like a frog is caught in his throat. The appearance of emotion is alarming, given his recent actions. “You are not displaying it in this house.”
“God forbid you have to face your wife while wedding your new one, huh?” I scoff, crossing my arms so I don’t reach out and choke him to death.
Asher’s breathing accelerates beside me, fast and heavy, and I make a mental note that he’s a ticking time bomb right now. He stays silent, but I can’t tell if that’s better or worse.
A beat of silence lingers, the tension as taut as ever. But my energy for him and this argument is quickly waning. Right now, he doesn’t deserve a heads-up. Maybe his lesson is best learned the hard way.
Without a word, Asher throws the door open. It slams against the wall so hard that it rattles the frames hanging near it. Framed pictures of his colleagues, of us, but none of my mother. And he storms out of the room.
I force my gaze back to him, and we lock eyes. I study him for a moment, searching formyfather. I know he’s hurting. I know he’s in pain, mourning her, like we are. But that doesn’t give him the right to act like this.
Clenching and unclenching my jaw, I tell him the truth. “You know … she’dhatewho you’ve become. Just like we do.”
For the first time since the day of her passing, his eyes well up with tears. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m doing my best.”
Something—nope,someone—flies by my head, toward my father, soaring over his desk.
Ohshit.
I barely have time to register what’s happening before Asher’s fists drive into his jaw, his stomach, his ribs as they crash to the ground.
“Ash!” I shout at him, racing around the desk and grabbing on to his shoulders.
He may be slightly smaller than me, but, fuck, he’s damn near impossible to move as I struggle to pull him off our father.
“Asher, stop.” I lean forward, ordering him to get himself under control.
He finally lets me pull him back, hauling him off our father.
“You’re a goddamn disgrace,” Asher spits, rage rolling off of him in boiling waves.
