“Speaking of dick sucking,” Titas interjects, unfazed in the least. “How’s the girl?”
My blood turns to sludge. “What girl?”
“The one you’re slumming it with.”
Shifting my phone to my opposite ear, I lean my forehead against the wall, too tired to drum up a lie when I have no intention of letting Violet go, let alone giving in and losing my shit over his description when we both know it’s exactly what the asshole wants. “Her name’s Violet.”
“Pretty name.”
If those two words came from anyone else, I’d believe them. Would consider them a compliment. Something sincere. Genuine. Hearing them come from my father only makes the warning bells ring louder inside my skull. “Do you need anything else?”
“One more thing.”
I stay quiet, waiting for him to say his peace so I can hang up on him, bury myself inside Violet again, and forget this conversation ever happened.
“Is she coming to the banquet?” If I didn’t know him, I’d say it’s an innocent question. Non-threatening. Casual. Benign.Trouble is, I do know him, and I know every question has its purpose. The trouble is pinpointing it.
“Haven’t asked her yet,” I reply, too drained to play his games.
“You haven’t asked for my permission, either.”
I scratch my temple, grateful he isn’t in front of me or I just might deck the bastard. “If I do, will you let me hang me up without bitching to Uncle Judge about what terrible sons you have?”
“Did he tell you I bitched to him?”
Oops.
“Is that what he said, Jagger?” he growls.
That did it. I officially pissed him off. Or, at least his brother did. Hell, I almost feel sorry for my uncle and the earful I’m sure he’ll receive as soon as this call ends.
Sorry, Judge.
“Tell me something,” my dad seethes. “If you can’t keep your brothers in line, if you can’t even keep yourself in line, what makes you think you can keep Gus in line when he decides he’s done toying with me?”
Him? He thinks my arrangement with Gus is about him? I knew my dad was a narcissist, but this feels like a bit of a stretch. Add in how I should be sleeping instead of trying to keep up with his sporadic thought patterns, and I’m a little lost.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he spits.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Titas, but maybe this has nothing to do with you.”
“And maybe your naivete will get you or your brothers or even your little girlfriend hurt. Or worse, your little sister.”
“Cobie?” I ask. “You really want to bring Cobie into this?”
“This is on you, not me.”
And now, we’re gaslighting.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “If you really believe Cobie is in danger, why would you allow her to come home in the first place? Even if she was kicked out of school, you could buy her an apartment anywhere you want, so if Harden Heights is so dangerous, and Cobie reminds you so much of Mom?—”
“I suggest you choose your next words very carefully,” he warns. His tone is laced with a lethal edge, one I swear could cut me through the satellites, but I’m too pissed off to care.
“What?” I challenge. “You don’t like talking about Mom? Are you afraid that how you killed her might come up?”
“I think we both know it wasn’t me who killed her, son. It was your brother. Or did you forget his involvement?”
