Page 13 of Good Boy

"No?" He placed the butt between his lips and inhaled before blowing it right into my face. "I only wear jeans, shorts and thongs, old man."

I bent down, my lips inches from the shell of his ear. "Keep running that mouth of yours and you'll be wearing my belt tight around your little cocksucking mouth."

I rose and tugged on the lapels of my suit jacket. Making my way to my desk, I picked up the phone and requested they bring the car around to the front entrance.

"Get your ass up. We have an errand to run," I said and walked toward the door.

Not willing to engage in anymore small talk with him, I ignored him and busied myself with emails as if my life depended on it—anything to avoid further conversation. The drive over to our private tailor flew by, despite the stop-and-go traffic that threatened to block our way. I looked up at the brick building, not recalling the last time I set foot inside. Once we got to college, our suits and business casual wear were picked out and delivered to us like clockwork. It had been years since we've seen the family tailor in person, but according to Mother, he was alive and still kicking.

"I can smell the starch from out here," Darius muttered as he looked through the tinted car window.

With my foot halfway out the door, I pulled it back in and gripped his chin between my finger and thumb, forcing his gaze to mine.

"Close your fucking mouth and don't open it until we're back in this car."

Muscles ticked in his jaw as I strangled it in my grasp, and his nostrils flared.That a boy.

We stepped into the tailor, and a wave of nostalgia hit me. The smell of old wood and new fabric hung in the air, reminding me of my younger days. I glanced around at the distinguished tailor-made clothes that adorned each rack and shelf. A feeling of pride came over me as I remembered how Father used to come here every year to make sure we were all measured for our suits and formal wear. I ran my fingers along the fine fabrics, marveling at how they felt against my palms. My gaze swept across the room, landing on a large mirror with an ornate wooden frame that had been passed down through generations of our family. A gift to the shop many years ago.

"Weston?" a hoarse voice said from behind the corner.

An elderly gentleman with silver hair, and smartly dressed in a three-piece suit, appeared before us. His attire was sharper than all of ours put together, despite his advanced years.

"It is. How are you, old friend?" I asked as I patted him on the shoulder.

"I'm alive." He shook my hand. "Are you in need of a suit?"

I placed my hands behind my back and turned my attention to the mouthy asshole. "No, but my nephew is."

The sickly sweet scent of money and pretense filled my nose. I wandered around the tailor shop like a lost child, touching expensive wool and silk suits that cost more than what the average person made in a year.

A portrait of my fucked-up family stared down at me in judgment. My uncles and grandfather posed in their designer suits, looking like kings ready to stomp on anyone who didn't meet their deranged standards. I chuckled, shaking my head.

I caught my reflection in a mirror and grimaced. Ripped jeans, a torn shirt that showed more skin than it covered, my jean jacket—I stood out like a weed in their manicured garden. Everyone knew the Ashbourne name. Knew we had more money than God, along with a vicious, mean streak. If you weren't an Ashbourne, you were shit on the bottom of their three-hundred-dollar shoes.

I didn't belong with these assholes. I never had, and the only person who knew it and actually cared was dead.

Weston droned on to the tailor, ordering half a dozen suits to add to his collection. Each one cost more than most made in a year. His sharp, cultured tone grated on my nerves. When this shit show of a circus finally ended, I'd go back to my life and drink until I couldn't feel the bitter rage and self-loathing burning inside. Anything to escape, even for a little while. The Ashbournes owned everything—except me. I'd die before I gave them that, too.

Weston snapped his fingers. "Over here, little shit."

I ground my teeth. That smug bastard loved putting me in my place at every opportunity.

He smirked, gesturing to the tailor. "Time for your measurements."

The tailor stared at me with a mix of disdain and fear. No doubt he'd been well compensated for tolerating the Ashbourne brat. I shrugged out of my jacket and boots, stretching my arms wide. The tailor approached with his tape measure and notepad, sizing me up like a piece of meat. Every brush of the tape measure felt like another chain around my neck. I let out a breath, staring at the ornate ceiling and imagining wrapping my hands around Weston's throat.

He sidled up beside me, breath hot against my ear. "Now, now, none of that. Behave yourself." Weston smoothed a hand down my back in a mocking caress. "Be a good boy and make your father proud. That's all he would have wanted, anyway."

Anger ripped through my veins, flooding my entire body with fire. I wanted to grab Weston by the throat and hurl every insult in existence at him. But bile rose from my gut, bringing with it a river of torment that reminded me of my father. It paralyzed me, rendered me unable to move as waves of emotion crashed within me.

I shuddered, disgust and rage churning in my gut. The Ashbournes only wanted puppets they could control, not a real person.

The tailor kept measuring, intentionally ignoring Weston manhandling me like he was secretly begging for a fuck. It was no surprise how easily the tailor dismissed Weston's actions, because in this family, it was perfectly normal to be fucked-up in every way.

Weston cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You'll look so handsome in one of these suits, tamed and on display for all to see." His smile turned sharp. "Exactly where you belong," he chided.

I bared my teeth in a mock smile. "In your dreams, asshole."