Page 8 of Good Boy

I rolled my eyes. "What year is it, Kent?"

He leaned against the doorframe and sprouted a shit-eating grin. Leaving the firm before 7:00 p.m. on a Wednesday was unheard of, but today was our lucky day. Father summoned us to a family dinner. What for? I had no fucking clue.

"You're driving," Kent said, leading the way out of my office.

We walked down the long corridor to the lobby and took the elevator down to the parking garage. Although I had a driver to take me to and from the office, I always kept a car on site just in case. My working hours were insufferable at times. I didn't want to subject everyone to my shit schedule, including my driver.

I pressed the button on my key fob and the car responded with its headlights in a corner of the parking lot. I opened the door and got into the driver's seat, then pressed the ignition button. We pulled onto the main road and merged onto the highway toward the estate. The sun had set minutes ago, but for some reason I felt like I was stuck in an endless twilight zone, not knowing when it would end or what surprises might be waiting for us on arrival.

An hour and a half later, we pulled into the gravel-lined circular driveway, stopping behind a row of luxury cars. Some I recognized, and some I didn't.

"You think he's dying?" Kent asked, his eyes on his phone.

I killed the engine and opened the door. "No. He's too fucking stubborn to die."

I clasped the button on my dinner jacket, and tossed the fob to the valet boy scurrying up to me. We entered the foyer, and Kent spotted our mother near the marble staircase. I lost him at that moment, as he headed in her direction. She lived for these fucking dinners. Or anything that allowed her to be overdressed and don her jewels for all to see. Mother used to be an ally for us. When father said no, she would work her magic to change his mind. But I guess her cooing only went so far, and the streak of luck ended once we were thrown headfirst into the business of ruining people’s lives. Her smile was all she could offer us now, accompanied by a chill touch from her hand upon our cheeks.

As I stood in the foyer, I could feel the tension in the air. People from my father's circle of acquaintances, each one trying to outdo the other with their wealth and success stories, filled the room. It was almost suffocating, and I had to escape quickly, before I lost my composure. Taking a deep breath, I slogged my way through the crowd and headed toward the kitchen. It sat at the back of the estate, away from prying eyes. As soon as I opened its doors, a wave of warmth enveloped me, as if it were welcoming me home after a long absence. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted chicken filled my nostrils, making my stomach growl in hunger. But that wasn't why I was here. Instead, I made for the bar, where several bottles of wine sat neatly on display atop a mahogany countertop.

Double-checking that no visitors got lost and stumbled upon the kitchen, I reached below the bar and pulled out a crystal decanter with dark liquid. Wine and spritz were for show, and for those who couldn't hold their fucking liquor. Not bothering with a glass, I popped the cork and took a swig of the scotch. Fuck, it burned.

"Hate to break it to you, but there's not a fucking thing strong enough to loosen up that tight asshole of yours."

I spun around, the glass decanter in one hand and its stopper in the other.

The devil himself. In full fucking color. Darius Ashbourne, in all his bright red glory.

"Ah, truly, does it matter how tight my asshole is? I'm not the one getting drilled in the ass at night."

I turned around, not wanting to waste any more seconds staring at our family’s eyesore. I took another swig, the heat from the liquor nearly stealing the breath from my lungs as I choked it down. A sudden notification on my Tag Heuer watch caused me to jerk my wrist, but I then froze when I felt Darius’ breath against the nape of my neck.

"But you wish you were. Don't you, Uncle?"

Ididn't know what I expected, but it wasn’t for Weston to shove me into a wall, with his hand curled around my throat. The kitchen's marble countertop gleamed under the harsh overhead lights. Weston stood before me, his face twisted with rage as he tightened his grip around my throat. I didn't make a sound, just stared back at him with equal hatred.

"Is that all you got?" I spat, choking on my words. "You pretentious fuck."

"Watch your filthy mouth," Weston sneered, his blue eyes boring into mine.

He was always the obedient son, the perfect lawyer, the epitome of our socially elite family. A fucking hypocrite.

"Or what?" I shot back, my eyes daring him to go further.

I wasn't afraid of him. Never had been. I spent my life away from this toxic shit show of a family, learning how to survive on my own terms.

"Or I'll make sure you know your place in this family. Since you seem to have forgotten. Don't let my father fool you into thinking you're owed anything when you haven't worked a day in your pathetic life." His voice was ice-cold, dripping with disdain.

"Fuck you," I snarled, feeling the pressure on my neck increase. "And fuck your fake-ass marriage. We both know you're a fucking closet case."

Weston's nostrils flared. In one swift motion, he spat in my face, his saliva a disgusting mixture of pride and loathing.

I slid my tongue along my lip, tasting the salt of his spit. "Next time you plan to spit in my face, at least give me a heads up so I can open my mouth."

The fury in his eyes intensified. But I knew I'd won this round. Whatever words he had dancing on the edge of his tongue died the moment the corner of my lips lifted in a grin. With a last glare, Weston released his grip on my throat, and I gasped for air as he took a step back. His hands moved to fix my jean jacket, straightening the front with an unsettling gentleness. I held myself still, refusing to let him see how much his touch affected me— even when it was meant to humiliate.

"Try not to embarrass yourself any further tonight," he drawled before turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen.

The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining room. The air was suddenly thick with silence, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. I rubbed my throat, feeling the tenderness of his phantom grip. My gaze fell upon the glass bottle of scotch sitting on the countertop, the same one I caught Weston taking a swig from before I interrupted him. I followed in his footsteps, curling my fingers around the neck and raising it to my lips. For a moment, I thought that if I drank enough, the liquor would wash away my problems, but silly me for thinking that. I was the problem, according to my fucking family. My family, the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, only ever saw me as a disappointment—a stain on their precious reputation.