Hauling it out of the can and muscling it to the back door, I sent a scowl to the asshole Hamilton who worked behind the line. He was a big, dumb type, and I could already tell he was trouble. His eyes narrowed on me, leading me to believe he was also the type dumb enough to bring trouble my way.
He’d regret it.
I might not be able to string a sentence together without faltering, but I could still beat his ass without breaking a sweat.
I flipped the lid on the trash bin outside, tossing in the garbage and wishing I were anywhere but here.
Chapter Three
Tasha
My father’s voice echoed across the wide marble foyer the moment I stepped into his house. Sounded like he was on the phone with a client. Like when I’d lived here, the house was cold, its size and materials doing a great job of keeping out heat. It was the perfect home for my father who was equally cool and hard.
Since his office was at home, he was usually here. Except for when he was flying to a meeting at one end of the country or the other.
He ended the call and stepped into the broad marble foyer with a small cardboard box in one hand. “Natasha.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Feels light for textbooks,” he said as he handed over the box. He was displeased with me. He was often displeased with me. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reason why.
“They’re not textbooks.” We had a minor stare-down that ended with him blinking first.
“Are you still conducting therapy sessions with Caden Wilson?”
“The one and only.” I smiled.
My father’s mouth compressed. “How is it going?”
Unproductive.
“We’re making progress,” I answered, wishing I were the kind of person who could lie and make it sound believable. I didn’t want to talk about Cade. I didn’t want to admit I had been failing him since I started.
“Come with me.” My father turned and stepped into his office. The room was enormous, globes and models of ships sitting on the built-in bookshelves. There was a replica of an anchor hanging on one wall. He sat behind an oversized, highly polished mahogany desk and folded his hands over his suit jacket. He worked from home and rarely had visitors, but he dressed in a suit every day.
I sat primly on a red leather guest chair across from the desk, resting my box at my feet. If I’d remembered to change my mailing address on Amazon when I moved out, I could have avoided this unfortunate run-in.
“What’s going on between you two?” he barked.
“Sorry?” I blinked, legitimately confused.
“You’ve been going there for four months. I called Paul Wilson today and he told me Caden isn’t speaking.”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” I lied, knowing exactly what he was implying.
“Now try the truth.” My father’s eyes were a paler shade of blue than mine. They were ice cold and froze me where I sat.
I wondered if he’d ever been lovable. Why my mother had tied herself to him at the age of eighteen. I’d chosen to stay with him instead of leaving with her when they divorced. I’d been in high school and hadn’t wanted to leave my friends. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I’m not a speech therapist.” I cleared my throat and tried not to sound defensive. “I help people with torn ligaments. Rotator cuff issues. People who—”
“It seems you and Cade aren’t doing any therapy at all. Care to tell me what you are doing during the hours spent in his bedroom?”
“Excuse me?” My face flushed. Cade and I weren’t doing anything together. He hated me. Or, if he didn’t hate me, he only barely tolerated me.
“No matter. You’re not to go over there again. Paul Wilson is a former gambler. Caden Wilson is a criminal. You are a young impressionable girl.”
Rather than argue the “impressionable” or the “girl” part, I decided to stick with an argument I had a chance of winning. “Cade is not a criminal.”
“Street racing is illegal.”
He had me there. But there was no way I was letting him mandate what I did or didn’t do, who I saw or didn’t see. I was no longer under his roof, which made me immune to his rules.
“Cade doesn’t race any longer,” I said calmly, “and Paul is your accountant. If you don’t trust him, then why would you let him crunch the company numbers?”
His mouth turned down. He was unhappy I’d challenged him.
“Let me explain something to you, Natasha.” Morton Montgomery narrowed his eyelids and I fidgeted. I never could relax under his sharp scrutiny. “Paul Wilson pulled us out of a tax issue two years ago.”
“I know.” I should have let him finish his monologue, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
“We owe him.”
“You owe him?”
“We owe him. Everything we have—this house, your clothing, tuition, your car—is in part thanks to Paul. The IRS could have seized my records, fined me, or forced me out of my business. Paul stopped that from happening.”
I still wasn’t sure how Super Paul had stopped the government from fining my father until he was penniless, but none of that was my fault. My father framed issues that way, as if I was partly to blame. Heaven forbid he bear the weight alone.
When my parents divorced, he’d played the blame game nightly. It’s not your fault your mother left. It’s our fault. I share half the blame for working tirelessly to give my girls everything their hearts desired.
That was the story my father had to tell himself so he could sleep at night. I knew now he was solely responsible for his work hours and for pushing my mother away.
“Wouldn’t you agree you have a good life? Nice things? Privilege, Natasha, comes at a price.”
I didn’t answer. I knew I had it good.
“What if I cut you off—stopped paying for your schooling mere months before you graduate? What if I sold your car—that would be detrimental to your future, wouldn’t it?”
I gaped at him, stunned. This was the first time he’d ever blatantly threatened me.
“Wouldn’t it.” His voice was low and cold, those two words a command and not a question.
“Y-yes. It would,” I admitted. I was a breath away from graduating college. I couldn’t afford tuition and live on my own. I considered going to my mother and just as quickly dismissed it. She lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment two hours away. Since the divorce we’d found our way back to each other—we met for lunch every once in a while—but even if I went to her for sanctuary, she wouldn’t have the money for my education. She’d walked away without my father’s money in the divorce. I later learned it was because she wanted to make sure I had all I needed.
Guilt crowded my chest.
“You understand my predicament. I can’t very well continue paying for the nice things you have while you’re under the influence of a criminal, can I?”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “We’re not hanging out. We’re working.”
“Unsupervised in Caden Wilson’s bedroom.”
I shot out of my chair. “I’m not sleeping with Cade!”