Sugar’s glare could peel paint, but she turns and shuffles down the short hallway to the kitchen.
“Holy moley, I need a drink after all that.” He lumbers past me to a small bar set up under the window. It’s hard to even look at him, his big frame and imposing height. The thought of a man this size hitting on someone like Sugar…
Forget the fact that she’s my girl.
Any man who wails on a woman—a fucking kid—like that deserves for hell to be a real place. I watch on, teeth gnashed as he pours scotch into a tumbler and takes a long sip.
“Would you like one?”
Doug’s not so mysterious. It’s a trick question. If I say yes, I’m an irresponsible, underage drinker. If I say no, I’m some little pussy who’s scared of drinking like a man. I’ve navigated these waters before. “Thank you, but no. I’m in training—for lacrosse. The season starts next week.”
“Lacrosse.” He mulls that over as I picture my foot slamming into his face. “That’s the one with the sticks, right? I played baseball, myself. Catcher.”
Of course, he did. Lacrosse players are cocky assholes, but baseball players? They’re dumb and full of themselves. As a catcher, he probably took more knocks to the head than I have. I shift my gaze to the plaque on the wall, the one that commemorates his MVP status. “Any good?”
I already know he thinks he was.
“All-State,” he replies, mustache twitching with his smirk. “I figured I’d have a slew of boys one day to pass my skills onto, but life doesn’t always work out the way you want it.”
“My mother has two sons,” I say, only just managing not to sneer it at him. “I assure you that she’d much rather have a couple of daughters.”
Doug pours himself another drink and carries it over to a well-worn chair. He sits down with a long grunt. “A little advice, son, never marry a woman who already has children. She’ll put them first every time.”
The pounding of my pulse echoes in my ears. “Come again?”
He swirls his drink and flicks his cold eyes at me. “How well do you know Sugar?”
“Well enough,” I reply, desperately trying to hold in my temper. I hear the sound of laughter in the kitchen, hoping that Sugar is included. “Why?”
“Word to the wise on that one,” he says, tipping his glass toward the door. “Get out now. Nothing but trouble with her.”
My voice is deceptively even. “What do you mean?”
He tips his drink back, mustache grazing the glass. “She’s an unreliable, selfish little brat. Abandoned her own mother, for one. Probably just to get out of helping around the house. And to go to that fancy school, of all places.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Girl thinks she’s better than she is, is what I’m saying. You seem like an alright young man. You come from money, right? Yeah, I can tell.” He shakes his head. “She’ll drag you down.”
“Will she?” I grind out, nails digging divots into my palm.
Fucker’s already too buzzed to read my tone. “Always was an ugly, mouthy little shit. I’m telling you now, keeping her in line is a full-time job, so unless you’ve got nothing else to do…” He waves a hand dismissively, like he’s talking about the weather or something. “Not really worth the hassle, though. She’s bringing nothin’ to the table, unless maybe…” He gives me a slimy look, chest bouncing with a laugh. “Maybe she’s good in bed. Can’t imagine she would be, those twiggy little legs of hers. Got a nice set, I guess. You’re lucky she got her mom’s tits.” He raises his glass to me like a congratulations, but I can see in his eyes that he knows just what he’s doing.
This motherfucker is trying to get a rise out of me.
He has no idea just how well it’s working.
I walk casually to the bookshelf, picking up a paperweight, testing it in my hand. “Look at your teenage step-daughter’s tits often, Doug?”
He grins, looking pleased with himself. “Well, I do have eyes.”
I tilt my head to him, wondering in a voice that I don’t even recognize, “Is that before or after you put those scars on her back?”
His eyebrows rise. “You’ve seen my work, eh? So I was right. You are fucking her.” He sets his empty glass aside, planting both feet on the floor. “I always did figure she’d become a slut, but a whore? Can’t be putting much of a dent in your bank account, can she?”
His hand whips out to catch the paperweight when I throw it. I was aiming right for the middle of his forehead, but he snatches it out of the air, lightning quick, barking a laugh.
“Catcher,” he reminds me, “but I respect the effort.”
I shrug, because this isn’t about landing a blow. Not yet. It’s almost a relief, slipping back into this headspace. Weighing up my opponent. Calculating. Stoking the fire. There’s chaos here—there always is—but there’s also a sense of order to it. A routine. It takes this stuck throttle and points it somewhere safe. Somewhere it’s deserved. “I’m just curious. Do you beat your wife too, or is it just defenseless girls a third your size?”
At least his movements grow a little less controlled when he bangs the paperweight onto the table beside his glass. He was clearly expecting a different reaction. “I don’t break what’s mine.”
“You realize how little that’s worth,” I point out, observing him closely. His knee wobbles when he pushes himself to his feet, straightening his back slowly enough to be useful.
“You think I care what you think?” He holds out his arms wide in a mockery of welcome. “Take a shot, boy.”
“Bass?” Sugar’s small voice rings out in the doorway, but I don’t move. I barely even blink, holding Doug’s gaze as my blood pumps frantically. “What’s going on?”
“We were just having a friendly chat.” It’s Doug who answers. “Man to man.”
Sugar must sense the tension between us—it can’t be even remotely subtle—because suddenly she’s in front of me, palms flat on my chest, whispering, “Please don’t.”
I’d move her out of the way if I could touch her. But I can’t. It’s because of the piece of shit standing right there, six feet away. I jerk my head to the side, cracking my stiff neck. “Sugar, go.”
“No,” she says, voice urgent, hands sliding up to my neck. “You said you’d try.”
“I did try.”
“Please,” she begs, tugging. “There are people here, and—”
Doug cuts in, “Wouldn’t want to embarrass us, Preppy Boy. Sugar did that enough, running away like the lazy coward she is. Not even gracious enough to speak at your own father’s memorial.” He’s got an issue with keeping his eye on his prize, already breaking my gaze to spit at her, “You realize your mother does all this for you. She carries on with this whole dog and pony show, year after year, because she feels guilty about you losing your dad.” Uncaring of the hot glare Sugar throws him, he stalks forward, pushing his sleeves up, making my hackles raise even further. “Which is bullshit. Who provided your skinny, ungrateful ass with food? A roof over your head? Clothes? And you took it for granted. What did your dad ever give you, anyway? Shitty genes and a piece of shit car. But let’s honor him like a saint every year, why don’t we.”