Page 6 of Unwrapping the Billionaire

I watch him bend down to pick it up, and I can’t take my eyes off his shoes. He’s still wearing the snaffle loafers he was buried in. Come to think of it, he’s still wearing the whole caboodle—from the gray Armani down to the silver tie.

I picked them out for him myself. The choice was a no brainer, as far as I was concerned. It was my last, glorious ‘fuck you’ to a man who’d shared his name with me, and absolutely nothing else. In life, he’d only ever worn black. His nickname was ‘The Undertaker’, which was as much about his clothing choice as it was for the number of skulls he’d crushed on his way to the top.

In a daze, I watch him pop the lid and sink an entire bottle of my Macallan Rare Cask, before smacking his lips together. “Couldn’t taste a drop,” he gurgles, “but I’m betting it’s still just as silky-smooth as my favorite pussy. My seventh wife was one hell of a gold-digger, but she knew how to make me—”

“That’s it! Get the hell out of my brain!” I yell, smacking my fist against my temple a couple of times. My father’s sex life was of no interest to me when he was alive, and it sure isn’t getting my attention now.

His pale, dead head jerks in my direction. A second later, he’s chucking the empty bottle right at me. I duck just in time, and it smashes into the wall.

“Jesus!”

“Quiet! I’m here to save your soul, boy!” He bangs his palms down on my desk.

I’ve had enough of this. If I’m sliding down to Looney Town, I’m going out in style.

“Wrong,” I thunder. “My soul’s on fucking fire, right now, old man. I’m making more money these days than you ever did.”

“Pah! Money! That green’s a cunning bitch, and she’s asking for more than you can afford. Tell me, son. Do you want to end up as another billionaire corpse like me, with nothing but a collection of empty vases and mansions to show for it?”

“What vases? What the hell are you on about?” I brush at the shards of glass now decorating my shoulders and lapels.I really am losing my mind. I’m arguing with a fucking ghost.

“Gracie isn’t like those other vases, son. She’s pretty to look at, all right. Oh, she’s mighty fine, with that tight little ass and those perky tits… But she’s not a vacant, not like the ones who have kept your dick wet these past few years.”

“Shut your filthy mouth,” I yell, grabbing a bottle as my own weapon and hurling it in his direction. No one is allowed to disrespect Grace Parker, other than me.

My father doesn't duck.

He doesn’t need to.

The Beluga Gold Line passes right through him and smashes against the window in an ugly show of liquid.

Holy shit.

I stumble backward again, and not even God and a chorus of his fucking angels can keep me upright this time around.

My father throws his head back and laughs as I go crashing to the floor, and then his cold, black eyes are focusing in on me again.

“Are you planning on breaking her tonight, son?”

Yes.

No.

“Stop calling me that! You're dead! You're no more my father, than I am your goddamn son. Not anymore…”

“Are you planning on breaking her?” he bellows again. It’s like he hasn’t heard me. “Are you planning on pounding all of that sweetness out of her? Are you going to let that pretty light die in her eyes?”

“Damn right I am!” I say, rising to my feet, and brushing myself off…again.

“Is the flavor of your revenge that much sweeter than the taste of her—?”

“YES!”

Is it?

“You’re going straight to hell, boy,” he says, silencing me into submission. “You’re riding an express elevator all the way to the hot place, and let me tell you, there’s no fucking shade when you get there. I failed you in this life, but not anymore... Tonight, I’m going to squeeze all that coldness and cruelty out of you like a tube of butt cream. Tonight, I’m opening your eyes to just how much of an asshole you’ve become.”

“Security!” I yell, as my brain finally engages with an exit strategy. I need a Xanax.I need a whole script of them…

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