Page 115 of Riding the Pine

“I didn’t come here to talk.” I push up from the desk so I’m standing. My foot’s still in the stupid boot, and my arm is still in its cast prison so everything’s still kind of awkward and clunky.

“I came here to tell you not to be a dick, to give Mamá a divorce, and that I’m done with you.”

His brow twitches. To most it’s barely noticeable, but to me it’s almost comical.

“And if I don’t like the terms of her request?” Papá waves the envelope at me.

“Sounds like a you problem.”

The way his nostrils flare sends a shot of giddiness through me. I love the fact he’s irked. I want to send him more off-balance, but I’m not sure how.

“And what do you think of all this, Mr. Raine?”

Ah. He’s figuring he’s getting nowhere with me, so he’ll start on my boyfriend.

I drop my jaw to speak, but Scottie beats me to it. “Honestly, sir? I think it’s pretty shitty of you to hear that your eldest child has been raped, brutally attacked, and left for dead in the street and for you to conveniently be nowhere to be seen.”

Woof. Scott Raine, going for the jugular.

“Poor parenting. And as I’m sure you’re aware, that’s something that’s completely in my wheelhouse given the fact I have an absent father.”

I’m still on my feet, but I’m not going to sit down again. I like towering over my father, it sends a powerful shot of confidence through my veins.

Gizmo doesn’t give Papá any time to answer his accusation, even if he did, there’s nothing my father can say because what he has been accused of has the added benefit of being right.

“But to be honest, had we looked at the whole board.” He gestures to the chess set next to Papá’s window. “We wouldn’t have expected anything more from a cheating, lying, philanderer.”

Papá’s knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands into balls.

“I don’t know what you expected me to say, Alonso, but you don’t have my support in this. If I’m honest, I’ve never particularly liked or respected you.” Scott’s voice doesn’t waver as he addresses my father, and to be completely honest, it might be the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed.

“I think you’re a bully. I think you bully your employees, your competitors, your children, and now I think you bullied your wife.”

My father’s cheek twitches, but Scott doesn’t stop.

“But I also think you have an over-inflated sense of self-importance.”

Papá stays quiet.

“Your children don’t need anything from you. They’re self-sufficient, they’re competent, well invested financially, they have a great mother figure, and they love each other more fiercely than any family I’ve ever seen.”

I want to fan myself right now. Scott’s keeping his cool in the face of my uber scary father who makes seasoned businessmen cry, or at least quake in their boots.

“You are in their lives because they let you, not because they need you. You have nothing to give to them that they don’t already have or can’t get by themselves.”

He stands, holding his hand out to me. “And now you’ve hurt the mother they all adore.” He smirks, but it’s darker, more sinister. “Didn’t you read any mythology before you named all four of your children after gods and goddesses?” His hand clasps around mine. “No one fucks with Apollo’s mama.”

He shrugs as he helps me find my balance and navigate around the chairs. “I imagine if any of them let you remain in their lives, you’ll need to earn back their trust and work from the ground up. But you deserve everything you get, Alonso. Because you’ve hurt the people who are most dear to me in this world. And for that, I won’t ever forgive you.”

As we approach the dark, wooden door to leave my father and the divorce papers behind, Scott pauses, turning his head back to face Papá, arm outstretched toward the handle. “And sign the papers. Give the woman who put up with you for decades while you screwed around behind her back whatever she asks for. Because you may not have noticed, but she’s formidable enough by herself. Add in all four of your children?” He whistles through his teeth. “Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.”

We barely get out into the hallway before his shoulders sag, like it took a lot out of him to confront Alonso de la Peña. I know how he feels.

At the bottom of the stairs, instead of turning left into the den, he turns right into the kitchen. He opens a cupboard, pulls out a glass, and fills it all the way to the top. When he drains it, he refills it again and drinks that too.

“Feel better?”

He finally turns to me. I expect fear, pale skin, wide eyes, but he seems… fine.

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