Page 77 of The Plan

I let out a chuckle, but it dies on my tongue. Slowly, I turn my head over and kiss the palm of her hand that’s still holding my face.

Chapter Eighteen

Sire

LA Dodgers star Sire Griffinmay be facing manslaughter charges for beating a man to death. Rumor has it Vidia Gomez was on the scene. If her name sounds familiar, that's because she's the daughter of the one and only Vanessa Gomez. The amazing MLB coach of the Tampa Bay Rays—”

“You can shut it off. I’m aware of what happened and who was involved since I was there.” I’m honestly very surprised word of the break-in didn’t get out sooner, but I guess with that asshole dead, they had something better to report.

“Do you want to lose everything you worked so fucking hard for?” I ignore Jackson and take another swing when the machine spits out the ball. I find the batting cage to be a good place to blow off steam, but my idiot agent is ruining that. I understand now why people say don’t do business with your friends.

“Sire, answer me!” His voice echoes through the cage, and I roll my shoulders back before taking another swing.

“Lower your voice, Jackson.” My tone is a lot calmer than his unnecessarily fucking loud one, and I can hear him let out afrustrated sigh from behind me. He doesn’t say anything else as I take a few more swings, not missing any.

When the machine stops, I turn to Jackson. “Start it again for me.”

“No. Did you even read this article?” I don’t understand why he cares so fucking much about the press. I get that it has an effect on my “image,” but more than half of it is bullshit, and my true supporters know what to believe.

“You know I don’t watch the news or read articles, especially when they’re about me.” He shakes his head, annoyed that “I don’t keep up with the media circling me.”

I step out of the batting cage to start the machine again, but he puts his hand over the button, forcing me to have this conversation with him.

“You need to speak to the press.”

“Like hell I do.” I fucking hate them; they always twist my words, and they’re rude as fuck.No, thank you.

“I can’t fix this for you, Sire.”

“Well, that’s your fucking job, so fix it.” He runs his hand down his face, and I take the opening to start the machine again. I get back into the cage and get in position to bat again.

“I tried, Sire. They want to hear from you.”

“You know what?” I swing my bat when a ball comes at me, and it rockets across the cage. “I don’t see the point in talking to them since—” I take another swing when the machine lets out another ball.

“—all that shit is fake. I’m not facing charges, and—” The sound of the bat colliding with the ball echoes throughout the mostly empty room.

“—even if I was, I’d sit behind bars with a fucking smile on my face for killing that son of a bitch who dared to put his hands on—”

When I take my next swing, the top half of the bat breaks and goes flying with the ball. Great, there goes another bat. I let out a sigh before throwing the bottom half across the batting cage and climbing out.

Jackson is looking at me with a concerned look on his face. “Sire…” He hesitates before asking a question I’m sure he doesn’t want the answer to. “Did you go back to the hospital and do anything that could have worsened that man's condition?”

He keeps his voice in a hushed tone, like he’s afraid someone would hear him, although we’re the only ones in here since I own the building we’re standing in.

I did go back to the hospital. Twice. And both times, he was guarded by officers, but someone saw me go in the day he gave the fuck out.

“Define worsen his condition.” A look of panic washes over his face.

“Oh my God.” He covers his face, and I roll my eyes at how dramatic he is.

“Calm down, Jackson. The grim reaper got to him before I could.” He looks over at me like he’s still worried, probably because I’m not freaking out about being accused of murder. “Do you really think I’d tell you even if I did do it?”

I wouldn’t admit anything incriminating to Jackson, not because I don't trust him, because I do, but because he has a daughter. Isa needs him, and I wouldn’t put him in a situation where he could lose her.

He shakes his head at my question like he doesn’t care whether I told him or not because I shouldn’t be killing people to begin with. “If the media asks you if you regret beating that man half to death, technically leading to his death, I need you to say you do.”

I don’t miss a beat as I respond with a shrug. “Well, I don’t, and as a recovering addict, I don’t feel comfortable lying to the entire world.”That’s bullshit.

---