Page 63 of Poison Aches

I’m aware that it would make so much sense to just ask the girl who her biological parents are and if indeed my mother is her mother, but I have two rules.

Never completely trust a single soul.

And two, if you want something done properly, perfectly, with no gray areas or doubts, do it your-fucking-self.

And I won’t ever acknowledge her. Not until I finally know if she’s an enemy or a foe.

Either way, her association with George, the fact that they have a child together, that too is no coincidence.

I just wonder if George knows that or if he’s just pretending to be as dumb as some people think he is.

“Listen, sooner or later, you and her have to sit down and face reality.” George huffs. “You’re such a fucking iceberg that nothing touches you. You don’t say anything. You feel nothing. You never fucking react. You don’t even care that you might have a sibling, let alone that you’re quite literally an uncle, but then you’re always moving in the fucking dark like a damn bat.”

“Is that why you called?”

Silence.

“No, asshole, I called to extend an invitation to an event I’m?—”

“No.”

“I didn’t even finish.”

“I did.” I pull the phone back from my ear, about to hang up.

“At least tell me why.”

“Simply because I know whatever it is you’re planning has everything to do with your Phoenix Corp underbelly shit and I’m not interested in it.”

“Because you’re now the pillar of morality and so out of touch with such dark dealings, huh?”

Both the insinuation and message are clear.

Just as I’m aware of who exactly George Beaumont is and what he’s been up to, why he did what he did beyond the excuses he gave everyone else, he too has a clearer picture of who I am now than he did when we were growing up together.

“No. I’m simply not interested.” I go to hang up again but he stops me.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll be interested in this particular one.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the guest list.”

I pause.

Over the years, the boys and I have found ways of communicating without being blatant about it.

“In whose vicinity? My father’s?”

“No. The big boss.”

Ah, so these people are in direct opposition of my grandfather.

I tap my fingers against the leather seats of the Maybach.

“What do you want?”

“Your presence.”

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