Page 20 of Wicked Spite
“Yeah, well, somebody had to teach the prick a lesson,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Now, you figure out how to keep Reagan quiet without fucking killing her,” Robert snaps. “And do it quickly.”
“Yep,” I say, my jaw tightening. “I’ll handle it.”
“See that you do,” he says, glaring at me. “And Penn? Don’t fuck this up again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter as I turn to leave. The door closes behind me with a heavy thud, finally giving me silence. I fucking hate that man, and one day I’m going to drive my knife right into his fucking jugular.
Chapter 8
Reagan
I’m fucking tired, and it’s been two days since Ghostface fucking tried to suck my pussy through my lips and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. It’s been distracting me in class, and today was my long day.
The moment I open the door to my apartment, I find my father standing there with a fake smile plastered on his face. The whole vibe he brings with him feels heavy and suffocating, and I’m not excited about anything that I know I’m going to have to deal with right now.
“Reagan,” he greets me, as if it’s a pleasant surprise to see me in my own apartment. “I’ve arranged a dinner for us tonight. I need you to get ready.”
For a fight? Because I’m always ready for one of those.
“Oh, I thought maybe you dropped by to choke me out again. Sorry, I have plans,” I retort, attempting to maintain my composure. But I can already feel my heart pounding in my chest as I look into his cold, dead eyes. I know from experience that arguing with him is futile, but something inside me resists being forced into an uncomfortable situation.
“Put this on,” he hands me a dress that looks like it came straight out of Ashley’s closet. “I need you to come to a business dinner with me.”
“I’m not going,” I say firmly, planting my feet on the ground. He grabs my arm, and his grip tightens on my bicep, his face contorting with anger.
“Come out to the car, Reagan,” he commands, his voice devoid of any warmth. “You can wear what you have on. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”
Shocker.
“You can seriously fuck all the way off and take that dress with you.” I try to yank my arm free, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he grips tighter and pulls me out into the hallway and toward the entrance of my building. My door is unlocked, but who the fuck cares at this point?
Without a word, my father forcefully shoves me into the car, his actions speaking volumes about our relationship. I can’t help but think how nice it would be to return the gesture and push him off a cliff.
As he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, my thoughts race with possible escape plans. I hate feeling helpless, especially around him.
As we pull into the parking lot of a fancy restaurant, I know that tonight is going to be a long and grueling ordeal. But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s making my father regret ever trying to control me.
The glamorous chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceilings and the soft, ambient music do nothing to ease the tension simmering inside me as I step inside the restaurant. In fact, this place only serves to amplify my discomfort.
My father leads the way, his grip firm on my arm as he steers me toward a secluded corner table. There,an older man with graying hair, a turkey neck and an expensive suit awaits. There’s a predatory gleam in his eyes as he looks me up and down as if sizing up a piece of meat, and my skin crawls with revulsion.
“Reagan, meet Mr. Harrington,” my father says, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “Mr. Harrington, this is my daughter, Reagan.”
“Nice to meet you, Reagan,” he says, his eyes never leaving my body. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“Have you now?” I retort, unable to contain my disgust. Turning to my father with a sarcastic smile, I suggest, “Why don’t you offer him Ashley instead? I’m sure she’d be more than willing. She needs a new designer bag to swing around campus while she chews her gum too loud.” My words echo through the posh atmosphere, thick with disdain. “It’s a super cute aesthetic she has, don’t you think?” I set my tone a few octaves higher, mimicking Ashley’s voice.
“Reagan!” my father hisses, clearly taken aback by my audacity.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say, not feeling sorry at all. “Just trying to liven things up. You know how these dinners can drag on. Isn’t that why you brought me? For the entertainment?”
Mr. Harrington chuckles, though his eyes remain cold. “Your daughter has quite the spirit, Mr. St. Pierre. I can see why you’re so proud of her.”
“Indeed,” my father replies tersely, his jaw clenched.
As we sit down, I can’t help but wonder what kind of twisted arrangement my father has made on my behalf this time. But one thing’s for sure, I won’t be the one to bend to his will. Not this time, and not ever again.
