Page 31 of Bounty
Dad’s counting annoyed me. “I consider myself reasonably educated, boy,” he finally said. “You’re twenty-seven. I think you’re about six years older than her. Not a big age difference.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” I snapped. “It’s over. We hooked up and I sent her on her way. She hates my fucking guts, but she’s Daria’s assistant. She’ll be there.”
“Good. As long as no one can connect her to you, she’s safe.”
“I took her dancing,” I admitted. “At the club,” I added. “Introduced her to Striker. I claimed her to cut down on the bullshit.”
“Fuck, let me call Striker. Tell him you two had a big blow up and you ended things. She wanted more than you could give. Might be a lie, but don’t want that sumbitch accusing you of pulling the wool over his eyes.”
Dad didn’t know how close to the truth he’d come.
“Meanwhile, stay in that fucking room until it’s time for the signing. Before I left OKC, I called a president from another club. Unaffiliated with us, but not our enemies. Asked him to send any brothers he can spare to assess the situation. Don’t completely trust Striker, anyway. As for Riker, don’t be so hard on him. He’s a little high-strung, but he’s an okay motherfucker if you know the right words to say to him.”
Or threw enough money at him. Riker saved me, so my annoyance should’ve made me feel like a selfish prick. But, nope. Riker was a motherfucker.
“After I call Striker, I’m going to call the other president and see if his brothers are on the way. If so, how close they are to arrival.”
“Okay, Dad.” My idea to smooth things over with Effie was blown to hell. Tonight was my only chance to do so. Tomorrow, we’d be so fucking busy and there’d be so many people around—including her mother—I wouldn’t get the chance. “Anything else?”
“Remember: order room service. Don’t go to whatever fucking dinner you mentioned. Stay the fuck in that room, son,” Dad reiterated. “You’re in serious shit. When that signing thing is over, get to Striker’s. Drifter and Riker kept on to Vegas. I need to give them a head’s up, so they don’t run into trouble on the road. Hang tight. I’ll be there in time to ride back to OKC with you Saturday night.”
After ruining my fucking day, my father disconnected.
“Rise and shine, valentine!” my mother blared, shaking my shoulder until I cracked my eyes open.
I’d gotten little sleep last night or the night before when I’d stormed from Slice’s room. Combined with the emotional turmoil of rejection and the physical strain of being put through a mattress night before last and suffering dejection anddisappointment at Slice’s no-show last night, I was exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. I’d intended to sleep until the signing started, counting on Slice to help my mother set up. Alas, Mom had different plans, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed despite her second night of drinks and staying up until the early morning hours. After the dinner ended, I came up to the room. Mom partied.
Hangovers were an affliction my mother had never suffered from, a gift my sister was bestowed with, but one that skipped my brother and me. I suppose we inherited Dad’s genes. He suffered after a night of drinking.
Uncle Mike complained Dad was a teetotaler even on their fishing trips. Dad looked forward to time with his brother. He didn’t need drinking to enjoy himself.
While Mom socialized, I talked to Dad for an hour. Part of that time, he gushed about Mom’s night at Red Rum. More than likely, she’d handed him the same spiel as me. Even if I’d ratted her out, Dad wouldn’t have believed me over her.
Moving on from that sour fact, I pitied Dad’s disappointment at Uncle Mike’s last-minute ditching of the fishing trip. They hadn’t had such a weekend in months because Mom demanded Dad’s time.
“Come on, sweetie. Up, up!” Mom bustled to the window and opened the drapes. “We need to get ready.”
Sunlight hit my face, and I recoiled, shielding my sensitive eyes from the brightness. A glance at the clock revealed it was 6:49 AM, eleven minutes before our agreed-upon wake-up time.
“Can’t I sleep for ten more minutes?” I asked and yawned.
“Nope! We need to shower, dress, eat, set up, and do our stretches. Well, we should do our stretches first, but you get the point.” She breezed to her phone. “We should’ve gotten up nineteen minutes ago, so you slept in.”
“We agreed on 7:00 AM,” I reminded her, though I begrudgingly exited my bed.
“Plans change, so look alive,” she chirped, a Phoenix Rising song blaring from her phone’s speaker. “You know the drill, Effie. Squats, lunges, crunches, planks, and our stretches.”
Wordlessly, I turned to face her. We started with twenty standing hip openers, ten on each side. As I dragged my raised leg from right to left, my head bobbed to the music. Phoenix Rising was one of my favorite bands, and Sloane Mason my ultimate celebrity crush. His alluring voice, combined with his talent on the guitar and his bandmates’ skills, invigorated me. By the time we moved onto arm circles, some of my tiredness was starting to dissipate. Completing those marked the end of our warm-up, and the beginning of the real workout.
We hadn’t packed any of our weights, so we should breeze through.
“Look at you, perking up already,” Mom said as I finished my first squat.
“Yeah,” I responded simply.
Normally, we used this time to chitchat and plan for our day. As overbearing as she could be, I cherished our bond and enjoyed exercising with her. Yet, Slice had me dejected, and the thought of using my brain for a conversation seemed like a Herculean task. How I’d get through the day, I didn’t know. Playing nice with the man who had my heart aching would require academy-award-level acting. All I wanted to do was scream at him for being such a fuckboy and slap myself for my naïveté.
Twenty squats later, we moved onto lunges. One exercise down, too fucking many more to go.
