Page 74 of Dance of Defiance
“It can happen again, you just need to be smarter about it,” he growls. “You think I wasn’t sticking my dick anywhere I could when your mother was still around?”
My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens, but he doesn’t see it. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. Instead, he laughs and slaps the table.
“You just need to besneakier, Roman, okay?”
“Da, Papa,” I murmur.
He nods, but then he scowls. “And when you’re with your bride-to-be?” His scowl deepens as he jabs a finger at me. “Do better. That party I threw… You were a disgrace. You barely spoke to her, you were never near her. You even fucking disappeared for a while. What, fucking one of the waitresses?” He scoffs. “Be better, boy.”
I dip my chin. “I will, Papa.”
“You’d fucking better be. She’ll be your wife, and she’ll give you the heir that comesafteryou to continue our bloodline!”
Papa jabs a finger at me again.
“Play your part, boy. Don’t disappoint me.”
It’sdark as I stalk around the side of the pool in Papa’s back yard, drink in one hand, phone in the other. The keys to my Lamborghini jangle in my pocket as I contemplate what I’m doing tonight.
A scowl plasters my face, but it’s not because of my father’s bullshit. I'm used to it. I’ve dealt with his “legacy and bloodline” crap my whole life, not to mention his constant see-sawing between being my “buddy” and talking about girls as if we’re pals, and then lording his power over me and reminding me not to fuck up.
It all slides right off me.
My face darkens.
Could have done without the fuckingpidorazcomments, though.
I exhale and then knock back some of the vodka in my glass.
My phone suddenly dings, and my heart jumps into my throat. But when I look at itwaytoo quickly, my pulse slows again.
It's not him. The one thatstillhasn’t messaged me back. It’s Brooklyn.
Brooklyn
Roman! What are you doing? We’re all at Doomsday. Come! I miss youuuu!
I smile quietly.
I’m not historically one for female friends, especially if they're through my sister. I’m a “guy’s guy”: football, boxing, girls, cars…that kind of shit. But Brooklyn and I have an interesting, and honestlygreatfriendship. And a few months back, we crashed together in a fucked-up way that…
Well, quite possibly saved my life.
I swallow as I glance down at the pool, the underwater lights casting an aquamarine glow over me and the trees.
I know I drink too much. Sometimes, it’s just because I get caught up in the night and in having a good time. But others, it’s because the darkness and the warring pieces of me pulling me apart get to be too much.
That was the case that night.
Papa was out of town, and Evie and I decided to throw a party at the house. She and her friends mostly did their own thing, andme and my buddies did ours. But then it got late, Evie’s friends went home or out to more bars, my sister went to bed I think, and my friends took off.
I was drunk. Scratch that. I wasfucked up.
Confused.
Lonely.
And…I don’t know. Twisted up inside.
