Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“What was that?” I asked once I could manage to talk again. My eyes settled on a small bottle of scotch next to Vincent’s elbow.
“Poor man’s antiseptic,” he said calmly. “Anesthetic, too,” he added as he reached for the bottle with his free hand and handed it to me.
I grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig.
“Thought Southern Baptists frowned on alcohol,” Vincent murmured as he reached for the needle. I downed another swallow of the cheap scotch and hoped like hell it would work sooner rather than later.
It didn’t.
I bit into my lip as Vincent pressed the tip of the needle into my skin. “You’ve been doing your homework on me,” I said once he’d pulled the needle all the way through.
“Not like there isn’t a trove of information out there to be found,” he said as he inserted the needle again.
I took another drink, but eased back on the urge to take a big swallow.
“Is that how this is going to go?” I asked.
“How what’s going to go?”
“You answer with non-answers.”
“You didn’t actually ask me a question,” he observed.
I barely refrained from rolling my eyes at him. “Who are you?”
“Next question.”
I shook my head and put the bottle down so that I wouldn’t be tempted to drink anymore. I needed to have my full faculties for this conversation. “Were you following me?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you’re payback.”
“Payback?” His answer made no sense to me.
“A mutual friend wants to see that you keep breathing.”
“Who? How is that payback?”
“What’s with the drinking?” Vincent asked as he motioned to the bottle with his head. “Won’t Daddy be mad?”
If the mention of my father hadn’t put me on edge, the sarcasm in his tone would have for sure.
“You know what, Vincent?” I said, before waiting until he looked up at me. “Cut the bullshit you keep accusing me of spewing and tell me what the fuck is going on. Before I’m tempted to let my would-be assassin find me just so I don’t have to spend another second with you. Because you’re a real dick.”
Chapter 4
Vincent
I had to admit, the guy had balls. He hadn’t even bothered to wait until I was done jabbing a needle through his skin to call me out on my behavior.
Yeah, I knew I was being a dick. I just didn’t really care. I’d been tasked with keeping the man alive, not catering to his inflated ego or handling him with kid gloves. He had a rich family and countless kiss-asses on his staff to do that.
Okay, so maybe the dig about his father had been a bit much, but I’d done my homework on the man, and he was the epitome of everything I hated. I’d had little interest in Chandler Wilder’s take on gay rights when he’d been governor, because I’d already known what so many gay men and women in our country had yet to accept.
We’d never be equal.
And we’d never be seen as anything beyond our sexual preference. There wouldn’t be a time where one guy marrying another would be referred to as anything other than gay marriage, and even then, it would be seen as an oddity, not the norm. The government could say all the right things and it still wouldn’t change shit.
I was a gay man first. I’d learned that lesson a long time ago, and it wasn’t one that I needed to repeat. The fact that the leaders of the very country David and I had sacrificed so much for only saw the fact that I preferred dick to pussy once they’d learned I’d had the audacity to hold my boyfriend’s hand for a few minutes so many years ago was proof of that. I hadn’t been Major St. James, dedicated soldier who’d saved the lives of his entire platoon more than once anymore. I’d no longer been the son of Fallon St. James, one of the most respected generals in the army, or brother to Pierce St. James, recipient of every conceivable military medal known to man. I’d been a fag first and foremost.
And only.
Until I’d had to make a name for myself in a whole different way.
“Beck Barretti,” I murmured as I kept my attention on the remaining stitches I had left. Nathan was handling the pain better than I’d expected. I’d had stitches more times than I could count, and while they were never fun, I’d gotten used to them. But the first time I’d gotten them without the benefit of anesthetic when I’d been a fresh-faced cadet, I’d barely managed not to cry.
And I’d consumed a lot more alcohol than the measly three swigs Nathan had swallowed.
“Beck? My brother’s boyfriend?” Nathan asked in surprise.
“One of your brother’s boyfriends,” I reminded him, just to gauge his reaction.
But he seemed unfazed as he said, “You know Beck?”