Don’t be an idiot, he reassured himself. He can’t possibly have any idea.
Still, to buy himself time as he tried to absorb the sudden rush of adrenaline zipping through his system, he asked, “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” his father repeated, in that slow, annoying way he had that always made Damon feel like he was two feet tall and had just pissed his pants in public, “where the hell are you? Today’s the annual board meeting for the Carlisle & Associates subsidiary. You’re on the fucking board, in case you forgot. While you contribute nothing, your presence is expected.”
Wait. What? That meeting was today?
In a panic, Damon quickly opened the calendar on his phone. He scrolled rapidly looking for the date of the meeting. He found it, a month from now, not today! How had he screwed that up? And how come that fucking secretary hadn’t emailed? This was her fault! Though, it occurred to him, maybe she had. He’d been so absorbed with planning and executing the abduction, he hadn’t checked his work email in over a week.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Think fast.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “To tell you the truth, I’m down in Costa Rica. I’ve been working on a major potential investment deal and I guess I got my dates mixed up.”
His dad gave out a long, exasperated sigh that made Damon want to scream. “Damon,” he said wearily. “Spare me the bullshit. I know you too well. The only thing you’re working on is your tan. Costa Rica, huh? Brad guessed you were on a yacht in Dubai with some wealthy Arab’s wife, while Carter speculated you were skiing in the Alps with a bunch of other entitled trust fund babies.”
Damon heard the loud bray of his stupid brothers laughing in the background. They were loving this, the pricks.
“I don’t know what your grandfather was thinking,” his father continued, now on a roll. “Giving you access to your trust fund at thirty. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be able to touch a dime of that money until you proved you deserved it.”
Thank god it’s not up to you, you spiteful bastard, Damon thought furiously. He was clenching the cell phone so tightly his fingers cramped.
“Don’t worry,” his father continued in that world-weary voice that dripped with sarcasm and disdain. “We’ll muddle along somehow without you.” There was more mean laughter. Too furious to respond, Damon ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.
Enraged, he marched into the bathroom.
~*~
Callie sat in the bathtub, her wrists manacled with metal handcuffs. The disgusting rubber ball he’d shoved into her mouth had forced her tongue far back in her mouth, and it kept activating her gag reflex. To top it off, drool was dripping down her chin.
At least there had been a break in the French maid nonsense. Weak from hunger, she’d nearly passed out several times as she waved that stupid feather duster around while Damon mauled her from behind. Her stomach had curled into a tight, painful ball. How much longer could she go on like this?
She strained to hear the conversation going on in the next room, but Damon didn’t seem to be saying much. It was hard to imagine that this handsome monster even had a father, or a mother for that matter. Yet, she’d very clearly heard him address the caller as Dad.
She caught the words Costa Rica. Was that where they were? If she could get hold of that damn phone of his, she could call for help. Did they have 9-1-1 in Costa Rica? Would they be able to track her location by pinging the phone?
She startled as Damon burst back into the bathroom, his face mottled with fury. She stiffened in fear. What had she done?
Striding to the tub, he bent down and yanked her upright by her arm, his fingers digging into her biceps. The metal cuffs tightened painfully around her wrists as he pulled her, stumbling, out of the tub.
Lifting her into his arms, he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, knocking the wind out of her in the process. He marched into the bedroom and threw her, facedown, on the bed. Her arms were caught uncomfortably beneath her, the metal cuffs digging into her wrists.
She twisted her head, trying to see what he was doing. He went over to the huge wardrobe that flanked one of the walls and yanked open the doors. He grabbed a belt from a hook and returned to her, fire in his eyes.
Terrified, she tried to plead through the gag—to beg him not to hurt her again—but she could only make incoherent sounds.
“Goddamn motherfucking bastard,” he was muttering between gritted teeth. “And fucking Brad. He’s the one with his dick in other men’s wives, not me. And holier-than-thou Carter who refuses to touch his trust fund from Pop. Fucking pompous dickwad.”