Scandalous (Sinners of Saint 3)

Trent Rexroth definitely gave the impression of being a control-freak. Maybe Jordan was right to be worried. It made no difference at all. Because as much as I hated turning down Wednesdays with Theo, I also didn’t want to dig myself a deeper grave by letting my father play me like this. It was a damned if I do and damned if I don’t situation. Either he was lying to me about giving me more time with the only guy I cared for or he was telling the truth, but setting a precedent to a chain of blackmails, now that he knew it’d work. The double-edged sword cut my heart in two.

“No, thanks,” I said slowly, flicking my thumb against the edge of the table. “Take your offer to someone who is interested in it.”

“My dearest daughter.” He grabbed my hand again, pulling at my arm on purpose. It didn’t hurt, but it was far from feeling comfortable. “You will do it. The perks are just a little push in the right direction. You have no choice in this matter.”

“I’m not going to spy on Trent Rexroth.” My voice grew louder, steadier. “He hasn’t done anything bad to me and besides, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Rexroth hates my guts.” That was an understatement. At this point, I was sure he’d rather confide in a neo-Nazi than tell me all his secrets.

My father, of course, chose to disregard my growing resistance. “If you won’t do it, Edie, I’ll be sending Theodore to New York. You know I can pull the right strings and make it happen. His facility in San Diego is grossly overcrowded as it is. I’d be doing him a favor.”

Back in familiar waters. This was more like it. The threats, I was used to. “Blackmailing someone into blackmail is an interesting method. I’d like to see you pull this off. Move Theodore to a lesser facility when you’re trying to run for mayor. Someone you don’t want anyone to know about in the first place,” I said dryly, hating him, and Rexroth, and the whole world for standing between me and happiness. I didn’t care about the money, and the glitz, or the broken Louboutins. I just wanted to surf and be next to Theo. The fact those things felt impossible to achieve made me feel like a trapped butterfly in a glass bell jar. A tiny creature, slamming against the barrier until I ran out of energy, breath, and hope.

“You’re throwing the word blackmail around way too often and loudly for my liking, young lady. Consider it research,” he suggested, releasing my hand again.

“You can call it research, or blackmail, or Uncle Joe. The answer would still be no.”

It was already five in the morning and I’d officially missed my surfing window. Screw it, I could come in at eight once a week. The chair beneath me scraped as I stood up.

Something hit the table with a heavy slap. I whipped my head around and looked at him once again.

A bag.

My mother’s medication bag.

It shouldn’t have sounded so heavy, but it did, because it was. Because nowadays, my mother required three pills just to get her out of bed, and that’s without her vitamins—which she was addicted to—and the gummy bears promising radiant skin, tough nails, and heavenly slumber, which she chewed on throughout the day. She also took another three to fall asleep at night.

“Reconsider. You have two people to think about. One of them—your mother—is a helpless child trapped in a woman’s body. You’ve burned every bridge in order to save them, Edie. Every single one. From your education, to your dream of becoming a surfer and getting away from here, from me. You’ve made all the sacrifices for your mother and Theodore…what’s one more?”

I stood facing the hallway, an eternal scream making my body shudder. He had me exactly where he wanted me, and he knew it. He sauntered toward me, a cloud of his smugness hanging in the room like a stench.

“Make no mistake, Edie. I will sacrifice your mother and your locked-up obsession without a second thought. You signed up to be my little obedient marionette…you don’t get to make the rules.” The last sentence was spoken so close to me, I could feel his breath brushing my back.

I stormed out of the kitchen, feeling his eyes shooting daggers at my back.

I’d bleed to death before turning around and seeing his face. I knew how he felt.

Victorious.

FUNNY FELIX WAS A SHIT show.

Much to no one’s surprise.

Actually that wasn’t entirely fair to the person dressed in a feline-looking teddy bear whatever-the-fuck costume standing in the center of a circle made out of screaming kids, dancing for them like a trained monkey.

I guess the party was okay for everyone who wasn’t in my immediate circle. For all the parents who were smiling wide, holding hands—even the fucking divorcees were being civilized for the sake of their children—watching the fruit of their loins getting their faces painted and twirling with a bunch of clowns, AKA Felix’s Little Helpers. It was creepy, but when you thought about it—when you really, truly put some thought into it—a lot of the stuff grown-ups found intimidating were kids’ favorite things. Because kids, unlike their parents, watch the world sans the tainted lens of preconception and intolerance.