Angry God (All Saints High 3)

“How?” I sneered. How had he made this happen?

He took another step forward, our chests almost bumping. I was taller and broader now—bigger, stronger, and corded with muscles that mostly didn’t exist in his body.

“All those years ago, I saw who you really were, Vaughn. A heartless prince. A beautiful mummy. You lacked basic emotions: love, hate, compassion. I befriended your silly, naïve mother to get ahead in the art world game. Your father? Now, he knew better than to trust me. Fortunately, he was pussy-whipped and easy to manipulate through your mother. If you came here with a vendetta, you may want to throw it out the window. Our secret is ours. You’re going to play into my hands now, my darling child. Or I’ll be the one ending your life.”

“Come in.”

I pushed open the door to my parents’ cottage. Dad was standing in front of a window overlooking a lake, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hunting suit, frowning. Nothing was wrong. Scowling was his default expression. He only ever smiled when my mother was around.

“Busy?” I took a stab at small talk.

He turned to look at me, taking a seat on a recliner by the window and pouring cognac from a square crystal bottle into two snifters. God bless the UK, where it was legal for me to drink.

“Cut the pleasantries. It’s not who we are.”

He was right. We both hated mingling, but I was on edge. I took a seat in front of him, half-grateful Mom wasn’t here. Then I remembered she might be with Harry, and my stomach twisted in disdain. I wasn’t sure she was safe with him. Still, I was selfish enough not to tell my father what just happened with Fairhurst.

I was a pilgrim on a quest, and the demise of Harry Fairhurst was my own personal journey to redemption.

If I told my father everything, he’d deal with Harry himself, and where was the fun in that? I’d come to England for a reason. My own Eat, Pray, Love.

Kill, Prey, Lust.

“Nice hate bite.” Dad motioned to his own neck, but looked at mine. “Did she try to kill you?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her.”

He took a swig of his drink, arching a brow. “Knowing you, she probably had her reasons. Wrap it up, kid. Make your mother and me grandparents before retirement, and all hell will break loose. She’d want to help raise the baby.”

“I don’t want kids.”

He placed his drink on the table, lacing his fingers together.

“You’re too young to determine that at nineteen. Now’s the time to practice. With a condom. Several, if need be. What’s eating you, and how can I help?”

I sat back, blowing air. Dad always saw through me. Mom had a sixth sense about knowing what I needed when I needed it before I’d realized I needed it. But Baron Spencer? He read me like a vintage Playboy in a sperm-donation clinic’s waiting room.

I frowned at the carpet. “Say someone else had something of yours you didn’t want to come out. Like, a video or evidence of something you did. You knew what they had looked legit. No bullshit. They said they had it saved in their cloud, ready to be sent out if you make the wrong move…” I scanned his face, looking for traces of surprise or worry. There weren’t any. “How would you go about retrieving this information, and how would you erase it from all their files and make sure they couldn’t make duplicates?”

He said nothing for a beat. I wanted to punch the walls, then him, then myself. Grabbing my drink, I took a generous sip.

Dad finally opened his mouth.

“Son, are you gay?”

I spat the cognac out, choking on the earthy liquid. Dad remained calm, crossing one leg over the other.

“Be frank. You know we don’t care, and we’ll support you no matter what. There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, all right, but I’m not gay.”

He blinked, saying nothing.

“Why the fuck would you think that?”

“You’re not a huge fan of the other sex.”

“I’m not a huge fan of the human race.”

“Me either. But then there’s your mother. I am a huge fucking fan of hers.”

“Don’t make a groupie sex joke,” I warned sharply. “I like girls just fine.”

Dad shook his head. “Not enough to bring them home.”

“The back of my truck is just as comfy, and Mom’s not there to offer cookies.” I felt my jawline tensing.

His jaw ticked, too. We looked too alike. Sometimes it felt like I’d gotten nothing from my mother, but that wasn’t true. I got her artistic talent. Dad couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler and the moral support of a stadium.

“Are the public blow jobs your way of proving something?” He frowned.

What the fuck? I was running out of patience. Not to mention fucks. This was not why I came all the way from Carlisle Castle to the rectum of Berkshire on foot.