Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (10 page)

“I don’t have time for board meetings or engagement parties, Father.”

His heavy breath comes down the line. I can almost see the blood vessels in his neck pulsating and about to burst. “Make time, Tristan. We need you.” I cringe at his words because of the deep-seated obligation I feel. “Your mother is counting on you. Try not to fail her this time.”

They don’t need me. They need to deliver a façade to the world. Declare that the Coopersons are perfect, and their children never fail to appear during these ridiculous gatherings.

“Is Fey going?” The answer is no, of course. Fey is somewhere around the world not giving a shit about her family, but faking that she’s a missionary.

“Of course not, Tristan. Fey’s in Port-au-Prince rebuilding the city.”

I hold in my laugh. My sister has zero altruism running through her veins. Lucas should know where our little sister is. I don’t give a shit about her whereabouts. Fey and I no longer speak to each other. Not after she threw me under a bus. That was long ago, during Christmas break when I was a sophomore in college. She informed our parents that I hadn’t changed my deviations—that I still liked to be fucked by guys. That the special camp to fix me hadn’t worked as expected. Dad once again beat the shit out of me. Then, they shoved the subject under the carpet. A way to make me understand that my
choices
, as usual, were poor. Because there’s no fucking way that a Cooperson man likes guys. They think the word
bisexual
is a fashion statement, not a way of being. Not the way their firstborn should be—the one who’ll inherit the business and all that shit.

“Look, Father, I don’t give a shit about your board or Lucas’s engagement. Your world is millions of years apart from mine. See you during the holidays.” I end the call.

My mother is going to call. I can just hear her arguments now. Including her ramblings about Victoria and how I have to give her a chance.
It’s for a cause, Tristan.
When Mother married Father, she barely knew him, and they’ve been together for thirty-five years. That's their fucking shit, not mine. To rid myself of some of the rage I carry, I head to the gym. That should burn off the conversation and bring me back from Connecticut and the fucking farce I lived at that house.

This was a bad idea.
I think.
The entire room spins around. Well, the hallway. Drinking myself to oblivion. Fuck, I am not twenty anymore. Why did I let my father get under my skin? No. It was my mother, not him. As I headed to the gym, she called me.

“After everything I’ve done for you and this is how you repay me.” She began crying. “I’ve given you space, but it’s time for you to leave that forsaken city filled with lowlifes. The least you could do is come visit your family often and be there when we celebrate the good things.”

The good things never include the opening of my establishments. I invited them the first few times, but after the fourth rejection, I decided to ignore them. This is my life, not theirs. From the moment I took my first breath and until I decided to leave them behind, they ruled every second of my life. My parents expected me to marry that bitch—fuck, I am so drunk, I can’t remember her name. Her father owns some old advertising company that
my
father wants to acquire by marriage. Well, he should divorce Mom and fucking marry the ass that owns it.

After I hung up, I headed to the old Silver Moon and drank several whiskey sours and several beers to wash down the bottle of Scotch I ordered. Fuck. I’m carrying too much guilt. I’m thirty for God’s sake. I should be in charge of my life, my decisions, and my actions. Regrets are going to follow me for all my life.
I don’t want that anymore.

When I come out of the elevator, I try to open the door of my place, but the key doesn’t work. Still, the door opens. A set of magnetic eyes stare at me and I want to beg him to take me. Now, against the wall.

“I would if you weren’t drunk,” he says, and I’m guessing I thought that out loud. “We’ve already talked about you being drunk, haven’t we?”

“Fuck, you’re so hot, Matthew,” I voice without any inhibitions. “My father would shoot me with his handgun if he knew I let you stick your dick up my ass.”

Matthew’s nostrils flare, and pity flashes through his eyes. “Well. Not many of us are lucky to have parents who understand who we are. I’m not judging, but dude, don’t drink yourself into a stupor like this.” He pulls me into his arms, closes the door, and helps me walk toward the sofa.

“You smell like sex,” Matthew points out with an uncontrollable laugh. Sex? Right, the girl I met at the bar. A detour I should’ve avoided. “We’re not exclusive. It’s fine. But you’ll be hating life tomorrow.”

“I thought you were in California,” I say, trying not to slur my words.

I don’t respond to his exclusivity comment. Shame starts climbing through my body. Would he understand that I needed to lose myself for at least a night? Fuck, are we exclusive? I do regret what I did. She wasn’t that bad. I think . . . Fuck, I can’t remember much of what we did. I’m aware of that. Which is why I stopped engaging in such stupidities five or six years ago.

“Want to talk about it?” I shake my head. Matthew cups my chin with his hand, lifting my head. “Keeping it inside won’t help you at all. I’m here for you, baby. Talk to me.”

“My fucking parents.” I close my eyes, shutting out the light—and maybe the world. After several seconds, I continue, “They’re controlling, always have been. They want me to take charge of the family business . . . Hell, they even have the woman I should marry all picked out. Have I ever told you that they sent me to a place where they tortured me? For three months I lived on a farm where I heard day and night how God would condemn me for liking men. Day and night they submitted me to ‘sexual conversion therapy.’ Afterward, I went to a therapist who ‘helped me’ with my rebellion. I live in a constant state of self-rejection, Matt. Fighting who I am because of what I was told.”

His big blue eyes stare at me as I open my eyes. He’s smiling. Happy. Like he has no fucking issues and his life is perfect. Matt’s siblings support his sexuality.

Rage vibrates through my veins. I push myself off the couch and get in his face. “Yes, not all of us are as fucking lucky as you are. Some of us have nothing—no one supporting who we are, nor our choices. That doesn’t give you the fucking right to judge me.” I back out of the room, heading upstairs where I can shut out the world and recover from the roller coaster I’m living in.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the next morning when I step inside the kitchen where Matthew is drinking his coffee. His light brown strands frame his chiseled face. His broad shoulders are covered with a leather jacket. He looks dangerous. Edible. I like him better when he’s wearing only a smile and I can see his rippled muscles. Fuck, are we over? No. We’re friends that share some benefits. We can’t be over. I continue my apology instead. “Alcohol makes me a son of a bitch.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Matthew?”

“Why did you contact my brother while he is on his honeymoon when you knew you could’ve come to me?” I take a step backward, trying to figure out the reason for his rogue tone. “Jacob left me in charge. You come to me. You don’t call him with your shit.”

He rises, facing me with a cold stare I never thought he’d be capable of. His entire body straightens. Matthew fills the entire room with his presence. I narrow my stare, trying to defy the commanding stance he’s taken. But it is hard for me to defy him when almost on a daily basis I submit to him. Most days, his dominant nature calls to me. The submissive in me needs to be taken care of and in some primal way, I know he does, when and if I let him.

I inhale before giving my explanation. “Jacob chose certain shit for the new club. I thought it’d be best to discuss a potential replacement with him.” I take a few steps backward leaning against the wall. “Clearly I have no idea what the two of you discuss and how things are handled.”

He combs his hair with both hands, places them on the side of his hips, and gives me a serious look. “I’m the behind-the-scenes person. I research and make some decisions that would normally go to Jacob. He’s the voice of the three of us. Sometimes AJ takes the lead. That’s how we work.”

His threatening look makes me want to apologize. Still not sure about what exactly. Pissing him off, insulting him last night, contacting Jacob instead of communicating with him . . .

He leans closer, leveling his gaze with mine. “The speakers are on order and should be delivered next week.” And with that, Matthew leaves.

I clamp down the urge to grab him. To demand that we finish this conversation, to clear the air.

“Matthew,” I call after him, “it was never my intention to hurt you.”

“Dude, it’s cool.” He pivots around to face me and then shrugs. “I hate drama. Hate it. I get it. You had a shitty day. I’m not gonna lie though, you pissed me off.”

The air has changed. It’s as if whatever pull we had has completely disappeared. My lungs are having a hard time functioning. His spine straightens, his arms cross, and he gives me a look that says,
I’m done.
I’m done . . .
with you
. Fuck.

I
had
escaped, refusing to bend to my parents’ wishes to be part of the big plan for Cooperson Corporations. One day I packed up and left. However, I always look back when they call. Not only do I look back, I fly home to please them. Like this weekend. Against my common sense, I boarded a plane from Seattle to Hartford, Connecticut, to follow my parents’ wishes.