Page 39 of Wicked Promises
Newsflash, I want to yell at them. It takes a lot more than one stalker to dethroneme.
Yet… I’m definitely losing my grip.
“In,” Coach orders, holding the door open.
I sigh, then go to my usual chair in front of his desk.
“Did I fucking say you could sit?”
What the hell is his problem?
The arrest, probably.
I sprawl in the chair in defiance and force my body to relax. This isn’t like a meeting with my uncle, where it could end with a glass thrown at my head—or worse. Coach may threaten and bluster, but he wouldn’t even go so far as to remove me from the team. He just needs to yell.
It gives him some control he craves.
Then again, I like to fuck with control.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He circles around his desk and drops into his own chair, his glower firmly fixed on his face.
“You really made a goddamn mess of everything,” he says. “Arrested.Arrested. What am I supposed to do with that? Let a felon stay on the team?”
“I’m sure Mr. Black would be happy to explain the difference between being held as a person of interest and formal arraignment,” I say dryly. “Oh, wait, you should know. Didn’t you major in pre-law? Before your life fell to shit.”
He watches me. “Is that what you think?”
I shrug.
“You’re a fool.” He rubs at his eyes. “Honestly, Caleb. We all make choices. My life didn’tfall to shit. It just changed.”
“And you weren’t angry about it?”
He sits back. “I was at the time. Now, not so much. What’s your plan, son? You going to put this incident on your college applications?”
I grit my teeth. “Does it matter? I can get into any shitty old school. Dad?—”
“Dear pops.” Coach laughs. “Yeah, left you a fuck ton of money. Buy your way into any old school and tell me how it feels. Is that a stipulation for the trust fund?”
“Something like that.” Or rather—exactly that. Until then, dear Uncle David has control of the accounts. He can’t take money out, of course, but he manages it. Who knows what he’s done since Dad died. I haven’t been allowed near the books.
The bell rings, and I stand.
“Sit,” Coach growls.
My smile falls away. “Why?”
“Because we have a visitor.” He gestures toward the window.
The door opens. My uncle fills the doorway, looking down his nose at me. Nerves like snakes writhe in my belly. I tense, but subsequently, he blocks all the escape routes, too.
He closes the door behind him and takes his sweet time removing his coat, hanging it on the stand in the corner. And then he reaches over the desk and shakes Coach’s hand.
He doesn’t so much as glance my way when he sits, slinging one leg over the other. Proper, poised, in control.
I have to admire the way he takes over a room. Dad would be proud.
“You’re keeping me from class for this?” I ask Coach.