“Oh, that fucking dick,” I whispered.
“Mom.”
I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize, because sometimes it felt really good to say the bad words that I tried not to say in front of my sweet, impressionable kid.
My hand tightened in the jersey I’d been so careful to fold up. I stared down at the letters of his last name, the cold build of rage making it hard to breathe deeply.
Then I stood up and shoved his stupid jersey right in the garbage.
Chapter Two
Archer
It shouldn’t be hard to control which version of yourself you show to people.
Be nice. Be friendly. Smile and say something kind. That’s what most people do, right?
Not me. Not the son of Alexander Evans.
He’d yanked those instincts out, root and stem, by the time I hit high school.
But for how much he’d molded me into something aloof and arrogant, someone who knew exactly which armor to wear in any given situation, the place where I was most comfortable controlling my reactions was with him.
To piss him off, I simply had to talk back.
By the age of ten, I’d learned that the quickest way to keep my dad happy was to stay completely silent. When perfection was the expectation, and that expectation was broken, it didn’t take long for his words to increase both in volume and frequency. As one of the most successful defense attorneys in the state of New York, he was exceptionally good at both. The man loved hearing his own voice. A captive audience was his drug.
Keeping quiet might’ve seemed like weakness, but it wasn’t. It was strategy.
We strode out of the courthouse, and I fought the urge to tip my face down, allow the brim of my hat to block my face when I spotted paparazzi across the street. My father didn’t hide. He merely raised his chin—arrogant as ever—and made sure they got his best angle.
So I did the same thing.
As much as I hated it, I was his mirror image. The same jawline, the same nose, the same height and broad shoulders. I simply used my size in a different way than he did. His intimidation happened in a courtroom, mine on a football field.
He tugged at the wrist of his navy Armani suit, adjusting the sleeve before we crossed the street into the parking lot. “At least I’m dressed appropriately if they’re going to put this to print,” he said on an annoyed sniff. “You’re in streetwear.”
It was said with so much disdain that I almost laughed. Any sign of humor would probably send him into apoplexy, so I merely let out a quiet breath and kept stride with him.
I’d come from the weight room, so yes, I was in black joggers and a white Buffalo T-shirt, a black Buffalo hat covering my head.
His Range Roger was parked next to my truck—not just newer, but shinier too. Every morning, the car was washed and buffed to a gleaming finish. Not by him, of course. He’d never take the time.
Dirt from the road leading to my newly built home always seemed to cling to the lower half of my truck, and that was what my father was currently eyeing with distaste as he slowed his steps.
“I’ll tell Mike to wash your car the next time you come over for dinner,” he said.
The presumption that I’d want him to loosened my tongue. “It’ll just get dirty again when I drive home.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the exact same shade of blue as mine. I hated how much we looked alike.
“I’m happy to learn that you are still capable of speech.”
I held his gaze.
Dad sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets and glancing over his shoulder at the two cameras aimed in our direction. “I can talk to the judge again. It’s ridiculous that she won’t just let you pay the fine and be done with it.”
My jaw locked tight, and unspent tension had the muscles along my neck rigid.