Except there are a couple problems I can’t stop thinking about.
The first is how my dad is acting. He kidnapped a woman for hacking his financial information. At least that’s what I got from his conversation with Mac. Sure, what Di did was illegal, but not so bad she deserves them knocking down her door and dragging her across the country.
My dad doesn’t usually run when he is accused of illegal things. I heard about the legal filings for fraud and tax evasion since I was old enough to understand the accusations, and he always had his lawyers on speed dial. When I still idealized the man, I believed he won the cases because he was innocent of the crimes.
Now, I’m not so sure.
What kind of legitimate businessman needs a squad of goons? Or threatens his child over sharing any information about where they have houses around the country. When he wasn’t locking me away to throw parties, he made me watch as he used women. Women who looked too drugged out to consent, or possibly too young.
My dad is not a good man, but maybe he’s worse than I thought.
Here we are, packing to leave the country, and not to Cuba where I would expect. I don’t want to go to Russia, and especially not with my father. It feels like the place you go when you’ve broken too many laws to stay in the US.
Does he actually hurt people more than I already know about? I don’t want to be a part of his crimes.
The second problem is Mac.
The celebrity is a serial killer who abducted me before holding me captive. He had sex with me when the power imbalance made my consent dubious, even if I did initiate most of it. Or all of it.
What Mac did to me feels like nothing in comparison to my dad. I have no doubt Owen MacKenzie is a psychopath, and he still feels safer than the man I share half my DNA with.
Safer for me, and safer in the world.
If I could choose which to take off this planet, I’m pretty sure it would be the man who was responsible for my years of neglect. Not the man who infects my every waking thought. Fingering the collar, I feel myself almost grinning at my dad’s anger when he told me to take it off.
“Take that stupid thing off your neck,” he barked when we arrived at the Hamptons house and I tried to escape to my room.
“I can’t,” I replied under my breath, fearful of his reaction.
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t?” My dad asked in disbelief, spinning to look at me in the foyer. “Do as I say, or there will be consequences.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…It’s locked. He has the key,” I explained, not wanting to say Mac’s name.
“Worthless,” my dad had muttered. Leaving me alone, Booker had spat at me to pack some shit before joining my dad in his office.
After a fitful night of sleep, I made it only as far as my bed before collapsing on top. Which is where I find myself when voices filter up to me. Hearing my name, I slip off the bed to stand, creeping to the door I left cracked open. Pressing my ear to the opening, I can hear my dad talking to Booker, likely from his room down thehall.
“If he’s desirable enough for MacKenzie to lock him down, literally, maybe I could make a profit off of him.”
My dad’s words take a minute to process. He can make a profit off of me? As in I work for him? A shudder runs through me at the thought.
“He’s no teen virgin,” Booker scoffs. “Damaged goods don’t fetch as high a price.”
“Fair point. Ethan is closer to thirty than twenty-five, now,” my dad replies as I hold my breath. Ignoring the dig at my age, is he really suggesting what I think he is? “But he has an education. Speaks multiple languages. Knows about food and wine from that overrated chef school. We could pitch him as a companion.”
“That could work. Good idea, sir.”
Fuck. Fucking fucketyfuck. My dad wants to sell me. Like some kind of sex slave. Is this what he does to make so much money? The reality of my cushy life, no matter how traumatic, comes crashing down on me.
A memory rushes in from when dad caught me blowing his guard in my teens. He’d dragged me to my feet, my dick still hanging out of my pants, and took me to his office. Dad told me I shouldn’t be sucking dick for free. That if I wanted to be a queer whore, I could at least make him money. I nearly pissed my pants when he said I needed to prove I was good for anything. That if I didn’t act right, he’d sell me to the highest bidder.
Despite thinking his threats were hyperbolic, the hate in his voice got through to me. I focused more on my studies to finish high school and get into a good college. With the little freedom I got living in adorm, not being under his thumb or the eyes of his guards, I started to come into my own.
My mistake was in thinking my father ever exaggerated his threats. He always means what he says. Dad would have sold me then, his own teenage son, and he won’t hesitate to do it now.
A phone ringing cut through my spiraling thoughts as my dad answered. “Smith, did you find out why Swansea and Radditch didn’t report in?” Dad paused and then yelled, “They’re what? Where is the woman? Well, find her…and the man who killed them!”
The woman…Does he mean Di? If Dad doesn’t know where she is, or the man responsible for killing his men, that must mean Mac got Di out safely. Despite the hopelessness of my situation, knowing I’ll only see Mac’s face again on a screen, I find myself smiling.