Addicted (The Addicted Series, #1)(57)

"Yeah baby," I said, quickly pulling my shirt over my head. "Let me check my schedule, and I'll give you a call." I was sure I had her number, but I never gave out my real number to one of these types of girls. She was no doubt looking to use me, but I was using her too, so it all worked out. Not that it stopped the real determined ones from tracking me down. I am Julian Castelbon after all. "I'll see you later."





* * *



Julian





My father's secretary, a withered old battle axe named Patricia who I wouldn't have f*cked even if she wasn't older than Johnathan, sent me the information three ways. I gotta give it to her, she's thorough enough. E-mail, text message, and registered delivery via US Postal Service. I was surprised she didn't hire a process server like others have when I've gotten sued. Some of them are pretty damn good at tracking me down.

I was sitting in my own place when the e-mail bounced off my laptop. I've got one of the two penthouses for the building, owned by my father of course, but he hasn't been out to the West Coast since Mom left him. Sitting in my shorts, I was getting ready for a workout down at Metroflex when the computer dinged. I finished pulling a tank top on, making sure to showcase the new ink on my right arm. Then I clicked on my e-mail. Patricia was her normal brief self, which at least I could respect. She didn't like me, but she didn't overly dislike me either. I read her message, then opened the attachment.



Johnathan Castelbon and Sandra Hepburn-Aksoy

Kindly request the honor of your presence at their wedding

Saturday the Fifteenth of June

At eleven o'clock in the morning

Castelbon Manor

Reception to follow





Jesus, Castelbon Manor? Sure, the old place has been in our family since my great-grandfather Wayne Castelbon made it big doing ship building contracts for the Allies in World War I, and then later on for World War II. The manor was actually older than that, having been first built in the early 1800's by some old Yankee trader whose fortune, at least some thought, may not have always been by trading just rum and timber from the Americas to Europe and back. Wayne Castelbon bought the place from the diseased remnants of the family, and had actually renovated the main building, ripping down both wings to put up new ones. Since then, my grandfather and then my father both took the time and money to make sure it was kept up to date in terms of facilities while still retaining the old fashioned exterior. In short, Castelbon Manor was the seat of the family's power, and just another way my father was getting a dig in on me. Seriously, did he not remember that when he married my mother, she'd been only nineteen while he was twenty-two, in a quickie ceremony in Las Vegas? Now here he was giving this latest gold digger a full on ceremony in the Castelbon seat of power, and my Mom got jack shit? Fuck that!

I stormed out of my place and to Metroflex for a workout, needing to work off some rage. Randy, the manager on duty, was normally one of the guys I like to hang out and chat with, but that day I was just too pissed off. Thankfully that day was back day, which meant being pissed was good. Pissed off rage combined with a dose of Nano Vapor for my pre-workout meant I tore into my deadlifts like a demon. Even some of the pro lifters, a couple of IFBB juice monkeys and a powerlifter who had more tattoos than me stopped to admire my work and even cheered me on.

I like Metroflex. For one, it's one of the few places in the entire Los Angeles area where nobody gave a shit what my last name was. To the regular crew, I was JC. Sure, a couple would mention when I got my face in the paper or on TMZ, but they didn't give me any drama. They would bust my ass over my lifts, or when my diet was off and I came in looking like a fatass, but there was respect, and there was the unspoken acknowledgement that I could bust their chops just as much. Hell, when one of the IFBB guys offered to hook me up for a cycle of steroids, he took no offense when I turned him down. In fact, the next day he was cheering me on and cussing me out during squats just like everyone else. The regular guys at Metroflex, they were almost like my family.

Finishing up my deadlifts, I went straight into my normal secondary lifts, finishing with a killer set for my shoulders that left me gasping and my rear delts on fire. As I set my mind aside to not focus on the pain, I thought about what I could do to really f*ck up my father's wedding. Showing up drunk? Nah, too trite and easily dismissed. Causing a scene and going on a rant would probably do the same thing. He'd just look at me with those blue eyes of his, boredom and dismissal competing for first place, and then go back to the ceremony.

On the other hand, I could always go for the throat. It was a trait I'd inherited from him after all. In business, nobody could be as ruthless as Johnathan Castelbon if you crossed him. Well, my father had been crossing me for nearly twenty years, ever since he threw Mom out on her ass. But how to go for the throat?

Suddenly it came to me, while at the same time my left shoulder muscle said no more, and the chains I'd been using dropped to the ground. Krystal! The way my father had spoken about her, the tone of voice, he was smitten with the girl. He'd told me many times growing up that he wished he could have had another child, a daughter. "Looks like you're going to get your wish, Dad."

At the counter, Randy called out my name. I came over, and he held out his hand. "Great job out there today man! Listen, one of the members, they're a freelance photographer who's done some work for Men's Fitness, and wanted to know if you wouldn't mind letting him take some photos next couple of workouts. He was impressed, and you could use the good ink, he said. I dunno what the f*ck that means, but he said you'd know."