Thorne Princess(46)

“So am I, when I don’t get my way. I don’t want to be here.” I raised my voice, aware that I sounded like a brat from hell, exactly what he’d been accusing me of.

“Tough luck.” He typed furiously on his laptop. “No one cares what you want.”

The words slammed into me, physically making me keel over. He was right. No one cared about what I wanted. The cards had been laid like this ever since I could remember. And today was a prime reminder of it.

I stormed toward my bodyguard, slapping his computer screen shut. It snapped over his fingers, but all I drew was a passive, what-now? look.

Leaning down so our faces were aligned, I snarled, “I said I want to leave, and since you are my hired assistant, the person whose job it is to fulfill my orders, you will grab your keys right now and do as I say.”

It was a low blow. Especially since he’d opened up to me earlier today. But what could I do? I was so hurt, so wounded, so nauseous with rejection, I had no other choice than to flex what power I had hard. This visit hadn’t even started and I already felt unwelcome. Hell knew what awaited me once I met my parents. Hera. Craig.

I was hurting so bad all I wanted was to hurt someone else. Cutting Ransom open might ease the pain. Or at least provide a distraction.

Ransom held my gaze, not a muscle moving in his face. He looked calm, collected, but alert. Desperation seeped from my skin. He could smell it. His eyes darkened.

My face was only a few inches from his. My skin prickled with an awareness I’d never felt before. I breathed him in. Exhaled the anxiety out.

“Be a good boy and follow orders, or I’ll have no choice but to make sure your life is miserable for the next few months,” I hissed out.

Still, he said nothing. Almost like he was giving me the opportunity to ride out the tantrum by myself. I felt like a child, like an idiot, and above all—dispensable. Unimportant. An afterthought.

“All righty, here we are. Hello, hello. Apologies for the delay,” a voice boomed from the doorway leading to the hall, low and southern. I didn’t turn around to meet my father’s eyes.

“Sugar Pie? Everything all right over there?”

It took everything in me to inhale, swivel on my sneakers, and plaster a smile on my face. Ransom remained seated behind me. Nothing in his body language betrayed he was meeting a former president.

Dad wore cigar pants, a navy sweater, and his favorite slippers. His silver-bluish hair was parted on the side, and he was impeccably shaved, sporting a relaxed, almost teasing smile and round, vintage reading glasses.

“Hi, Dad.” I pushed the imagery of Mom playing with the dogs to a back drawer in my mind.

I didn’t really have a choice but to be nice to him. He was the person who bankrolled me.

“Sugar Pie, my dearest.” He approached, kissing both my cheeks, squeezing my shoulders with affection. “I was worried about you.”

“Sure had an interesting way of showing it.” I smiled sunnily.

He ignored the barb. “I see you’ve added to your tattoo collection since last we met.”

Two years ago, I hadn’t had the semicolon tattoo on my wrist (symbolizing my story hadn’t ended yet), the flowered Zen circle on my collarbone (to find the strength within myself), and the cloud spreading across my inner arm (because even though reality sucked—my dreams could always carry me to exciting, beautiful places).

“Oh, you know how it is when you have too much spare time.” I didn’t know if I was being sarcastic or berating myself.

“Don’t give yourself a hard time.” He patted my arm. “Nothing wrong with self-expression.”

Dad swung his blue eyes from me to Ransom and disentangled from our embrace, turning in his direction. “The man of the hour, eh? McAfee spoke highly of you.”

Ransom stood up, tucking his hands into his front pockets. “Sir.”

“Sorry you were kept waiting,” Dad apologized, keeping his gaze firmly on my bodyguard.

“So am I.”

Did Ransom just hand the former president of the United States his ass? Even I, Anthony Thorne’s flesh and blood, didn’t dare show discontent with his behavior.

“How’ve you been settling into the job?” Dad clapped his shoulder, chuckling at my protector’s sour nature. I wondered if I was invisible. If I was in some sort of a teen fantasy flick and had to find a magic potion to gain back my visibility. I imagined gulping the potion down, my legs appearing first, like in cartoons, before the rest of my body. Then the collective cries of delight and relief from my family.

“There she is!”

“We haven’t lost her!”

“Oh, Sugar Pie, don’t leave us ever again!”

Meanwhile, in reality, Ransom drawled, “Without a hitch.”

“She’s not easy to tame,” Dad said, as if I were a wild raccoon.

“I’m not easy to cross,” Ransom replied blandly.

I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t tongue-tied in front of my father, but must he treat him with the same attitude he would jock itch?

“This is great. Follow me, Ransom. I need a word. Sugar Pie, I will see you in a minute. We have much to discuss, and I’m sure you have questions for me.”

My father always said life was about priorities. Right now, he made it clear he would rather talk to the man he hired to kick some sense into me than find out what I’d been up to these past couple years. Although, one could argue, he didn’t need to ask. It was all splayed on my Instagram page and in the tabloids.