The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(42)

“I’ll drive you home, Tris,” Claire says.

My eyes are locked on the evil kid. He ties the cord around the teddy bear’s neck.

“You’ll have to leave your car here,” Claire continues.

The kid stands on the couch across from me and lets the bear drop. It hangs by the noose. “Broken neck . . . he’s dead,” he whispers.

Get out . . . get out . . . get out of the fucking house.

I stand in a rush and trip over the dog, who is eating the peas. “Fuck,” I cry in pain.

“Tristan, you can’t drive,” Claire gasps.

“Well, I’m not fucking staying here,” I stammer. I hop out the front door and take one last look around.

I never knew what hell looked like.





Now I do.


“Tristan, come back.”

I hop out onto the porch. “Goodbye, Claire,” I call. It was nice knowing you.





Chapter 10

I lie on the couch with my foot raised. I have an ice pack on it, and it’s throbbing and swollen.

This is just great. How in the hell am I supposed to work when I can’t even get a shoe on? The swelling had better go down overnight. I’m sure it’ll be fine.

I rearrange the ice pack and lie back down.

My mind goes over this afternoon and what I saw at Claire’s house.





I have no words.


None that will make me less shocked, anyway. When she said she had three sons, I was picturing cute little kids who play with LEGOs.

How wrong could I be?

Her children are nearly grown men—angry grown men . . . ones who hate me.

I get a vision of the house and the pets and the psychotic kids, and I shake my head in disgust.

She said we were at different stages of our lives, and I really didn’t understand what she meant.





I get it now.


We have nothing in common . . . apart from our sense of humor, of course—but as a whole . . . it’s not enough, and to be honest, it pisses me off.

We could have had something. We could have had something fucking great. Claire Anderson is near perfect. However, the life she has . . . is not, and I don’t want to be around those feral kids for even ten minutes. I hate that she has to deal with them alone. She has so much weight on her shoulders, and I don’t know how she bears it. What must it be like to be her?

It’s not your problem.

I get a shiver as I picture the middle child, and I hate to admit it, but the violent oldest one seemed almost normal compared to that serial killer in the making.

I get a vision of him hanging the teddy bear. What the hell was that about?

Did I imagine it?

My phone dances across the coffee table, and I pick it up to see the name Claire.

Shit. “Hello,” I answer.

“Hi, Tris.” My face falls into a sad smile at the sound of her voice.

Fuck it . . . why does she have kids . . . animals—whatever the hell they are?

“I called to see if you’re okay,” she says.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I sigh.

“Oh my gosh, Tristan, I am so sorry.”





I stay silent.


“He’s just super protective over me and had just found underpants in my luggage. They must have gotten mixed up when I had my laundry done,” she lies, and I know he must be listening. “He had a momentary slipup with his temper.”

“Yeah, I was there, Claire. I saw it, remember? Firsthand, actually. Have the ankle to prove it.”

“Anyway, he wants to speak to you,” she says.

“No, that’s . . .”

“Hello,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Hello,” I reply.

He exhales heavily, and I get a vision of Claire standing over him, making him do this. “I’m sorry. I was out of line this afternoon,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I could have you charged with assault,” I reply.





He stays silent.


“I’m just your mother’s friend from work. You jumped to the wrong conclusion. It was completely out of line.”





No answer.


“Anything else?” I snap in frustration.

“Nope.”

“So that’s your apology?” I frown.

“Yep.”

“Is your mother there making you call me?”

“Yep.”

“Are you really sorry?”

“No.”

I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.

“Do you want to speak to Mom again?” he asks.

I frown as I contemplate the question, and I close my eyes in regret. Eventually I reply, “No, that’s okay. Thanks for calling.” I hang up.

I stare at the phone in my hands for a moment.

I get a vision of Claire on the other end. Did she want to speak to me?

My mind goes over how much she has on her plate: work, financial difficulties—and that’s aside from bringing up on her own three boys who have obvious troubles.