Dare Me(65)

My entire world stops.

My heart ceases to beat. The blood from my head and chest rushes to my feet at the sound of that name. My mouth goes dry, and my lips separate as if I’m trying to speak, only my tongue is paralyzed.

I’m barely able to turn my head to the left in time to see Holt come bounding across the room and pulling me into his arms before I feel my knees give out.



I barely hear their raised voices, accusations, and verbal attacks on each other between the pounding of my heart and swooshing of blood overcoming my hearing.

A thunderous crash pulls me from my haze, and I see Holt land a punch directly to his father’s jaw. Jonathan Berkshire falls backward against an office chair and catches himself on the conference table.

“Get the f*ck out of here!” Holt barks. “You’ve done more damage in this lifetime than others could do in a hundred. I meant what I said when I told you I never wanted to see you again.”

His father simply rubs his jaw and smirks at me.

Holt’s chest rises and falls while tears sting my eyes and rage begins to overtake me. I look at Jonathan dressed in a designer suit, wearing a watch that probably costs more than all of the land my family owns—probably bought with the money he stole from my father. I close my eyes, quickly shaking off the sight of my father’s lifeless body on the barn floor before I open them as the sound of flesh hits flesh.

Holt lands another punch square to the middle of Jonathan’s face, knocking him completely to the ground. Blood spills from his nose and into his mouth, but he never loses the sick smirk on his face.

Holt draws back for a third punch when I finally find my voice. “Holt, stop.” It’s not powerful, it’s not loud, but it stops Holt in his tracks. It’s weak, but it’s all I have left in me at the moment.

He turns to me as I stand up from the couch he placed me on minutes ago, and I walk over to Holt’s desk, lifting the receiver on his phone. “We have a security issue in Mr. Hamilton’s office and need immediate assistance,” I say though a shaky voice into the phone. I calmly place the receiver down and, with a deep breath, find the courage to say everything I ever dreamed of saying to the man that destroyed my family. I close my eyes, allowing the tears to finally spill over. I hear the shotgun firing in the distance and smell the odor of gunpowder and blood.

I open my eyes and speak through the blurry tears. “Mr. Berkshire . . .” My legs tremble obnoxiously as I make my way to where he sits on the office floor, holding his nose. He’s pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and I watch as blood soaks the clean white cloth. I think about the blood that spilled from my father and how much more blood Mr. Berkshire deserves to lose.

As I approach, something inside me twists. This man, this waste of human breath, was my father’s friend, his mentor, his partner. Of all the times I imagined this moment, I never imagined crumbling, falling to my knees in front of him as heaving sobs escape me.

“I hate you,” I mumble between exasperating breaths. “I hate you.” My tight long dress rips at the seam as I kneel awkwardly. I ball my hands into fists and pound against this man’s chest. He tries to push away from me, but I fall into him, hitting him continuously. “I hate you,” I scream through my tears.

Holt takes a step toward me, but I hold out my arm to keep him at bay. “And you,” I turn to look up at him. “You lied to me.” My tears turn from anger to hurt as Holt moves in.

“Saige, let me explain.” He squats, bringing himself down to me. I can tell he’s in agony. I don’t care.

I shake my head vigorously. There’s nothing he could ever do to fix this. Nothing. I trusted him.

Holt’s office door bursts open, bouncing off the wall behind it, and three security guards enter the office. I bury my hands in my face as two of them help Jonathan Berkshire up and Holt explains what happened. The third asks me if I’m all right. I ignore his questions.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be all right. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive Jonathan Berkshire, or Holt, for that matter. I reach for the edge of the conference room table and pull myself up, straightening my ripped dress once I’m back on my feet. I swipe at the bitter tears on my cheeks and turn to Holt.

“Why?” I ask him, needing an explanation as to why he kept this from me for so long. I inhale a shaky breath.

He stands, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and he runs a hand through his dark hair.

“Answer me, Holt.”

He sits down on the edge of the couch in his office and buries his face in his hands. “Saige, there’s so much to tell you—”

“Liar,” I shout, the rage in my voice building. “You are nothing but a liar. Were you ever going to tell me?” He doesn’t answer. “So in New York when we were at dinner at your mom’s house. Was that a distraction too?”

His pained face is genuinely confused at that. “What’re you talking about, Saige? What do you mean ‘a distraction’?”

“That night when you stopped talking to me. You told me you loved me.” My voice cracks around the word. “Was that a distraction so you didn’t have to tell me your mom figured out who I was? She knew who I was. She put the pieces of the puzzle together when I told her my last name.” God, she figured it out that night. I press my hands against my stomach, trying to stop the ache. He inhales deeply and swallows hard, his lips pressing into a hard line. “Oh my God, Holt! How many more lies are there?”