Page 83 of Holding On

And then there’s the way he looks when he smiles. I once heard another female singer describe his smile as something that gave her the ick—and it’s the perfect definition for the slimy bastard. He clearly thought he was important and deserved to be on the same level as Jack and Wells. When in reality, he didn’t bring anything impressive to the table, and once people realized he was just a really good bullshitter, they stopped taking his calls because he didn’t serve a purpose or bring any value to the table.

But for some reason, Kane Daughtry is standing behind my stepfather—former stepfather? I’m not sure how that works now that my mother is dead. Even more alarming than the fact they are standing next to each other is the reality that they’re standing in front of me in the place I had started to consider home.

In my very secure, security team presence around-the-clock building.

Adding to the violation of my safety and comfort is the woman standing directly in front of Kane: Rick’s sister, Debbie Jo. Since she started working for Rick, Debbie Jo always wore dark jeans or black slacks, and various black shirts that were always nondescript and plain. But as she struts into the penthouse, Debbie Jo is anything but plain. She’s wearing a tight sheath black shimmering dress with an uncharacteristic plunging neckline, red stiletto high heels, and a white jacket over her shoulders. Her hair is pulled back in a high and tight ponytail with full glam makeup, which only adds to this peculiar situation. I often wondered if she even owned lip balm, but this version of Debbie Jo is more than just surprising—it’s completely out of character.

Or maybe it’s exactly who she’s been hiding the entire time and the woman I’ve known is the actual character.

Rick is wearing his typical designer jeans, expensive dress shoes, and a black button-down dress shirt. I don’t have to see it to know he likely has a gun stuck in the back of waistband. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back, and he looks like he just arrived at a business meeting—not trespassing and breaking a no-contact order while avoiding the authorities who have questions for him regarding his wife’s death. I have plenty of questions for him as well, but I don’t want to ask any here in the penthouse alone, especially when I unfortunately recognize the belt he’s wearing. The square edges of that particular buckle were exceptionally painful the last time he wore it around me and used it to hit me, and I doubt the accessory choice was a coincidence today.

Nothing is a coincidence when it comes to Rick Wilson.

As the misplaced trio walks down the foyer toward me, the clicking of their shoes on the wooden plank floors yanks my brain back online, and I grab my phone to dial Jack. But before my call can go through, Kane’s sleazy voice makes me jump. “Nuh-uh-uh, I wouldn’t go and do that, darling.” His southern accent is entirely fake, just like his ridiculous hair plugs. Wells told me the guy is from some tiny town in North Dakota. And the way he called me darling? Entirely different than the way it made me feel when literally anyone else in my life called me that. I had showered just moments ago, but one look and a few words from his vile mouth makes me want a fresh bar of soap and thirty minutes in a hot shower.

But also … what the hell? These assholes waltz into my home and think they can tell me what to do?

I’m not a scared little girl anymore. I square my shoulders and lift my chin, holding my head high. With an authority I don’t quite feel in the moment, I demand, “What are you doing here? You need to leave.”

“Ha ha, cute.” Debbie Jo cocks her head at me like I’m a puzzle to solve. “A bit rude, but that’s on-brand for a brat like you.”

Rick ignores his sister as he continues to slowly walk toward me. “You stupid, spoiled, little bitch. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

But I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to be a sitting duck, so for every step he takes in my direction, I mirror it away from him in some weird dance. “Stop walking away from me, Tinsley.”

“No, Rick. Y’all need to leave. None of you are welcome here in my home.”

Rick and Kane both laugh, Rick’s sounding like a jagged sneer and Kane’s really embracing the cartoon villain vibes today—he just needs a white fluffy cat. Debbie Jo’s eyes light up in glee at their response, as though she’s entertained by the entire thing.

“Her home. Do you hear that, Kane? She’s playing house with the boss man. Does he pay you extra to take it on demand?” Rick leans forward before adding in a stage whisper, “I think that actually makes you his whore, Tinsley.”

“If that’s an option, let me know the rate. I’ll Venmo you, sugar tits.” The creep licks his lips, and I’m tempted to barf on him, on principle alone. His comment must piss Debbie Jo off, and she leans over, slapping Kane upside the back of his head. “Ow, what the hell, babe?”

Rick ignores his sister as he spins on his heels to Kane, pissed off. “I said, no! Don’t make me fucking repeat myself!” Rick barks while pointing the gun he pulled from his back waistband toward Kane—I knew he had one on him somewhere.

“Why the fuck do you care? She’s just a bitch.” Kane scowls in response while shrinking back a few steps.

Rick moves faster than I expected, rushing over to Kane before he cocks the gun, shoving it in his face. “Because I’m the fucking boss. If I say jump, you fucking jump. If I say handle something, you handle it. If I say don’t touch my pain-in-the-ass stepdaughter, then you stay the fuck away from her. Can you get that through your thick skull, or do I need to make a pathway with a fucking bullet?”

Debbie Jo steps in between the two men, as though she’s going to break them up. I don’t need to see Rick’s face to know that the vein in his forehead is pulsing. Whenever that specific vein throbs, everything is going to be more painful and more dramatic. “You’re right, Rick, you always know what’s best and we follow your lead, isn’t that right, Kane?” She bares her teeth at the man over her shoulder, but I don’t think Kane is smart enough to read the room.

I, on the hand, am much smarter than these morons, so while they argue with each other, I turn the volume all the way down on my phone so no sound comes out it, call Jack’s cell, and place it on speaker before setting it on the counter, screen side facing down so there’s no sign of a call in progress. I do all this as quickly and quietly as possible that I swear I can hear my own heart beating out of my chest as I try not to draw any attention. There are beads of sweat sliding down my forehead and trickling down my back as I attempt to remain unnoticed from their squabble. I take slow and deliberate steps away from my cell, hoping and praying that if I put a little distance between myself and the phone that no one else will notice it.

My attention was fully focused on my steps away from the phone instead of the altercation, so when the gunshot rings throughout the room, it scares the absolute shit out of me. I scream at the top of my lungs and jump before running away on instinct.

Rick still catches me—because of course, he grabs my hair before I can make it into the closest guest room to lock the door. As he drags me by my hair back into the kitchen and I struggle against his hold, the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. In fact, if I wasn’t in such searing pain from the grip Rick has on me, I might even laugh at the paradox.

He always hated when I wore my hair curly and down—and that’s how the asshole ends up catching me. But the only irony I care about right now is that while Rick always thought he was smarter than me, he never noticed the connected phone call.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Wells

Did Tinsley call you?

Me

Hello to you too. No, I was texting with her earlier though. What’s going on?