Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
But fuck it, right? They've been saying the same shit about me for years. Never mind the fact that I haven't touched alcohol in four years. Never mind the fact that I've never done a goddamn drug in my life.
To them, I'm still the fuck up. He's still the legend.
Why bother trying to change their perception now? The only one it hurts in the end is my mother. The world doesn't need to know she was married to a monster. They don't need to know the shit he put her through. If they need to blame me to keep his precious memory intact, fine. So long as she doesn't suffer another fucking second because of him, I'll deal.
Doesn't mean I like it, though.
It's been four fucking years since I've had a drink…and I've never wanted one as badly as I have since the old bastard died.
"You want me to show her in?" Daniel asks.
"No. Tell whoever it is that I don't have time," I mutter. "I've got shit to handle today." I motion at the stack of paperwork on my desk—all shit I need to figure out now that I'm CEO of Hilltop Records.
If it weren't for my mother, I wouldn't be here at all. In exchange for me working at his side and keeping my mouth shut about who he really was, he kept his goddamn hands off her. I smiled and pretended I gave a shit about his company for years so she could live in peace.
Now, I own the damn company. There are dozens of recording artists counting on me. They've been counting on me for four years. While he got the credit, I did the work. Half the time, he was too distracted to even know what was going on. The other half, he was too busy trying to figure out new ways to steal from the company to do what needed to be done. Sorting out the mess he left is not making me want to drink any less.
"Oh, you're going to want to make time for this one." Daniel crosses his massive arms over his chest, smirking at me. "It's the sister."
I stare at him blankly.
"Your father's assistant's sister. The twin."
"Jesus Christ." I sit upright in my chair. "Isla Sterling is here?"
"Yep. Demandin' to see you."
Fucking hell.
Isla's twin, Bella Sterling, witnessed my father's murder. Last I heard, her dad sent her out of state to protect her. I feel terrible for the girl. She's barely old enough to have a job, let alone deal with something of this magnitude. She never should have been in that parking garage. She never should have come to work with my father. And she damn sure doesn't deserve to be embroiled in his shit now, with the men who killed him looking for her.
And the men who killed him weren't the kind of men you fuck with. As far as I've been able to figure out, he was in deep with the Dixie Mafia, owed them a whole fuckton of money.
He was borrowing from the label, siphoning off resources.
We had a massive goddamn fight about it not long before he was killed because the bastard tried to take out a loan in my name. He threatened my mother. I had to remind him—bluntly—that I'd spill all his dirty secrets if he even smiled at her wrong.
"What does she want?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at Daniel.
"How should I know? I wasn't goin' to grill the girl, Brantley. She looked like she was afraid I might bite."
"What the fuck do I pay you for again?"
"The benefit of my motherfuckin' wisdom." He grins, showing teeth. "You want me to send her in?"
"Fuck." I scrub a hand through my hair and then blow out a breath. "Go ahead. Might as well get this shit over with now."
Mac Sterling warned me I'd probably see her when he came to see me. Mac is…an interesting man. Not sure if he believed me or not when I told him that they weren't my fucking dealers. He just jerked his chin in a nod and told me to send his daughter home if she showed up.
Guess he knows her well, because that was three days ago, and here she is.
"Good luck." Daniel taps the door frame and then strolls out like he doesn't have a care in the world, the lucky bastard. He probably doesn't. The twin sister of the girl who watched his father being brutally murdered isn't sitting in his waiting room right now. And guilt isn't his constant fucking companion.
Christ. How is this my life? Better question...why the fuck is this my life?
I glance down at the newspaper spread across the top of my desk, glowering at the photo of my father staring up at me. If the fucking world knew what I did… Jesus.