Page 99 of Beast

Her father stood in front of the bar. “So, Patrick. Can I get you something to drink? A martini perhaps?”

Who did they think I was—James Bond? What twenty-five-year-old guy drinks martinis? I grunted. “Thank you, sir. That sounds great.” Fuck. I didn’t even know how to talk to these people.

I studied Annie as she sat with her back erect on the white leather sofa and bit her nails. This was her home, but she didn’t seem comfortable. And it sure as hell wasn’t kid friendly for Gabriel. Sharp-edged glass table, ceramic vases. Couldn’t they hire someone to child proof now that they had their grandson living here?

This place was so pristine, like a museum. If her parents had seen where she had been living for the past five years, they would’ve had heart attacks. Well, at least with their cover story, no tabloid would return to Aruba and try to retrace Annie’s steps, expose what had happened to her. The brothel burnt down, so even if they ever went back her parents wouldn’t know how bad her existence truly had been.

But I would never forget. The smells of sex, drugs, sweat, and smoke were permanently ingrained in my head.

When I looked up, I met her father’s glare. He’d returned a few moments prior and by the narrowing of his eyes he must have seen me watching her. Great.

Her father handed me the martini, his cold eyes assessing. “Can I have a word with you on the deck?”

The martini even came with the standard-issue blue cheese stuffed olive. Bonus. I took a sip of the liquor. I suddenly had a feeling I would probably need all the alcohol I could get.

“Sure, sir.” I followed him out to the redwood deck. I’d rather be interrogating a terrorist than be alone with this former Naval Officer. I downed the rest of the martini.

I breathed in the salty ocean air. I would never own a house like this. My own one bedroom rental could fit in the size of their living room.

“So, Patrick. Annie told me everything. How you met, how you rescued her. I’d like to thank you for your service.”

My service? “It was the right thing to do.”

He reached into his pocket and placed a folded piece of paper in my hand. “This should cover your expenses.”

I opened it. It was a three hundred thousand dollar check made out to Patrick Walsh. I’d be able to help my mom out, buy a new truck, and put a down payment on a condo. Pay off debt. I could live a fairly comfortable life for years on the amount of money I held in the palm of my hand.

I didn’t hesitate to hand it back to him. “I can’t accept this.”

Mr. Hamilton laughed; his nose lifted in disgust, and shoved the check back into my hand. “Yes, you can. I knew men like you in the Navy—pieces of shit who would cheat on their wives with hookers. I hope you can leave us alone to heal. In private.” His eyebrow rose. “Annie has been through enough. Seeing you is a reminder of her past. How you used her, forced her to get you off. I don’t want scum like you hanging around my daughter.”

My own vision narrowed, I opened my stance and took a few controlling breaths. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? “I can’t be bought off. If it wasn’t for me, Annie would still be shooting up heroin and screwing strangers. Or dead. You think I’m scum?” I sneered. “You should’ve seen her pimp.” I ripped up the check, went back inside, and charged toward the front door.

No one was going to tell me how to live my life and who I could see.

Annie was waiting in the dining room, her mother close by her side. Their heads both shot in my direction as I strode through the perfectly appointed kitchen and then past them. I ignored the smirk on her mother’s face and the frown on Annie’s.

“Are you leaving?” she called after me. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”

If I left, I’d be doing exactly what her father wanted. He wasn’t going to win. I wanted to be with Annie and no one was going to stop me.

“No. I just need a second.”

“Okay, do you want a tour?”

“Sure.”

I took the stairs behind her two at a time and followed her into a room, where she sat down on the bed; her shoulders hunched inward, hands lying limply on her lap.

“This is my bedroom,” she whispered.

I glanced around the room. Its stark white walls had weird pictures of Victorian children in frames above the sleigh bed, and tiny little porcelain dolls arranged on an antique vanity. It reeked of a combination of mothballs and potpourri. “Your room? Are you eighty? This place is creepy. You actually sleep in here? No wonder you have nightmares.”

She gave me a dazed expression. The same one I had seen back on the boat. “Well, my mom had it redecorated after I went missing—used it as a guest room. I understand, I guess. They had me declared legally dead. For insurance and stuff. I don’t see the point in redecorating it. I’m going to move out at some point. I don’t really feel comfortable here.”

“How do you not feel comfortable in your own home? Didn’t you grow up here?”

“Yes.” She stroked the flowery bedspread. “But it feels so different now. All traces of me had been removed. I don’t blame them for moving on.”