“Thank you for flying JetLuxe today. Welcome to sunny Los Angeles. The current temperature is seventy degrees. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
Yeah, so fucking pleasant.
Coming back here was a fuckingmistake. I should’ve ghosted the entire city, dropped off the face of the Earth, and let everyone assume I ran away. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Of course, Vartan Ajemian wasn’t waiting for me at baggage claim like some normal-ass dad.
Whatever. Thank God my car’s parked here, pass paid, tank full.
Needing him? Not a fucking option.
I pause outside the terminal, arms wide open, already pulling Layla and Amelia into a hug that has me swallowing a lump as big as my ego.
Layla makes a dramatic sniffle against my shoulder. “Don’t get murdered by your dad, okay?”
Amelia leans in close, squeezing me tighter. “Text us the second he starts his manipulative bullshit. I’ll come over there and fuck him up myself.”
“You bitches are so dramatic,” I mutter, my grip tightening. “If I go missing, don’t look for me. Just know I’m either buried in his wine cellar or finally thriving in federal prison.”
Layla pulls back, squinting. “Are you seriously wearing that sweatsuit to spite him?”
I glance down at my soft gray Alo set, tugging the waistband. “Layla, honey, it’s called being a bitch. Which is why I bought it in three colors.”
Amelia smirks, smoothing my messy ponytail with a hand that’s way too gentle for the snark on her face. “Text us when you get there.”
I give them one last squeeze, slipping my sunglasses back over my eyes, shielding the tears forming behind them. Without another word, I turn on my heel and begin to walk toward the parking garage, the sting in my throat rising with every step.
The smell of exhaust and hot pavement clings to the air as I dig out the damn parking ticket, I swipe my card at the kiosk, paying for the stupid fee.
My phone won’t stop fucking buzzing. It rattles inside my bag, lighting up every few seconds with another call from his assistant, what’s-her-face with the nails and the personality of a parking cone, probably reminding me forthe third goddamn time that Daddy Dearest is expecting me at the house.
Not a home, not even fucking close.It stopped being that the second my mom took her last breath. What replaced her is a cold, empty house with gut-wrenching silence.
I toss my Louis Vuitton duffle into the backseat of my matte black G-Wagon with a little more force than necessary, the thud echoing throughout the car. I climb in, slamming the door shut, taking a long, sharp breath through my nose, already regretting everything about this.
The engine roars to life beneath me, a deep, growling purr that vibrates in my chest. I scroll through my phone, thumb hovering over a dozen playlists before landing on the only one that ever does the trick—filthy drops, loud, upbeat house music.
The kind of shit that rattles my brain enough to shut everything else out. Bass floods the car, and I throw it into drive. Tires screech as I peel out of the lot, and for one brief, blissful second, I feel in control.
Then I hit the streets. Of COURSE there’s fucking traffic.
A honking, sun-baked, bumper-to-bumper shitshow of metal, rage and people who should’ve lost their driver’s licenses in two thousand and seven.
Classic fucking Los Angeles.
I slam my palm against the wheel as traffic comes to a dead stop. “Why the fuck are all these idiots stopped!”
Sitting in this bumper-to-bumper of piled-up cars, it forces me to rethink every choice I’ve made in my life. And right now? That choice was hopping on a plane to Ibiza to see my favorite DJ perform, blowing through my dad’s black card.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t limitless.
Double spoiler: He’s fucking pissed.
Triple spoiler: I don’t give a flying fuck.
Well, I do and I’m shitting my pants.
My fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel, the brand-new leather warm under my palms from the sun baking through the windshield. My sunglasses might be designer, but they do jack shit to hide the tension in my face.
Every time I glance at the ETA crawling forward, bile rises in my throat.
