Typical.
He practically made me orgasm just by threatening me back at the bar, all that filthy growling and promises he has no intention of keeping.
Now, he can’t even fucking look at me.
This brute is starting to get on my nerves.
And to top it off, he’s in a bad fucking mood. I can feel it rolling off him in waves.
I exhale slowly, letting my forehead press against the cool glass of the window. The chill soothes my overheated skin, but it does nothing for the way my heart pounds. I should close my eyes, breathe, and pretend I don’t feel his bad mood radiating beside me.
His phone buzzes. A sharp, vibrating sound that slices through the heavy tension like a blade.
I peek over, glancing down at the screen just as the name flashes across it.
Vartan.
Of fucking course. As if this night wasn’t already a goddamn mess.
Without hesitation, Carter taps the screen, answering the call with a rough swipe, tosses the phone onto the center console, and hits speaker.
“What do you want dude, I’m in a bad fucking mood, so make this quick.”
My father’s voice crackles through the truck’s speakers.
“Just checking in on her,” he says, his voice dripping with disinterest. “Seeing how much my disappointment of a daughter is holding up.”
I flinch, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
The air inside the truck feels like it has dropped ten degrees. Carter goes completely still, the only movement is the tightening of his fists on the wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. I can practically hear the growl building in his throat.
“Vartan.”
But of course, my father doesn’t shut the fuck up. He never does.
“I assume she’s still wasting time,” he continues, “embarrassing herself? Or has she finally realized she’s not cut out for real work and needs to come crawling back to Daddy for help?”
I stare down at my lap, my throat raw from swallowing past the lump lodged there, my fingers twist aimlessly at the hem of my shirt.
I don’t know why it still gets to me. Every cruel word still feels like it carves something vital out of me. I question why some pathetic, broken part of me still waits—still fucking hopes—for something different.
I spent so long waiting for him to change, for him to say something kind, and to look at me like I wasn’t a mistake he wished he could take back. I constantly wait for him to love me without conditions, the way a father is supposed to love his daughter. I sit through this toxic cycle, waiting for my father’s approval, but my expectations lower every time he opens his mouth.
Carter’s had enough bullshit for the night.
“Stop calling her that,” he snaps, a rough growl escaping his throat.
Silence crackles down the line. Even Vartan, arrogant bastard that he is, seems caught off guard.
Carter’s hands flex around the wheel, as he lets out a long, exasperated breath.
“Stop calling your daughter a fucking disappointment,” Carter grits out, “maybe if you fucking paid attention to her, you’d see that she’s a fucking person with feelings.”
I blink hard, my breath catching somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
Did he just?
He doesn’t give Vartan a chance to respond.
