“This guy’s famous, right?” Taggart said grimly. “Google his name plus the wordvideo.”
I did as Tag advised, and there it was—a whole page of search terms related to the video that had been uploaded the night before and removed. Others had made screen caps and copied it and reposted. There were already memes.
“Oh Christ.” I groaned. “It’s everywhere, isn’t it?”
“The internet is forever, especially for a guy like Sebastian Keye.”
This was going to kill him, if it hadn’t already.
Chapter Twelve
Bast
For what seemedlike a long time, I knew nothing but snatches of low-voiced conversations and horrible pain. I didn’t come around until much later, after everyone had left but my father.
He stood like a man of consequence, legs spread, hands in his pockets, staring out the window so the light hit him just so. His face resembled a dark-haired Charlie Hunam in hisSons of Anarchydays. Today, he wore a bespoke suit, a watch that cost six figures, and a frown that would make ordinary men shit blood.
Dangerous beauty, my mother had said.
“I hope that look isn’t for me,” I croaked.
“Your ownership of this expression is currently at seventy-five percent. I’m cursed.” He came over and ruffled my hair affectionately. “Stupid boy child. What am I going to do with you?”
I went to lift my hand, but my arm ached as though it had been crushed. Both arms were wrapped in thick, padded bandages, and they hurt like fire.
“I’ve been mummified.” My tongue felt slow and thick.
He unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in the uncomfortable orange plastic chair by my bed. “Your left ulna and radius are broken in several places. I’m having an orthopedic surgeon flown in from LA who will put plates and pins and God knows what else in there while you heal.”
“So…” I was slow to comprehend this. “No more airport metal detectors?”
If looks could kill.“Can you not make jokes, please?”
“I messed up.” I didn’t know why he still put up with me. I kept ruining the things I touched.
“Your right ulna has a hairline fracture. How did you break both arms, Sebastian?” He stood and turned away, hands folded behind his back as if to address a jury.
That particular stance meant he already knew the answer.
“I really don’t remember,” I admitted.
He turned and drilled me with the patented Alastair Keye, attorney-at-law glare. “If you were to remember, what would your answer be?”
I object?
“Probably protected the moneymaker.” Of course I’d have protected my face. “Ow. Why does it hurt so much? Don’t these people believe in painkillers?”
“You have a concussion. They have to be careful with medication.” Dad pressed the nurse’s call button and told her I was in pain. “How did you end up on a ledge fifteen feet below the bluffs?”
“Don’t remember. Honestly.” I tried out my winsome grin but it failed. “I ate with Molly and Stone.”
Dad lifted a brow. “Do I know this Stone person?”
Laughing hurt like hell. “You make him sound…like a gargoyle.”
“Oh, Bast.” Dad used the gentle tone he reserved only for me. “I know it’s your nature to joke when you’re frightened, but it would have killed me if you hadn’t gotten a lucky break last night. Don’t make light of it, please.”
He closed both hands over mine, put his forehead on them, and willed me to cut it out with the power of his wounded dignity.
