All mistakes are mine.
I'm outside, the night full of chatter from the nearest restaurant, the breeze rustling my linen shirt. It's nice out but I'm sweating bullets nonetheless.
"Motherfucker," I mutter under my breath.
He's screening my calls. I'm fucking sure of it.
I pull up my mother's number and stare at the screen. I wonder where she's at these days. Was it Greece? Or was it Switzerland? Or maybe Barbados with the girls where she's inhaling vodka-tonics as if she needs them to survive in her five-inch heels.
"Hey, what was that in there?" Diego leans against the street light, his white button-down crinkled and untucked. He looks like a mess.
"I don't fucking know," I yell at him. "And what's up with you, huh? You have a kid's credit card limit." I fist his shirt, smell the alcohol and the girl's perfume on him.
"We can't all be fucking billionaire legacies, Cullen," he barks.
"You act like you're a fucking bigshot, leeching off me like a damn whore. I can't even count on you when something silly like this happens? You call that friendship?"
"Hey!" He bites back, shoving me off him, but toppling over in his attempt.
"You're fucking pathetic." I look around for the valet, give him my card. He nods and disappears. I hear the engine of the Phantom roaring in the background. I can't wait to get the fuck out of here.
"Sir?" The valet dangles the keys in front of me, his smile fading as all blood drains from my face the second I hear the voice on the other end of the line.
It's not my mother.
It's Dad.
I can count the times where Mr. and Mrs. Cullen have been together in the past ten years on my both hands. So the fact that Carlisle is answering Mother's phone? That's monumental to say the least.
"Give me a sec," I bark into the phone.
"Have a good evening, sir," the guy says. I nod and rush into priceless leather seats, waiting for my phone to connect with the car.
"Edward, son, I don't have all fucking day." My dad's voice booms through the Rolls' interior.
All day. That means he's in the States. Somewhere.
"Why do you sound like a migraine, Carl?" I joke.
"Shut up, Edward. I don't have much time… why are you calling your mother?" He asks me the question, yet there's this hint to his voice.
"I want to know why my credit card has been fucking frozen, Mr. Cullen," I all but yell at the guy, missing my turn for the harbor.
"Yeah, about that." I hear him shut a door, hear the soles of his Italian shoes clack on marble floors that share the same nationality.
They're home. I can tell because after that my dad opens glass doors and the city of New York roars alive in the background.
"There's been this silly investigation since you've left to play Freedom of The Seas over in France." Carlisle Cullen is bluffing. And he's usually never bad at that.
"God fucking damnit…what did you do?" I ask him, fumbling with the buttons to the GPS until I find the address of the yacht.
"That's no tone to talk to your father in, boy," he bites at me. "And maybe you should come to work more than twice a month, little leech."
"Hey," I laugh bitterly. "You keep telling me it's 'your' company every fucking time I come up with an idea, Mr. CEO."
It's true. My old man hates his only participating son at board meetings. In fact, he tells me he only has one son since my older brother decided to vanish off the face of the earth the second he fell in love with a stripper at twenty-two. I don't even know where the fuck he lives.
"All company assets have been frozen. That includes your little AmEx card."
"I still have to pay for the rental car, Dad!" I shout at him.
"Figure it out, Edward. I have bigger fish to fry than your lifestyle."
Just like that, the line goes dead.
