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“What’s the plan?” Rock asks me.
“I’m gonna tell my father off, then I’m gonna beat the shit out of my brother.”
“And Elaina?”
“First things first,” I mumble as the doors slide open. There’s a fancy reception lobby in front of us. To the right, a woman sits at a desk in front of an elaborate door.
Bingo.
I stalk right past her.
“Excuse me, sir. You can’t go in there. Sir!”
Flinging the door wide, I find my father behind a desk; the floor to ceiling windows behind him showcase an amazing view of the Front Range.
He leans in his chair and hangs up his phone, shocked at my entrance, and shocked, too, I’m sure, at the fact I’m wearing an MC vest and accompanied by three of my brothers.
“What the hell are you doing here? And what the hell are you wearing?” my father snaps.
“I came to see you, Dad. How’s your day going?”
His gaze takes me in from head to toe. “So, it’s true. You really are in a biker gang. I thought Elliott was exaggerating.” He points at the door. “Get the hell out.”
I grin. “I’ll go when I’m good and ready. Where’s Elliott?”
“In his office, I’m sure. Why? Come to fuck up his life some more?”
I yank the phone off the receiver and hold it out to him. “Get him up here.”
“The only person I’m calling is the police.” He grabs the phone out of my hand.
Rock leans his knuckles on the desk and gets right in my father’s face. “You won’t report a fucking thing, ol’ man, because if you do, you’re dead. I’ll throw you out that goddamn window, and I don’t give a goddamn whose father you are. We clear?”
My father stares at Rock, frozen in place. I’m sure he’s never been spoken to like this in his entire life. But then, he’s never met a man like our president before.
Rock’s chin pulls to the side. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
“We’re clear,” my father grits out, getting to his feet.
Rock shoves his chest. “Sit down.”
My father plops into his chair.
The intercom on the desk buzzes.
“Mr. Whitmore? Mr. Whitmore, is everything all right? Do you want me to call 911?”
“Tell her it’s fine,” I snap.
“It’s fine, Wendy. Could you have Elliott come here, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good answer,” Rock says, then walks over to a credenza and checks out the bar. He lifts a bottle and whistles. “Thirty-year-old Scotch. I’m impressed.”
He passes the bottle to me. “Here you go, kid.”
I twist the cap and drink straight from the bottle, watching my father’s look of horror and fury. “You have no damn manners. Why am I not surprised?”
