58. Renee

I have a white-knuckled death grip on the car’s oh-shit handle in the ceiling above me. Deacon is a speed demon, zipping through traffic with reckless abandon. Every narrow miss has me on edge—a near-clip here, an almost-rear-end there.

I”m going to die in this car.

Deacon, however, is not concerned with our impending reality check with mortality. He”s a furious, ranting mess. Totally off his shit.

”I knew, I fucking knew we should have bypassed this long engagement nonsense,” he snarls. ””It”ll be good press,” our mothers said. Too fucking bad they were too fucking stupid to realize you don”t know how to play your fucking role.”

He barely misses side-swiping a motorcyclist off the road. My stomach leaps into my throat. I feel like I”m going to be sick. ”Deacon, slow down. We can talk about this?—”

”Don”t tell me what to do! You fucking DuBois shits think you run the world, don”t you? Well, maybe you do. But you have too much power. Why should I play the way you want to play? Why can’t I make the rules?”

”I never wanted this, Deacon!” I cry out. I”m knocked around in my seat as he swerves across four lanes of horn-blaring drivers to hit an exit. ”You and my father worked together for this marriage!”

”Ah, so it”s my fault you have no self-control and can”t keep your promises?”

”That”s not what I said?—”

”So maybe I”m just a moron,” he continues on as if I never spoke. ”Maybe I”m the one who should have seen this coming. After all, you women are all basically the same. Stupid tramps. Sluts. Whores. This is the last time I”m getting the runaround from the likes of you, Renee. I’ve had enough!”

I have to think fast. I have to do something, but words aren”t going to solve a damn thing. There”s no reasoning with a man who has lost out on his life”s goal. Deacon’s whole existence was spent burrowing himself into my father”s pockets and now, he’ll never see a penny. No cushy board seats for him. No vacations in the south of France.

At this point, he can have all of it for all I care. I sure as shit don”t want it. Not with all the strings that come attached.

I don”t know where we”re going, but we”re nowhere I recognize. That”s a problem.

I need to keep him talking. As I do, I inch my hand toward my pocket to my phone.

”Where are we going, Deacon?” I question as I pass my fingers over the keypad. I have to go by memory because I can”t risk him seeing where I have my attention drawn.

”I’m going to right the wrongs your bullshit has done to me,” he spits. ”But if I”m not given what I”m owed, then some other motherfucker shouldn”t get to have it either, don”t you agree?”

I don”t like the way that sounds. So I offer up a silent prayer to whoever the hell might be listening.

Please… please let me get a hold of Weston before it”s too late.