Page 79 of Pink Ink

I nod once. “Car accident. The engine exploded.”

“Why only once a year?”

Sighing, I turn to look at him. “His job was more important to him than his family.”

I laugh when his lips twist like he’s personally victimized by this revelation. “Why? What the bloody hell did he do that he only had one day off every three hundred sixty-four days?”

“CIA.”

His eyes bulge a fraction. “Really?”

“Fuck no.” I snort as the cab driver yells at a pedestrian. “As a kid, it was a toss-up between that, assassin, Batman, or one of the FBI’s most wanted. Five-year-old me thought the CIA was the safest bet. Every time I’d ask, he’d give me some bullshit answer like ‘businessman’ or ‘sales.’ Then I got in trouble withbothmy parents during ‘bring your dad to school’ day when I stood up and said that my dad couldn’t come because he was running away from the police—but it’s okay because he came and saw me once a year. I finished the speech by making everyone promise they wouldn’t tell the cops. Surprise, surprise, the school did. That was my first experience with betrayal.”

“Christ.”

“He sent me money, though. Dad of the year for that.”

Maddox scoffs. “That makes up for everything.”

“Oh, for sure. It literally made all the mental illness go away since it just so happened to be the exact amount required to pay for a therapist.”

The smile wipes off his face as his eyes drop to my thighs. The attention usually makes me uncomfortable because it’s like waiting for a judgment bomb to go off, but instead, he looks pissed.

“Say the word, and I’ll kill him again for you.”

I choke on a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to say that to people who lose a parent.”

He lifts a shoulder and drops his hand on the seat, dangerously close to my thighs. “The offer still stands.”

And they say chivalry is dead.

“What about your dad? Any trauma there, or is it mainly mommy issues?” It’s a rude assumption, but one I’d bet good money on. No one makes the type of art he does and holds such a hateful outlook on the world without having family issues.

He levels a dirty look my way.

“Both, then,” I conclude, smirking. His deadpan stare is confirmation enough. “Let me guess, one or both of your parents aren’t fans of your art. They think you should have been a lawyer, doctor, an accountant,or something that involves a soul-crushing nine-to-nine corporate job. How close am I?”

He just looks at me, and I grin as I give him an obvious once-over of his overly refined clothes. No one dresses like that without money, and no teenager could have pulled off the art he had made unless his parents had deep wallets.

“I think your mom’s on the PTA and is Hermès’s favorite client, while your dad’s a businessman of some kind who—”

“He’s the president of Wilson Shaw.”

I stare blankly at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but his irritation slowly morphs to cold amusement.

“The accounting company,” Maddox explains.

“Wow. That’s… cool.”

“You have no idea who they are, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

Uh. “Should I…?”

“It’s a Fortune 500 company.”