Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) Read online

  “Father.” I pick up instead of sending him to voice mail like I would prefer. With him it’s useless. He’ll call again and again until he reaches me.

  “Tristan. You didn’t call over the weekend. Your mother worries.”

  Sure, she worries because she lost her grasp on me and my social life. I love the woman. She’s my mother. I just can’t handle talking to her too often. Listening to her rambling about what’s happening in her social circle, begging me to head back home and take over the company. Or marry Victoria Hudson, the heiress to Hudson Advertising Corporation. A company my father would love to acquire by marriage. I have no interest in either: Victoria or the company.

  “Father, I’m busy. Can you get to the point?” I press my head against the cold glass and close my eyes.

  “I want to confirm your attendance.” I open my eyes, staring at the murky evening, hoping that lightning will strike and I’d forget his fucking call. “We have a board meeting this Thursday and your brother is getting engaged over the weekend.”

  Engaged? To whom? I have to talk to him. Sounds unbelievable that Mother let Lucas marry his high school sweetheart. She hates her because she doesn’t have any class. Unless he broke up with her in the past year and ended up dating some rich idiot. That’s my brother: the perfect puppet of Viviane and Charles Cooperson. I’m the black sheep. The one that can’t understand social cues and norms. If I had a dollar for each time my father has beaten the fuck out of me for not being perfect, I could retire.

  “I don’t have time for board meetings or engagement parties, Father.”

  His heavy breath comes down the line. I can almost see the blood vessels in his neck pulsating and about to burst. “Make time, Tristan. We need you.” I cringe at his words because of the deep-seated obligation I feel. “Your mother is counting on you. Try not to fail her this time.”

  They don’t need me. They need to deliver a façade to the world. Declare that the Coopersons are perfect, and their children never fail to appear during these ridiculous gatherings.

  “Is Fey going?” The answer is no, of course. Fey is somewhere around the world not giving a shit about her family, but faking that she’s a missionary.

  “Of course not, Tristan. Fey’s in Port-au-Prince rebuilding the city.”

  I hold in my laugh. My sister has zero altruism running through her veins. Lucas should know where our little sister is. I don’t give a shit about her whereabouts. Fey and I no longer speak to each other. Not after she threw me under a bus. That was long ago, during Christmas break when I was a sophomore in college. She informed our parents that I hadn’t changed my deviations—that I still liked to be fucked by guys. That the special camp to fix me hadn’t worked as expected. Dad once again beat the shit out of me. Then, they shoved the subject under the carpet. A way to make me understand that my choices, as usual, were poor. Because there’s no fucking way that a Cooperson man likes guys. They think the word bisexual is a fashion statement, not a way of being. Not the way their firstborn should be—the one who’ll inherit the business and all that shit.

  “Look, Father, I don’t give a shit about your board or Lucas’s engagement. Your world is millions of years apart from mine. See you during the holidays.” I end the call.

  My mother is going to call. I can just hear her arguments now. Including her ramblings about Victoria and how I have to give her a chance. It’s for a cause, Tristan. When Mother married Father, she barely knew him, and they’ve been together for thirty-five years. That's their fucking shit, not mine. To rid myself of some of the rage I carry, I head to the gym. That should burn off the conversation and bring me back from Connecticut and the fucking farce I lived at that house.

  This was a bad idea. I think. The entire room spins around. Well, the hallway. Drinking myself to oblivion. Fuck, I am not twenty anymore. Why did I let my father get under my skin? No. It was my mother, not him. As I headed to the gym, she called me.

  “After everything I’ve done for you and this is how you repay me.” She began crying. “I’ve given you space, but it’s time for you to leave that forsaken city filled with lowlifes. The least you could do is come visit your family often and be there when we celebrate the good things.”

  The good things never include the opening of my establishments. I invited them the first few times, but after the fourth rejection, I decided to ignore them. This is my life, not theirs. From the moment I took my first breath and until I decided to leave them behind, they ruled every second of my life. My parents expected me to marry that bitch—fuck, I am so drunk, I can’t remember her name. Her father owns some old advertising company that my father wants to acquire by marriage. Well, he should divorce Mom and fucking marry the ass that owns it.

  After I hung up, I headed to the old Silver Moon and drank several whiskey sours and several beers to wash down the bottle of Scotch I ordered. Fuck. I’m carrying too much guilt. I’m thirty for God’s sake. I should be in charge of my life, my decisions, and my actions. Regrets are going to follow me for all my life. I don’t want that anymore.

  When I come out of the elevator, I try to open the door of my place, but the key doesn’t work. Still, the door opens. A set of magnetic eyes stare at me and I want to beg him to take me. Now, against the wall.

  “I would if you weren’t drunk,” he says, and I’m guessing I thought that out loud. “We’ve already talked about you being drunk, haven’t we?”

  “Fuck, you’re so hot, Matthew,” I voice without any inhibitions. “My father would shoot me with his handgun if he knew I let you stick your dick up my ass.”

  Matthew’s nostrils flare, and pity flashes through his eyes. “Well. Not many of us are lucky to have parents who understand who we are. I’m not judging, but dude, don’t drink yourself into a stupor like this.” He pulls me into his arms, closes the door, and helps me walk toward the sofa.

  “You smell like sex,” Matthew points out with an uncontrollable laugh. Sex? Right, the girl I met at the bar. A detour I should’ve avoided. “We’re not exclusive. It’s fine. But you’ll be hating life tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were in California,” I say, trying not to slur my words.

  I don’t respond to his exclusivity comment. Shame starts climbing through my body. Would he understand that I needed to lose myself for at least a night? Fuck, are we exclusive? I do regret what I did. She wasn’t that bad. I think . . . Fuck, I can’t remember much of what we did. I’m aware of that. Which is why I stopped engaging in such stupidities five or six years ago.

  “Want to talk about it?” I shake my head. Matthew cups my chin with his hand, lifting my head. “Keeping it inside won’t help you at all. I’m here for you, baby. Talk to me.”

  “My fucking parents.” I close my eyes, shutting out the light—and maybe the world. After several seconds, I continue, “They’re controlling, always have been. They want me to take charge of the family business . . . Hell, they even have the woman I should marry all picked out. Have I ever told you that they sent me to a place where they tortured me? For three months I lived on a farm where I heard day and night how God would condemn me for liking men. Day and night they submitted me to ‘sexual conversion therapy.’ Afterward, I went to a therapist who ‘helped me’ with my rebellion. I live in a constant state of self-rejection, Matt. Fighting who I am because of what I was told.”

  His big blue eyes stare at me as I open my eyes. He’s smiling. Happy. Like he has no fucking issues and his life is perfect. Matt’s siblings support his sexuality.

  Rage vibrates through my veins. I push myself off the couch and get in his face. “Yes, not all of us are as fucking lucky as you are. Some of us have nothing—no one supporting who we are, nor our choices. That doesn’t give you the fucking right to judge me.” I back out of the room, heading upstairs where I can shut out the world and recover from the roller coaster I’m living in.

  “I’m sorry.”

  It’s the next morning when I step inside the kitchen wher
e Matthew is drinking his coffee. His light brown strands frame his chiseled face. His broad shoulders are covered with a leather jacket. He looks dangerous. Edible. I like him better when he’s wearing only a smile and I can see his rippled muscles. Fuck, are we over? No. We’re friends that share some benefits. We can’t be over. I continue my apology instead. “Alcohol makes me a son of a bitch.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Matthew?”

  “Why did you contact my brother while he is on his honeymoon when you knew you could’ve come to me?” I take a step backward, trying to figure out the reason for his rogue tone. “Jacob left me in charge. You come to me. You don’t call him with your shit.”

  He rises, facing me with a cold stare I never thought he’d be capable of. His entire body straightens. Matthew fills the entire room with his presence. I narrow my stare, trying to defy the commanding stance he’s taken. But it is hard for me to defy him when almost on a daily basis I submit to him. Most days, his dominant nature calls to me. The submissive in me needs to be taken care of and in some primal way, I know he does, when and if I let him.

  I inhale before giving my explanation. “Jacob chose certain shit for the new club. I thought it’d be best to discuss a potential replacement with him.” I take a few steps backward leaning against the wall. “Clearly I have no idea what the two of you discuss and how things are handled.”

  He combs his hair with both hands, places them on the side of his hips, and gives me a serious look. “I’m the behind-the-scenes person. I research and make some decisions that would normally go to Jacob. He’s the voice of the three of us. Sometimes AJ takes the lead. That’s how we work.”

  His threatening look makes me want to apologize. Still not sure about what exactly. Pissing him off, insulting him last night, contacting Jacob instead of communicating with him . . .

  He leans closer, leveling his gaze with mine. “The speakers are on order and should be delivered next week.” And with that, Matthew leaves.

  I clamp down the urge to grab him. To demand that we finish this conversation, to clear the air.

  “Matthew,” I call after him, “it was never my intention to hurt you.”

  “Dude, it’s cool.” He pivots around to face me and then shrugs. “I hate drama. Hate it. I get it. You had a shitty day. I’m not gonna lie though, you pissed me off.”

  The air has changed. It’s as if whatever pull we had has completely disappeared. My lungs are having a hard time functioning. His spine straightens, his arms cross, and he gives me a look that says, I’m done. I’m done . . . with you. Fuck.

  I had escaped, refusing to bend to my parents’ wishes to be part of the big plan for Cooperson Corporations. One day I packed up and left. However, I always look back when they call. Not only do I look back, I fly home to please them. Like this weekend. Against my common sense, I boarded a plane from Seattle to Hartford, Connecticut, to follow my parents’ wishes.

  On Thursday, I attended the fucking board meeting, just as Father had ordered me to do on Monday. They only needed my vote for some stupid expansion. I said yes and ignored the rest of what every member had to say. Following the meeting, I got to play the part of being a peon for my father by having lunch, dinner, and then breakfast with clients. Friday afternoon, I had lunch with Mother and her committee of trophy wives. We had dinner at the house with Victoria Hudson, her parents, and Lucas. Lucas wasn’t alone. His bride-to-be, Mildred Rhoades, and the Rhoades family were in attendance too.

  My brother is a fucking idiot. He broke up with Winnie, his longtime girl, because they no longer cared for the same things. Idiot. In truth, Mother never liked her and this Mildred is the one she wanted for her son. The daughter of a famous plastic surgeon. Of course, my brother now plans to become a plastic surgeon. Because “That’s where the future of medicine is,” as my parents would say. A laughable statement.

  Now I stand in the middle of the large patio within our Hamptons home, avoiding Victoria at any cost. Yesterday’s dinner with her and her family was enough contact for me. I don’t care that she’s the creative director at her father’s company. Nothing she talked about interested me. Maybe she’s not so bad, but if she is anything like my parents, she’s not the person I want to be attached to for the rest of my life. Nonetheless, my father has been dropping hints about me using my grandmother’s engagement ring and making today a double engagement party.

  He has also spent time reminding me that once we consummated the marriage, the position of CEO would open up for me. Is he for fucking real? Consummate the marriage? Is this the middle ages?

  “I already own a business, Father. But thank you for the offer,” I had responded with a firm voice and then retired to my room.

  Father didn't let the subject, or myself go. No. He followed me all the way to my old room. “We’re not done with this conversation, Tristan. You've reached the end of the line.” His voice could be heard through the entire house. My father squeezed my arm and tried to spin me around the way he used to when I was younger. I did turn, but pushed him away from my body. His raging eyes darkened a few shades, and his face turned red. “What the fuck was that, Tristan? I'm your father, I deserve respect.”

  “Don't you dare to touch me,” I said, controlling my breathing, and my rage. “I won't allow you to ever hit me again. We have established that already. This is the last time I say it. I'm not coming back. No, I won't take over your company, and there won't be a Cooperson-Hudson wedding.” It remained on the tip of my tongue that I had a man in my life. That information would push him over the edge and I didn't know what he'd do. Having not heard from Matthew since I left Seattle, I wasn’t exactly sure that was the case anyway.

  If it wasn’t for the amount of whiskey I drank last night, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Earlier today, Mother woke me up. She believed we were driving to the Hamptons together—as a family. I refused.

  “You're pushing this too far, Tristan,” she had said with a cold voice. “Charles isn't happy with you, Son. He needs you.”

  Where had he been all the times I needed him? I remained silent as her words drilled inside my pounding head.

  “Your great-grandfather built Cooperson Corporation from the ground up with the little money he had in his pocket when he arrived from England.” She hit me with the same old story about our legacy. “It would be an honor to take over. You’re wasting the opportunity of a lifetime.” Those were the words I’d heard so many times from my parents over the years.

  “I don't want it. Keep your opportunities. I'm happier living in California.”

  “Are you still gay?” My mother crossed her arms and I was taken aback with her question. It was the first time she’d acknowledged my sexual preference, even when she used the wrong term. “We expected the teenage phase would be gone by now. You're thirty. Time to grow up, Tristan.”

  I couldn't help myself and released a big laugh. As if I could change my sexual orientation with time. Gay isn't the term, but I didn’t explain to her that she's wrong about it either. Were they seriously expecting that “the phase” would disappear with time? No amount of money or therapies changed who I am. Those “treatments” only confused the hell out of me. I lost friends and myself during that period. If I’m not careful, I might even lose the closest friend I’ve had in years, and my lover. But I didn’t tell her any of that. I remained silent for a few breaths.

  “I'm driving my own car, Mother,” I said, composing myself. “As you pointed out, I'm a grown man that can make his own decisions. See you there.”

  “Fine.” She smoothed her skirt. “Take your own car, but remember to behave during the party. That includes being social, and interacting with Victoria—your future wife.”

  I flinch at the memory of that fucking conversation. I'm older, I remind myself while massaging my temples. They can't beat the hell out of me the way they used to. No. They can’t touch me anymore. Thank. Fuck. So, why do I still let them?

  Between the
hangover, the sun’s reflection, and the noise, I don’t notice when Victoria approaches me. The whiff of her sweet floral perfume overwhelms my senses. As I scrunch my nose, she tosses her long, shiny hair over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. The attempt at a seductive pose does nothing to excite anything inside me. My only worry is that it's too cold for that skimpy dress she’s wearing.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you, Tristan.” She licks her lips as she angles her face. The practiced number is not working on me. “We have to catch up. It’s hard to get to know you when you live on the other side of the country.”

  “That’s where my life is, Victoria.” This was worse than a board meeting. “Between L.A. and Seattle. I don’t have time to come over often.”

  “I understand. I barely have time to play around, but maybe next time I’m in L.A., I can visit you.” I resist the urge to step away from her. Not because I’m enjoying the torture, but because I spot my mother watching me from the other side of the courtyard. “Maybe I can visit your offices and talk about doing the advertisement for your . . . What is it that you do again?”

  “I own bars and nightclubs along the west coast.” Her face remains indifferent.

  Is she waiting for more? Like my parents, she’s probably waiting for me to add something extra. Owning a few little nightclubs is hardly considered anything spectacular in my family. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I decided to open a pub down in San Mateo when I left.

  Once I turned twenty-one and my trust fund became available, I took advantage and cashed it. My first order of business was to donate half to the LGBT charity in Connecticut. After that, I dropped out of Yale and moved to California. The best way to start my new, independent life was by starting a business that had nothing to do with my family. A pub. Of course that independence only goes so far, like when I head back to my parents’ during the holidays and can’t seem to cut all the ties attached to them.