Belladonna (Billionaire Boys Club #1)

Chapter 51

Lucas:

I've been stood in this damn closet for about thirty minutes deciding what to wear.

I mean, I do that regularly, but this time is just pure fucking stress.

I have two options now. Both all black. One, including a shirt with black pants and a pair of boots. The other, the same but the shirt is replaced by a plain crewneck.

I glance at the time on my phone and ultimately decide on the second option, sliding the sweatshirt over my head and over my torso.

Looping a belt into the holes of my pants and tucking the sweater in, I keep thinking about tonight and all the directions it could go in. My heart pumping in my chest.

Before I let her go earlier this week, I told her I'd pick her up at seven. And that even if she changed her mind, I'd show up anyway. Promising to burst into her room and rip her from her bed if I have to.

She told me not to be an arrogant ass.

But I saw the blush on her cheeks.

She can deny it all she wants. I know my girl likes the way I play.

I shut my door and make my way to the front entrance, but just as I'm about to grab the handle, a voice stops me.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Here we fucking go.

I turn around to face my father, eyes focused on his as he leans against the small pillar at the bottom of the staircase, his eyebrows raised.

Unlike a lot of people I know, and unlike what most assume about me if they don't actually know me, is that I have that cliche, estranged relationship with my dad.

Because everyone that's an asshole must have some form of mommy or daddy issues, right?

Wrong.

For some of us, it's just our way of fun. The way we are.

And I probably inherited that trait from him anyway.

But alas, me and my father get along just fucking fine. Great, actually.

Almost all the guys I know of aren't close with their dads. Either not since they were old enough to fly a curse their way or never were at all. And it all slithers back to the whole "I don't want to take over the family business. It's not my dream, dad. It's yours." bullshit.

I for one, am completely fine with that. Quite looking forward to it, actually.

Not that my father would care either way. He's always given me the choice. Though, I know every time he's lay out that card, he'd have hope in his chest that I'd choose to work with him and then one day take over. Which I did. Which I do.

We bond over random shit. Over the business. Over the things he's taught me. Like when I was a kid and I'd join him while he worked or watched sports or admired my mother.

There was always that one thing, though. Chess. Those memories will always stay with me.

He would sit me down on his lap and teach me how to play. Explaining all of the little tricks and skills he had learned.

When I got good, and I did quick, he'd let me play him. And when I could beat him a few times out of ten, he would let me play his friends. Ruffling my hair and laughing "That's my boy" whenever I proclaimed the word checkmate or got my opponent to concede. Which, for that second one, wasn't often.

Men do cherish their pride.

My dad loves me. And I love him right fucking back.

"Out." I shrug.