So Toxic(Bad Boy Next Door Book 4)(275)

So what if I stood up in the middle of the restaurant and announced who I am and that I wanted the most expensive of everything on the menu just because I could?

Fuck, that cost me a mint, but the look on that old bastard’s face was worth it—almost.

The videos that showed up online were a little side effect that I didn’t think of in the moment. “I guess I did come out looking like a pretentious fuck who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”

“That you did, my friend.” Bob always has a way of saying my friend in such a way that you believe it’s true, but you somehow also get the feeling that he’s being a jackass.

“Yeah, well, so be it. It’s done.”

“That’s why you need to give the public a reason to understand why you might feel the need to show off a bit. Tell the world you have some money in the bank now. Especially if you want that part with Razor Wire.”

The mention of Razor Wire sends a thrill through me. It could be the role that propels my career into the stratosphere, to the place where real stars live.

“Buck, you need this part with Razor Wire. I can’t stress that enough. So let the world see where you really come from. They’ll want you to be successful when they know what you’ve been through. Everyone loves the underdog.”

Underdog, my ass.

I may have started out in a shithole, but I only stayed as long as I had to.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll do the segment like you want. Just get me a script from Razor Wire.”

I end the call.

I’m a dumbass. If I hadn’t been a dick at Roddenberry’s I wouldn’t be doing this fucking reality show. Before three months ago, I could get almost any part I wanted. I’ve either worked with, or I’m under contract to work with all the best directors and producers—unless they yank the contracts…then I’m fucked.

But, Celebrity Homecoming is supposed to save the fucking day. And even if I hadn’t fucked up, I might’ve done the show anyway. Building a fan base is always a positive. And I would love to win an Oscar.

What is it with that little, shiny man that makes all of us want to take a ride on his tiny, golden cock?

I step up into the bus, and Thug Two closes the door. Every pair of eyes turns to me. The crew’s been cooling their heels while I hashed things out with Bob.

I run my fingers through my hair. “Fine. I’ll show you guys where I grew up until I was eight. But you have to promise I don’t come out of this looking pathetic.”

Trudi salutes. “Yes, sir. No worries. You’ll come out looking like the champ you are.”

An image of Lou pops into my head.

Champ or chump?


* * *

The closer we get to the sad excuse for a neighborhood where I lived until my dad ran off, the more my chest tightens and the memories of that time flood back.

It’s late afternoon by the time we pull up at the crumbling curb in front of the small house. A screen slaps the peeling siding, barely hanging on by a piece of baling wire. Overgrown weeds swallow the lawn and the stepping stones that lead to the sagging front porch.

Trudi wrinkles her nose. “Needs a bit of sprucing up, eh?”

I expel the breath trapped in my over-tight lungs. “It needs a case of TNT.”

My gaze lands on the area under the massive pecan tree at the side of the house. The swing set Nan and Pops gave me for my fifth birthday used to sit under those limbs. But it’s long gone; Dad sold it only a month or so before he dropped me at their house with the ridiculous excuse that he was going grocery shopping—he never returned.

The camera crew dons their gear and follows me as I make my way through the dilapidated house, stripped of all furniture and devoid of the remnants of occupation. My footsteps echo off the buckling wood floor and scarred walls.

Trudi asks, “So, tell us what you remember about this place, Buck.”

I stand in the doorway of what used to be my dad’s room. The black sheet he kept nailed over the window is gone, letting light into a place that was as dark and frightening as a dungeon to the five-year-old me.

I swallow hard and force open the hall closet’s door. “This was my hiding place. I kept a pillow in the corner, under my dad’s old duffle bag from when he was in the Army.”

What I don’t say out loud is that I hid only when dad got drunk and wanted to beat his frustrations out on someone—that someone being me, since I was the only one in close enough proximity to his fists.

The kitchen appliances have all been torn from their proper places. It also looks like someone’s torn out the sheetrock to get to the copper pipes that were probably in the walls, but are now missing. Not sure it renders this space any less useful than it was when I lived here. Dad wasn’t much of a cook. Shit; at six years old, I cooked more than he did. Mac and cheese was my specialty. Hell, I even learned to make it without milk or butter.