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“Maddox.” I reach out a hand, but he grunts, then pulls the door closed loudly.
I lean my head back against the headboard.
Goddamn it.I think I just made things a million times worse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MADDOX
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Running through Central Park is not something I do often because I need to take personal security with me. Usually, I just work out at my gym.
The loss of freedom is one downside to being a billionaire. Ironic, given I’m now a kidnapper. My size, youth, and power protect me for the most part, but not from a shooter.
Apparently, having the skills and ability to make a ton of money is evil. Only after a certain amount, though. I could earn a million and they’d clap. Possibly ten million. After that? No, evil.
How fucking stupid.
The thing is most people want an endless supply of money but can’t admit it to themselves or to anyone else. Or have bought into some insane belief that money is evil.
No, people are evil.
Money is just paper, plastic, or digital. An inanimate object. It doesn’t have a point of view or agenda.
We do.
Humans.
Anyway, I’m in a fucking bad mood after the way I ran out on Kyra. So I hit the pavement without any security so I can think. I need to be alone.
If someone tries to jump me, I’d likely beat them to a fucking pulp. God knows my fight club days taught me exactly what to do.
So, with my ear buds in, I set a steady pace and turn up the music. This is my version of meditation. Hard rock cranked up with the base throbbing through my head. Drowning out all the sounds of my inner voice and any others trying to break through.
After twenty minutes, I’m sweating and focused on the beating of my heart and the pounding of my feet.
My phone beeps and an alert comes through.
I stop dead.
I consume all news via podcasts, social media, and email. Except for one alert which pings me when there’s something new.
My father.
I swipe my phone, and it sends me straight to a live feed of Pierce being interviewed.
“Fuck.” I step off the path, letting other joggers past and push my buds in harder, turning up the volume.
“Thank you for joining us in the studio this morning, Mr. Sterling.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice grates at my nerves.
It’s not like I haven’t seen photos of him in recent years but watching him live has a different effect on me. My teeth grind and I want to jog over to the studio and run a knife across his neck.
Then watch him bleed out.
He deserves a much slower and more painful death, though. One day...