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He takes a sip and stuffs a hand in the pocket of his slacks. The wrinkles of his crow’s feet grow in definition as he looks out the window at the afternoon sun.
“My youngest son is…impressionable. He’s not like Randy.”
No shit to the latter and thank fuck for that. Randy’s a silent wall of guard dog, leaning against the credenza. He must hate himself every single day.
“Some people, no matter how hard you try, no matter what education and luxuries you provide them, they just can’t get with the program. We never should have tried letting Cameron work here. He doesn’t have what it takes for business,” he laments, sighing as he returns to his chair, “but he’s my son. You try whatever you can to make men out of your children.”
What does business have anything to do with being a man? I want to ask so badly what program he’s talking about—the John Fairway School of Life Program? That institution needs to burn to the ground.
“Where is he?” I grit, no longer able to tolerate this dance around what’s most important.
Leaning back in his chair, he arches a brow and huffs. It’s odd, as though my audacity to question him both amuses and impresses him.
“Don’t let that concern you. It’s the twenty-first century. I haven’t locked him in a dungeon, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not saying I understand it, that I’ll ever understand it—men…carrying on with other men.” His upper lip curls, and he makes a sweep of his hand. “But Cameron needs to learn his place in the world, and I’ve got a company to think about. I can’t have one of my account managers cozying up to my son. How would that look?”
As I sit stupefied, I can only think of one answer to his rhetorical question. It would look like love. It would look like love because it is, even though I’ve never told Cam. How can his father even ask such a question after all the unqualified friends and relatives he’s implanted in managerial positions?
“The bottom line, Pete, is how much you value your work here.” He taps his desk with his index finger. “You’ve had a solid track record. You need to decide if you want to throw that all away over an impulse.”
An impulse? Does he think Cam is a sickness that infected me?
“Are you threatening me?”
“Threatening you. Don’t try throwing that millennial crap at me. We’re two men, having a conversation, is all.”
His use of the word ‘men’ again tells me how deep his ignorance and bigotry run. How in the world did Cam live through a single day in the same house as this person?
“Is that what you’re calling this? Did Cam get the luxury of one of your ‘conversations’, too?”
His nostrils flare, and he sets his drink down hard enough the sound echoes. Narrowing his cold eyes, he points his index finger at me.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Carver. I took this meeting as a courtesy because of your work performance. You should be thanking me, not tightening your own noose.”
He took it because he knows he’s got no power over pushing us around, and because I’m one of the few managers who actually knows how to do their jobs. I’ve had enough of his subpar scare tactics, so I rise.
“It sounds like it was pretty tight before I even walked in here. Your benevolence is awe-inspiring. Where did you send Cam? Siberia?”
His fist slams down on the desk, rattling all his knickknacks. “You sit your ass down. I will not be talked to like that by a man who’s fucking my son!”
And there it is.
Sucking in a breath, I search deep for calm and step forward. Placing my palms on the edge of his desk, I lean forward into his arrogant bubble, sure that no one’s ever dared to before, judging by the shock on his face.
“Maybe he fucks me,” I suggest, watching his jaw drop. “That’d be better for you, wouldn’t it? The power play? I mean, if you’re forced to live with the shame of having a gay son, at least he can be the one doing the fucking. Would that make him a man in your eyes?”
“That’s enough,” Randy warns, stepping forward as the vein on his father’s forehead pulses.
“You get the hell out of my sight, Carver,” John seethes.
I’m more than happy to oblige, but take my time walking to the door. I don’t want him to get the satisfaction of thinking my departure is over his temper.
“I don’t care what fucking basement cubicle you crawl into, but I’d better not see your face or hear another word about this. Get him his money, Randy, then make sure this sick son of a bitch’s name isn’t even on a memo for as long as he’s here.”
That has my hand freezing on the door handle. What in the hell is he talking about?
“Money?” I parrot, turning to face him.
“Don’t play coy with me. We both know that’s how this works. Hell, that’s probably why you did it in the first place.”
