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“Good. I want you to have a fine education at Ocean Crest University. I would’ve preferred you go to UCLA or USC, but OCU works just as well.”
“Here it comes,” I mumble. He doesn’t seem fazed.
“But I’ll only pay for your college tuition as long as you commit to the business degree and work at Rich Records. This is your inheritance, son. You’re my firstborn, I’m doing all of this for you.”
For me? Is he serious?He’s selling millions of records, making hundreds of millions of dollars, for me? No, he does what he does to show the world he’s one of the most powerful music moguls around. He’s married to the music business, cuts shady deal after shady deal, and gets away with it scot-free every time because even if the deal is horrible, he gets people to sign the contract anyway. There’s nothing they can do. He screws people over left and right, and he calls it’s making the right business decisions.
I love music but only the music. I want nothing to do with the business side of it. In my junior year in high school, when I told my dad I wanted to be a music teacher, he laughed. As a matter of fact, he laughed in my face. He gave me reason after reason why it’s a horrible idea—teachers don’t make good money, kids don’t listen, and his favorite of all of them was the arts and music programs in schools are disappearing. I won’t even have a job. I think he hated it mostly because my mom’s a teacher. When I told him I’d find something or I’d make my own way by tutoring people, he laughed again.
Well, he wasn’t laughing when I got into Ocean Crest and told him I was majoring in education. He flipped out. If I had known how bad it was going to be, I would’ve applied for student loans and scholarships. He said he’d only pay for my education if I work for him part-time, and get a degree in business. With the date looming to pay for my first semester, I finally agreed to his terms.
What he doesn’t know is I lied about the degree. I’m still going to become a teacher because screw him. He’ll be shocked in four years when I’m announced as graduating with a degree in education. That is if he shows up. He didn’t for my high school graduation.
“Yeah, I know,” I finally reply.
“And stop fraternizing with the security guard. You have to act like a boss in the building, otherwise people will walk all over you.”
“Dad, I’m the boss’ son. People are either already afraid to interact with me, or suck up to me. Besides, Shawn is cool. That’s why I asked if he wanted to room together.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” I lift my brow, unsurprised. “Anyway, I’m glad we’re still clear on that.” He looks me up and down like it’s the first time he’s seeing me, even though we’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes. Maybe it is since he was an hour late. He works off his own schedule but makes sure I’m here regardless of my own plans. That’s another thing about these weekly meetings. They’re to make sure I’m, quote-unquote, “staying on schedule” with his timeline.
“Get a haircut,” he says. “And shave. Good businessmen are clean-cut, not Neanderthals with five o’clock shadows all day long.”
I shake my head, letting out an annoyed chuckle. “It took me eighteen years to finally start growing facial hair. I’m gonna enjoy it before I’m superglued into a suit and tie working for you. I’m in college now, anyway.”
He stares at me like I’m literally speaking Klingon now. Rolling his eyes, he scans his phone again, then gets up from the table. “I have to go.” He sets a hundred-dollar bill on the table and says, “Only tip ten percent. Keep the rest. Same time next week.”
It’s not a question, and he doesn’t wait for a reply. Letting out a deep breath, I watch as he turns and leaves the restaurant. His Neiman Marcus onyx suit, one of a dozen he has, shines as the sun hits it through the windows. He walks with a purpose; always has. He never looks back, and I can only shake my head at the man I call Dad, whose last fatherly gesture I think was when I was ten, and he said it’s okay to cry after my pet hamster died.
After wiping my hands on my napkin, I toss it over my plate and half-uneaten bacon cheeseburger. The waitress stops by, asking, “Can I get you anything else? Dessert, perhaps?”
I offer her a smile. “No, thanks, I’m good.” I get up from the table, and as she turns to leave, I tap her shoulder. “Don’t worry about the check.” I point to the hefty bill. “Keep the change.”
Her face lights up. My burger, onion rings, soda, and my dad’s two drinks; in this place, it probably came out to around fifty bucks or so. Fifty bucks tip ain’t half bad.
