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F O R T Y
- Quinn -
I poked my head in my dad’s office after his assistant gave me the green light. As usual, he was scowling at the computer screen on the right side of his wide desk. “You wanted to see me?”
“Quinn. Yes,” he said, his expression relaxing a few degrees. “Close the door and have a seat.”
“I thought you wanted to go to lunch?”
“I do,” he said, glancing at his Rolex. “But Craig can’t meet us until 1:30, and there’s something I want to discuss with you first.”
Discuss wasn’t a word my dad took lightly. I also wasn’t convinced he knew the meaning of it, since our past “discussions” were more like tyrannical monologues that required nothing more than the occasional grunt on my part. I unbuttoned my suit jacket and took a seat, hiding my reluctance as best I could.
“Don’t look so glum,” he commanded. “I have good news.” His once jet-black hair was sprinkled with more salt than pepper, and the sharp features he’d had when I was a kid had all drooped about half an inch. He looked good for his age, though, despite the unhappy turn his wrinkles had taken.
I crossed an ankle over my knee, and a flash of bright sock poked out the end of my pants. They were the same ones I’d been wearing the night I let Maddy beat me at poker. I thought of how happy she’d been with her win, about the way her bright smile stretched between her cheeks, and wondered if I’d ever crave the sound of anyone’s laugh like that again. I glanced back up and noticed my dad was waiting for my full attention. “Shoot.”
“I want to promote you to senior partner.”
I bit my tongue.
“At the Q3 luncheon.”
I had the sudden urge to stick a fork in my eye. Fortunately, there wasn’t one within reach
“You deserve it,” he said. “And that gives you enough time to fix your attitude.”
“Excuse me?” I said, my raised ankle dropping to the floor as I straightened in my seat. “What the hell’s wrong with my attitude?”
His eyebrows peaked. “Word on the street is you’ve been unusually short with people.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy scouting clients no one else thinks are worth your time,” he said. “And you’ve stopped socializing with your colleagues altogether when you know how important team-building is to our company culture.”
“I wouldn’t call gawking at Turbo’s favorite gold-diggers between lap dances team-building, but I’ll take the criticism on board.” I clenched my jaw and cleared my throat. “Mind telling me how long you’ve been getting reports on my behavior behind my back?”
“Since the week you left every day at five thirty like you had somewhere more important to be.”
I laughed too hard, like some kind of maniac. “Oh, you mean the first week in the last six years when I didn’t work late every night?” The week I started going home earlier to spend time with Maddy. The week I started living. “You know my workday is supposed to end at five thirty, right?”
“I didn’t call you in here to talk about your hours,” he said. “I brought you in to get the measure of your dedication.”
“Well, I don’t want a promotion. Does that answer your question?”
“What do you mean you don’t want a promotion?” His brows drew together as he leaned forward on his elbows.
“I mean I don’t like the direction the company’s going, and I don’t want any more ownership of it than I already have.”
He narrowed his eyes on me, daring me to continue. “What do you want?”
“I want things to be how they were when I started. Back when someone’s pedigree was irrelevant, and it was all about our individual talent’s merit and potential.”
“This is a business, son.”
“Yeah, well, it used to be more than that.” He considered me for a moment, but his brain never told his face what he was thinking so I didn’t bother hazarding a guess.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he asked.
