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He kept saying it… and I hated it. Sitting forward in the chair, I grabbed a sweating glass of water. “He’s not a boy.”
Well, he is. But he’s not your boy.
My father digested that for a moment. “Niles said you two looked awfully close.”
“Niles is a law textbook wearing a tie.”
Dad slapped his hand on the table, making the silverware rattle. “That textbook wearing a tie dragged his ass out of bed at three a.m. to fly across the state and get you out of jail!”
“Because God forbid my father, the senator, be seen inside a police station, bailing out his son.”
His voice went quiet. “Excuse me?”
I sighed. “Thank you for coming, Dad. And for using your resources to keep me from being charged.”
“And?” he pressed.
“And I don’t know what Niles told you, but last night was the first time I’ve ever even talked to Prism.”
Saying his last name felt weird and wrong, but saying his first name in this moment also seemed too intimate and personal. I wanted to keep Matthew to myself a little longer.
“I’ve seen him around. We go to the same university. He’s an Elite swimmer. We were both just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Dad was suddenly interested. “He’s Elite?”
Sometimes I forgot how prestigious it was to be Elite. I nodded. “Yes. Coach was there to get him out of jail. Half the team showed up to support him.”
“That’s good,” Dad murmured. “It would be hard to pin drug charges on an Elite athlete.”
“Our drug tests were negative,” I pointed out.
I’d submitted to one the minute they separated us. I didn’t have anything to hide, and refusing only made it look like I did. And after what Niles said at the station, I knew Matthew did too.
“Of course.” He agreed, but I knew what he was thinking. Image was almost more important than factual test results. And Westbrook Elite had an impressive image.
“This is a pivotal time for me. For this family.”
“I know,” I replied, irritation climbing my spine. “I didn’t get arrested on purpose.”
“I know music is your… passion.” He spoke as though that last word was stuck in his throat. “But I think it best that you refrain from hosting any parties until after the election.”
I burst up out of the chair. “You want me to quit DJ-ing?”
No. Hell no.
“Not quit,” he hurried to say. “Take a brief hiatus.”
I laughed. “Maybe you should take a brief hiatus. Don’t even worry about the election.”
It was so comical the way he looked, and I actually laughed. He continued to stare like a guppy, as if his brain couldn’t even process not being a politician.
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s how I feel about music.”
He shook off the stupor and stood. “No one is telling you to give up music, son. You can still DJ for the campus radio. You will still be involved in all your classes and extracurriculars.”
Extracurriculars = ASMR.
Do I even need to tell you my father does not get the tingles from such a thing?
