She’s right. I worked hard. I deserve this. And my dad deserves it too. He raised me by himself after my mom died. He sacrificed his own needs for mine. Giving this up means giving it up for both of us. I can’t do that. I owe it to my dad and to myself to finish what I started. I didn’t do all this work to just give up at the end.
Sorry, Briggs, but this is how it has to be. I can’t give you what you want.
If Briggs wants to fight me, he can, but I’m going to fight back.
Chapter 6
Briggs
I get home from practice at six, fucking exhausted and wanting to just go to bed. Practice went on longer than usual because Parker decided to get an attitude with Coach, who made us all run three miles as punishment.
Parker can turn on the charm for the teachers, but he can’t keep his mouth shut on the field. He can’t keep quiet when I tell him something either. Last year, I told him I liked this girl, and he went right over and told her. She ended up going out with me, but that’s not how I wanted it to happen.
Parker’s my closest friend, so I cut him some slack for being an idiot who can’t keep his mouth shut, but sometimes I wish he were the kind of friend I could tell shit to, like the shit with my dad. I haven’t told anyone that, and keeping it inside is killing me. I fucking hate it. If I could just tell someone, just one person, maybe I’d be able to breathe again instead of feeling like there’s a fucking vice grip around my chest, cutting off my air.
“Son, is that you?” I hear my father say as I’m going upstairs. He’s using the tone he reserves for when other people are around. The fake nice tone meant to imply he gives a shit about me.
“What do you need?” I say, gritting my teeth as I look behind him to see who he’s trying to impress, but I don’t see anyone.
“Get down here!” he whispers in his usual tone. Demanding. Threatening. Hateful.
I saunter down the stairs, sighing when I reach the bottom.
“Where the hell were you?” he asks.
“At practice,” I say, like he should already know this.
“It’s after six.”
“Yeah? It went late today.” I glance upstairs. “Are we done here? I need to go study.”
It’s a lie. I’m not studying. I’m too damn tired.
“Get cleaned up and get down here.” He glances around to make sure we’re alone. “We have guests waiting.”
“Guests? What guests?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I told you about this dinner last weekend. Are you telling me you forgot? You didn’t even write it down?”
My father is all about schedules and keeping track of shit. He hates that I’m not like that. It’s one of the million things he hates about me.
I shrug. “Guess I forgot.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t know why I even—” He blows out a breath.
“What?” I ask, challenging him to say it. “You don’t know why you had me? It was so you could have someone to control. Wasn’t that it?”
Normally, I wouldn’t say that to him, knowing it’ll set him off, but with guests in the other room, he’ll control his temper no matter what I say. I may pay for it later, but it was worth it. It feels fucking awesome to call him on his shit instead of letting him pretend he’s the perfect father who’s forced to treat me like shit because I’m a horrible son.
He points upstairs. “Get up there and make yourself presentable. Suit and tie. Dinner is in twenty minutes. If you are one minute late, I’m cutting off your allowance for the week.”
Money for performance. He runs an investment firm, so it makes sense for his business, but not his personal life. But it’s how it’s always been. If I do what he says, I get money or a car or whatever else I want. If I don’t, he takes it away. Money is control to him, but as I got older, it stopped working. I was sick of him telling me what to do, so I rebelled. I didn’t follow hisorders. That’s when the abuse began. So far, it’s only been a slap to the face or shoving me against the wall, but I know he’d do worse if I really pissed him off.
I’ve tried to avoid that, but it’s not because I’m afraid of him or what he’ll do to me. Let him punch me. I really don’t care. Playing rugby, I’m used to pain. It’s the money that’s keeping me in line. To me, money isn’t control. It’s freedom, something I want more than anything. And if I just do as he says for a few more months, I’ll have it.
“You must be Briggs,” a man says, appearing next to my father. The man is old with white hair, wearing a dark gray suit with a lapel pin that looks like a company logo.
“Yes,” my father says, his sinister expression replaced with that of a proud father, smiling at his son. “Briggs Chadwick the Third. Briggs, this is Gerald Forsythe, owner of Forsythe TransAtlantic.”
