Beats being a toffee-nosed asshole.
I pad through the entertainment kitchen—yeah, we’ve got two fucking kitchens. Twice as much work for Alba and Emil, who look after this place. But apparently it’s not okay for guests to see your everyday kitchen, so you have to have two. One for catering the lavish parties that happen on the deck and around the pool, then one for the more intimate dinners.
Which we never fucking have because my family is shit at talking to one another.
Family?
I don’t have a fucking family.
My mother lives in LA, who the fuck knows where. I haven’t spoken to her since I was fourteen. I could easily find out, but Idon’t want to. And there’s no way in hell I can stomach calling Chanel family.
She’s only been on the scene about five years, which means her expiration date is coming up.
The longest relationship I’m aware of is my Dad’s romance with my nanny. She stuck around from when I was one until I was ten. I’m pretty sure they were hooking up when I was like four, about six months after my mom left, which means they were probably hooking up before Mom took off. Anyway, they ended up getting married when I was six, but then Dad broke her heart, and she left two days after my tenth birthday.
It fucking sucked.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I veer left into the drawing room, where Dad’s hunched over a paper. The guy refuses to read his news off the internet and is convinced a physical paper is the only trustworthy news. What a putz. Doesn’t he know that it’sallbullshit? We never find out the real stories. We find out what the news agencies want us to find out. What they’re getting paid to tell us.
“Dad.” My voice is gruff and soft.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from his paper, and I throw a quick look at Chanel, who’s gazing at me with those vacant brown eyes of hers.
I clench my jaw and ignore her.
“I want to go to the lake house with some of my teammates. Is it available?”
“You wanna go to the lake house?” Chanel’s voice is a high squeak, which irritates the shit out of me. Plus, she asks stupid questions. Didn’t Ijustsay that I wanted to go?
I nod, glancing at her. She smiles at me, and my stomach twists into a painful knot.
“What are you gonna do there, Finny?”
Clenching my fist inside my pocket, I ignore her question and turn back to my dad.
My name is Finn, not fucking Finny. And besides, everyone calls me Mac. She’s been around long enough to get with the program!
“Is it free?” I ask again.
“You’ll need to check with Joanna. She’s the one who sorts out the bookings for that place.” Dad’s voice is a soft rumble, and I keep staring at him, silently begging him to look at me when we talk.
I don’t even know why I want him to.
He never does.
I’m pretty sure he hasn’t looked at me since… I don’t even know when.
Has he even noticed that I had my eyebrow pierced last year? Is he aware that I scored a new scar on my chin when I clipped a brick wall after a drunken fight? Or does he just rely on Chanel telling him what’s new with his kid after I leave the fucking room!
“You having a party or something?” Chanel giggles, and I look back at her.
Marilyn Monroe. That’s who she reminds me of. I’ve seen old movies, and this stick of perfume is exactly like her. The high voice, girlish giggle, and dumb-blonde persona that my father no doubt finds sexy.
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Just inviting a few of my teammates. No big deal.”
I turn back to my dad and stare at him, wondering if I can somehow break him, but he just sniffs like I’ve already left the room and turns the page of his newspaper.
Glaring at him, I swallow and mutter, “Fine, I’ll call Joanna.”
