“It’s time we merge the families,” Father starts.
“And you want me to do it,” I say.
Kline clears his throat. “I’d be the one to do it. You’ll be my bride.”
“I am not a bride. And even if I were, that wouldn’t mean?—”
“I mean bride in the traditional sense,” he interrupts. “You know, nineteen-fifties style. It’s kind of a thing of mine.”
“If you want me barefoot and pregnant, I have bad news for you.”
Kline laughs. “I don’t care about that. We’ll have a surrogate. I just want you attentive and obedient.”
This is pure entertainment, now. I’ll marry Kline over my dead body. “Oh? And how many children are we having?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Maybe eight? I already have two sons, but they’re illegitimate, seeing as they were out of wedlock.”
Kline has sons, plural? I’ve never heard of either of them.
“You haven’t met Cooper yet? I guess not. The hockey team was never welcoming to members of the skate team. It’s his first year.”
At least one of his sons is at North Point? He’s never brought up sons in conversation or brought them out. But if they’re out of wedlock, as he said, maybe he never let them out. Maybe he keeps them hidden. Fuck. More proof that the rumors are true.
Clearly, I don’t have a say in anything that’s about to transpire. I stand up. “Father, I’ll be waiting in the car.”
Kline stands up—not my father. “Sit down, Ryan.”
“No.”
Two guards appear from outside the dining room doors. They move their jackets back a touch, showing me their pieces. Yeah, yeah. Fine. I sit down. But what I can’t figure out is if I’m the only captive here, or if Father’s one, too. Kline seems to have taken the lead, and Father hasn’t done anything but sip his scotch.
“Okay, so I’m drowning in children and have suddenly become a stepfather. You should know that I’m terrible with them. What else?” Would Tate want children included with his marriage proposal? I hadn’t asked because he didn’t look like the kind to want children, but I guess every alpha-male type is driven to carry on their family line or whatever. Egotistical bullshit is what it is.
“Whatever I want.”
“Do I get to play hockey?”
“I’d prefer it, actually.”
I squint, trying to figure him out. Now I’m doubting the rumors. Even Tate’s sour to the idea of me playing hockey. Why is Kline okay with it? I rub a hand over my face. If he is, marrying Kline isn’t a terrible option, other than the daycare-sized load of children he wants.
“I want a husband that everyone else prizes,” he explains as if he can see the question on my face. “And they prize you because you’re a hockey god.”
“Okay, so I’m on the road for nine months of the year, I return home in the off-season to what?”
“To do whatever I want. It’s a good deal.” But the way he’s smiling, as if he’s imagining the whatever-he-wants part of the deal.
He could also be lying, a little voice from the corner of my mind says. I can’t trust a single person. It’s exhausting.
“Anyway, we can talk logistics another time. I want to see you eating your steak, Ryan. I had the chef prepare it the way your father said you like it.”
Oh, no. He did not just order me to eat like I’m a fucking toddler. But I don’t see another option. Playing nice until we get out of here, that’s what I have to do. Maybe I use the restroom, so I can text Tate …
We eat in silence. Father still hasn’t said much. Kline watches me like I’m his favorite carnal thriller, occasionally licking his lips. I try to wake myself up. This has to be a nightmare.
Once I’m finished eating—Kline’s only eaten half of what’s on his plate—he stands. “I’ll take my private time with Ryan now, Henry. You can wait in the living room.”
The food in my stomach curdles. I don’t know what kind of alone time was promised on my behalf, but I doubt I’ll like it. And what if Father leaves? This might be my cue to use the restroom. I can’t believe Tate is my only fucking hope right now.
