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“Merry Christmas,” I told her.
She pulled away and joined Bridge back at her stool. I leaned over the counter, examining their Christmas cookie progress.
“How were your finals?” my mom asked, steadily rolling the dough with a pin over the cold floured marble. Bridge’s eyes followed the movement as well.
“Fine. I aced them all,” I said, popping a piece of dough in my mouth.
“Cha,” she tsked, but smiled anyway. “So cheeky, boy.”
I was majoring in business. I had a mind for it, yes, I just didn’t enjoy it. My dad picked my major. He paid for my life, so I complied, just as I would comply with the “job” he had for me that evening.
I raised my head from my mom’s task and noticed Bridge looked a little green. “You okay, Bridge?” I asked.
“Wha?” she asked, her hand going to her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, swallowing, “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go lay down.”
“Go on, buttercup,” my mom told her, her hands methodically rolling the pin.
I watched Bridge unsteadily get up from her stool and walk to the door, but when she reached the entry, she leaned a little on the jamb, a hand going to her mouth.
“Need help?” I asked her, standing from my leaning position.
She turned and smiled but shook her head. “Nah, think I just ate too much raw dough.”
I nodded and she retreated from view.
“You’re not staying,” my mom stated, her eyes trained on her task.
“Yeah, uh, I gotta meet up with a couple of friends.”
She stopped rolling and looked up at me. “Sure you do, love,” she said, patting my face with a flour-covered hand, her eyes devoid of emotion.
I studied her for a moment, wishing we didn’t have to play these little I-know-what-you-do-but-I’m-going-to-pretend-I-don’t games. I watched her face, wishing I could be honest but instead of coming clean with her, I squeezed her shoulder briefly, noting how bony it was, and smiled before trotting off toward the stairs.
I yanked my bag up and over my shoulder, climbed to the third floor and wound down the window-lined hall, the sun still beaming through, warming the cold stone beneath my sock-clad feet, to where my bedroom was. The door swung open and I took in the room—pristine, dark and my own private sanctuary. I really missed it. It was where I would go when I needed to escape my father. He never bothered me in there. In fact, I don’t think he’d even set foot in mine or Bridge’s wing of the house.
I threw my duffel on the bed and watched how it sank into the billowy down comforter. I stood still for five minutes at least, memorizing the silence, possibly procrastinating my dad’s task a little.
Brown was nice, but I had a roommate named August. Something I’d never experienced before. I mean, he was cool as shit, but I’d never had to share a hall, let alone a room. I tried to convince my dad to pay for an apartment for me, but my mom stepped in and said I needed to “experience college life.” Whatever that meant. If she really wanted me to experience it fully, she would start questioning why her husband called me back home every few weeks for a day or two only to send me back with no explanation whatsoever.
College life isn’t interrupted with twice-monthly flights back home. I love my mama more than you could possibly imagine, but she was one of my dad’s pawns. Then again, who the hell was I to talk? Maybe it’s why I didn’t ever defend her from him like I should, because how could I call her kettle black when I was the biggest fucking pot in our house?
I grabbed my cell and dialed Lola, whose name, by the way, wasn’t really Lola. I pulled my t-shirt over my head, entering my bathroom, which was bigger than my dorm room back in Providence. I started the shower as it rang.
“Hello, Spencer,” Lola purred.
“Drop whatever you’re doing,” I told her, leaning against the sink counter, my back to the mirror. I crossed my free arm against my bare chest, gripping my shoulder. It stung like a mother since the previous Thursday’s impromptu football match.
“I have a very important client expecting me tonight, Spencer. I don’t think I can do it.”
“Cut the bullshit. It’s your regular rate plus a ten-thousand-dollar bonus if you do a good job.”
She was silent, baiting me, waiting for a larger offer. I kept my mouth shut.
“Fine,” she conceded, making me smile.
I slipped the piece of paper my dad had his valet, Frederick, lay on my bed out of my pocket. “Seven p.m.,” I read, “Sofitel Bar.” I closed my eyes, vomit threatening to make an appearance. I hesitated at the next part. “He’s a family man so dress seductively but not obvious.” I swallowed down the bile.
“Got it. See you then.”
