Page 26 of Make it a Double

I hated the whole affair, but I hated the silence more. It was empty. A reminder of what my life would look like if I continued down the path my father set out for me.

He was a bitter, lonely old man sitting in his ivory tower, looking out at everything he’d built on the back of others’ hard work. There was no joy here. There hadn’t been in years. That had always been my mom’s job.

I blamed her for years for leaving. For leaving me with him while she gallivanted off to some island with crystal-clear water and never-ending piña coladas. No matter how many times I begged her to take me with her, she walked away every time.

It wasn’t until I was older that I understood how terrified she was of him. There was nowhere on Earth she could’ve taken me that would’ve been far enough. He would’ve found us no matter the cost. Not because he actually gave two shits about either of us, but because he viewed me as his property. A protege he’d invested a lot of money in to make sure his legacy lived on.

I fucking hated it.

Dim light leaked from my father’s office at the end of the hall. He was talking in low, hushed tones I couldn’t quite make out. Whatever he wanted from me was going to come at a hefty price. One I’d have to pay regardless of whether I wanted to. My freedom was so close I could taste it, but I wasn’t in a position to snip the cord tying us together just yet.

Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely upset by my father interrupting my evening plans. Seeing him was never ideal, but I wasn’t sure if I could listen to another vapid run-down of societal gossip without wanting to take a long walk off a short pier.

The woman had been nice enough. Pretty, too. But I would’ve rather watched paint dry than go for a second date. The only reason I went in the first place was the fact that her father ran one of the biggest construction firms in the country. He’d shaken hands and rubbed elbows with my father at fundraising events for years, dancing around the conversation my father desperately wanted.

I was under no illusion that our date was supposed to be the “in” that he needed to sink his claws into yet another prolific partnership that would boost his portfolio. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t in the mood to be a pawn in his game and was all too happy to knock the chess pieces to the floor when I rushed out of the restaurant with a fake emergency. The frequent vibration from my pocket told me the poor girl was already checking in. I might’ve thought it was sweet if I hadn’t watched her verbally berate a waitress at dinner and roll her eyes more times than I could count.

It’d taken every miserable ounce of self-control I contained not to storm out right then and there, but it would’ve only made matters worse. It wouldn’t have taken long for word of my actions to reach my father, which would’ve ended catastrophically.

As it was, there was only one woman I’d ever felt inclined to make a scene for, and she was safely tucked away in her sleepy, mountain town.

My time in Pinecrest had fucked with my head more than I cared to admit. I found myself looking at my phone, waiting for a text, an email, or fucking carrier pigeon to bring me any sign she hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. Then I realized we hadn’t so much as exchanged contact information, and there was no way she could possibly reach out.

Sometimes, after a particularly shitty day at work, I would contemplate looking up the number for Frank’s bar and calling just to hear her voice for two seconds. But then I realized how stupid I was being over a woman I’d only met once. So what if we had great sex? It didn’t amount to much more outside of that, given that we lived thousands of miles apart and led extremely different lives.

I stopped outside his door, waiting for the inevitable crash that followed his tirades. There was a routine I’d memorized. One that kept me out of his immediate line of fire during fits of anger. Not thirty seconds later, something slammed against his desk before I heard the tinkling of ice cubes landing in a crystal tumbler. The reek of scotch filled the room as he downed his first drink before pouring another.

I took three measured breaths before rounding the corner and leaning in the doorway. My face was molded into a carefully curated mask of disinterest, just like he taught me. “You rang?”

My father angrily gestured toward the expensive leather armchair in front of his desk. “I called you an hour ago. Where were you?”

I lifted my shoulder in casual arrogance. “Out. What was so important that it couldn’t be an email?” That was his normal method of communication, and I was grateful. It meant less time spent in his actual presence. If I were being called into his office at damn near midnight, something was catastrophically wrong.

Glittering, almost black eyes bore into me over the rim of his glass. “You know, you should be a little more grateful for everything I’ve given you. Look at this house. Look at the fucking car you drive. You haven’t wanted for anything.”

I’d heard this speech more times than I could count. I could practically recite it, and knew just how to circumvent his anger. Tonight, though, I didn’t care. “I have an early meeting in the morning,” I said, making a show of glancing at my Rolex.

“Not anymore,” he growled. “I canceled it.”

“You canceled it,” I said slowly. Deep fucking breath, Beckett. They don’t have corndogs in prison. “I’ve been working with these clients for months. You had no right⁠—”

“I have every goddamn right.” He slammed his palm flat on the desk, but I didn’t flinch. I was accustomed to his temper tantrums at this point. Could calculate and pinpoint the exact moment he was going to take things too far. “You work for me. Not the other way around. If I say jump, you say how fucking high.”

Running my hands over my jawline, I shifted in my seat. “Care to enlighten me as to why?”

My father reached into his desk and pulled a manila folder out before flinging it toward me. I snatched it off the desk, stomach sinking as I looked inside.

Five months ago, I wouldn’t have given a shit about a bar in some Tennessee town, but as I stared down at the outdated picture paperclipped at the top, all my senses went on red alert. Frank’s had clearly undergone a minor update at some point. This version had chipped paint, rusted metal, and a neon sign that looked like it was on its last legs.

“What’s this?” I asked, forcing a level of disinterest into my tone. “Your next demolition?”

“I wish,” my father muttered. “This, son, is the answer to all of my problems in Pinecrest. And I need you to make it happen.”

“Make what happen?”

I flipped through the pages, trying like hell to figure out what he was talking about, and why this damn town was so important. From what I could tell, this was a business proposal for an expansion. The bar owners wanted to develop the surrounding land they owned and add a dance hall and a stage for live music. It was an impressive presentation, to be sure, but how did my father have it?

“One of the owners has a very extensive real estate portfolio, which she inherited from her uncle. She is refusing to sell me even one goddamn acre.”