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“Nobody likes to be ignored.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that.” The iciness in his tone gives me chills. “He really doesn’t like to be ignored.”
“Why is he suddenly trying to get you on the phone?”
“Remember when we first met, I told you I was on a soul-searching trip?”
I nod.
“The minute I graduated—” He releases the wheel and rakes a hand through his hair. “Hell, probably since I spoke my first word, my dad has had a position ready for me at his firm.”
“And let me guess, you don’t want to work there.”
He glances at me, then back to the road, his expression dour. “The summer between sophomore and junior years, I tried to change my major from economics to journalism. He hit the roof. He’s never considered journalism a legitimate career. He’d much rather I follow his footsteps than forge my own path.”
“You said he works in Washington. What does he do?”
“He’s, uh . . .” Dash taps out a rhythm on the steering wheel and watches me from the corner of his brown eye. “One of the K Street bandits.”
I stare at him, confused.
He blows out a deep sigh. “A political consultant. A lobbyist, if you will.”
Everything I know about the inner workings of Washington comes from binge-watching political thrillers on Netflix, but I seriously doubt Dash’s father is anything like Miss Sloane. “I’ve heard of them, but I don’t really know what they do.”
“A lot of things. From taking on the oil and gas companies for environmental protections to helping roll back those protections to keep the coal mines in business. Some lobbyists are actually out there fighting the good fight.” Dash wipes a bead of sweat from his temple.
A series of red flags pop up in my head like gophers on a golf course, but instead of tiptoeing around the subject, I ask, “But not your dad?”
“Dad’s a heavy hitter. Goes where the money is. Big pharma. Tobacco. Health insurance.” He stares straight ahead, his knuckles paling as he tightens his grip on the wheel. “And he’s not afraid to play dirty.”
Despite the little voice in my head begging me to change the subject, curiosity gets the best of me. “I’m guessing you have a problem with that.”
“Hell yeah, I do.” Dash shoots me another glare. “He’s been instrumental in getting potentially lifesaving procedures pulled from insurance coverage.”
My brain scrambles to understand what he’s saying. “Like my mom’s cancer treatments?”
He nods once. “It’s likely he, or someone like him, was responsible for her blowing through her savings. Possibly even prevented her from being treated at all.”
“Oh.” My stomach rolls, and I swallow back nausea. “That’s . . . horrible. Why would anyone do that? Don’t they realize those treatments help people?”
“It’s all about the money. It’s Dad’s job to make sure the insurance companies get to keep it. And tobacco companies get to keep peddling their cancer-causing products. And whatever he does for the hundreds of other shitty industries he keeps in business.”
“I see.” Rage bubbles in my chest, but I’m not sure where to direct it. “I guess my mom spent her life’s savings so your dad could buy you a Tesla?”
Dash throws me a panicked glance. “Zoey, I—”
“I’m not mad at you.” Anger coils around my insides as I take in his John Varvatos shirt and his Gucci glasses. “Or maybe I am. For as morally outraged as you say you are, you sure don’t seem to mind spending his money.”
His jaw spasms. “I’m sure that’s how it looks from the outside. Anything I say will probably sound like a shitty excuse, but I didn’t know what he really did until I interned for him. Once I found out, I promised myself I would be better than he is. And I’m trying. I don’t have everything figured out yet, but trust me when I say that’s not the life I want.”
“And yet, you let Daddy bankroll your summer trip?” I hiss, bitterness coloring my tone.
Dash flinches as if I slapped him, and the color drains from his face. “I earned every penny I’ve spent, busting my ass doing grunt work in Dad’s office every day after class for the past two years. Running away may not seem like the mature thing to do, but staying under his thumb wasn’t an option, either. I needed to figure things out without him—or anyone else—breathing down my neck. I only accepted the Tesla because I didn’t want to get stranded driving some old beater.”
His eyes dart to mine, and I snort out a laugh.
“So all the phone calls . . . I gather that means your dad is pressuring you to make your choice?”
