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“You’re not going to take it, right?” His eyes leave mine and he looks away. “Oh, my God! You can’t do that. His money is dirty.”
“Money is money,” he says, his follow up laugh clipped. “We don’t care where it comes from. Our job is to make more of it and in turn make our own. That’s how it works.”
“It’s wrong.”
“I knew you’d feel that way, so …”
I interrupt, insulted by how little he thinks of me. “You did it anyway, because a fat bottom line is more important than my feelings. Wow! That makes me feel great.”
His features shift from smug to disbelief. “No, I told him, I couldn’t take the account without your approval.”
“Oh.” Well don’t I feel a bit like an ass. “What did he say?”
His lips curve into a wicked grin, which I quickly remove with a sharp jab from my elbow to his ribs. He laughs. “Ouch! He said I was a smart man.”
“My father and I agree on something.” I laugh more at how absurd the situation is than because I find humor in it. “And how did you being so smart lead to you inviting him to dinner?”
“A business decision is never made without a meeting first,” he says, and the condescending undertones silently point their finger. He might as well say, “Gee, Maria, you’re so naïve.”
It takes me a minute, but when my anger subsides, I figure out I’m being played and this so called meeting is a game.
“Oh, I see. Finally—a hustle from you. I told you everyone has one.”
The muscles in his neck tighten. “I’m not hustling you, damn it!”
“Then why?”
“I just think you should hear him out,” he says, his voice softer and his expression relaxed.
He might actually believe what he’s saying. Time to call him out on his shit.
“You want me to make nice with the man because it benefits you. You get a client with a huge portfolio and he gets his way. He hustled you, and now you’re trying to hustle me.”
Tug inhales slowly. I know he’s trying to stay calm.
“Would you stop being so goddamn cynical! Hear what he has to say and then decide how you feel about him.”
“Why should I?”
“Everyone deserves a chance to be heard.”
He’s so sincere that I want to cave and just agree to have dinner with my father, but I’m hurt that he’s trying to manipulate me.
“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. Is this account that important to you?”
The vein in his temple bulges and I know I’ve struck a nerve.
“I don’t give a fuck about your father’s money, or landing his account. Gibson is a profitable company without it.”
“I’m supposed to believe that? I’m sure my father’s account would bring Gibson a small fortune, but I have nothing to say to my father. He’s a drug-pushing murder.”
“Who became that way because he was once dirt poor and desperate and trying to claw his way out of the ghetto, which is how you ended up a goddam hooker. Some things in life aren’t planned. They happen, and by the time we realize how bad we fucked up, we’re in too deep to change it. You know how that feels. I know you do. I’d think you could be a little less hypocritical and give the man an hour of your time.”
His words rip through my heart, shredding it into tiny pieces. I start to yell at him, but nothing comes out. The giant lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow. His hand reaches out to touch me, and I finally find my voice. “Don’t fucking touch me right now.”
He ignores my heated request and pulls me close to his body. My hand flies up to slap him. Before it connects, he grabs my wrist and pins my arms at my sides, his stare dark and intense. “Don’t ever tell me not to touch you.”
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