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Dad’s expression shifts slightly—gaze sharpening, chin tilting up. A bloodhound catching a scent.
“All right, all right, I’ll sit,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender before sitting down. “I’m sittin’, see? Now talk. I don’t got all day.”
“You got more important places to be?” Silas asks.
It’s Dad’s turn to chuckle. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.” I settle heavily in my seat and roll up my sleeves. “I’ll make this brief. I’m buying your stake in the company.”
A horrible beat of silence fills the room. I look up to see Dad boring holes through my skull with his eyes. They’re nothing short of feral now; I half expect him to bare his canine teeth at me.
“You”—he points at me—“wanna buy my”—he shoves his finger into his chest—“stake?”
“I don’t want to buy it. I am buying it.”
I nearly jump at Dad’s bark of laughter. It’s a belly laugh, one the rest of us don’t share.
“I needed a good laugh today,” he says, wiping at his eyes. “Thank you. Welp, if that’s all y’all have to talk to me about—”
Grabbing his arm, I keep him from rising. “I have Reese’s stake. Silas’s too. A majority.”
I watch the realization dawn on Dad’s face.
“Where the hell did you get that kinda money?”
“Nate’s got lots of friends,” Milly replies.
Chris grins. “Rich ones.”
Wilson blinks rapidly. His first sign of weakness—he doesn’t know what to do.
“You know how this works, right?” I continue, tapping my finger on the paperwork. “It’s right there in the partnership agreement you signed on January twelfth of last year. The majority stakeholder can buy out minority stakeholders at any time.”
“But not at any price.”
I flip through the pages until I find the right one. “At this price, which we agreed to when we signed the agreement. It’s right there in black and white, Wilson.”
He finally picks up the stapled packet and glances at the numbers. Then he tosses it back on the table.
“You can’t force me to do nothin’. I put the best years of my life into this distillery. Not to mention I was the first who thought to age—”
“You’ve been riding on that one accomplishment for far too long,” Silas clips. “What have you done since, besides put everything we’ve worked for—everything we love—at risk? You don’t deserve a seat at this table anymore.”
Dad glares at Silas. “This table wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”
“It might not be here a year from now because of you,” I shoot back. “Which is why I’m buying you out. Here’s a pen”—I set it down on the table in front of him, then flip through the document to the end—“and here’s where you sign. You’ll be well provided for, Dad. It’s a hell of a lot of money, which you will take and get the hell out of North Carolina.”
His face flushes red. He thumbs through the pages, clearly buying time because he doesn’t know what to say. We’ve got him cornered.
It’s more satisfying than I imagined.
More nerve-racking too.
I glance at the clock again. If Dad would just sign this thing, I have a free afternoon waiting for me. One I plan to spend with Milly. In bed? On a hike? Both?
This victory’s been a long time coming. I’m ready to celebrate the damn thing already.
I pick up the pen and hold it out to him. “Sign it. It’s a good deal for you, Dad.”
“Really?” He looks up. “You putting a bullet in the back of my head is a good deal for me?”
A rush of anger shoots up my spine. “When have I ever given you a reason not to trust me? I’ve always, always been good to you, Dad.”
“Good sons don’t steal from their fathers.”
Shaking my head, I scoff. “Are you for real right now? What have you done for the past twenty years except steal from me? You’ve stolen my time, you’ve stolen my money, but I’ll be damned if you steal my happiness. Sign the fucking contract and get out of here.”
Wilson looks at me for a long beat, jaw quivering. He’s hurt. He’s angry.
Now he knows how I’ve felt all these years.
“Take the money, Wilson,” Chris says. “C’mon, look at those numbers! Think about how much that could buy you, say in the Keys or out West. You could buy a whole damn ranch with that kind of cash. First-class travel. Any car you want, any clothes you want. You won’t have to work another damn day in your life. Who doesn’t want that kind of freedom?”
Milly cuts me a glance. Chris is a smart guy—appealing to Wilson’s greed, his vanity, is a solid tactic when reason won’t work.
“I do like Montana,” Dad says at last.
My heart leaps. Without thinking, I grab Milly’s hand underneath the table.
Is this actually working?
