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PETE
Of course I’m running late. I hate going to these SeattleU events, but Dad was pretty fucking insistent. Since he’s also my boss, here I am. It’s mainly older alumni. They’re the most boring events in the world.
The highlight of the night is always being on a table with one of the college’s seniors. Usually a pretty little thing barely legal to drink who blinks like a deer in the headlights at the sleazy flirting from men old enough to be their grandfathers.
Dad knows how fucking boring these things are. It’s why he never comes. I should never have joined the family firm. Though my joining was always expected, I did toy for a hot second with not toeing the party line. But Dad put the guilt screws in, so here I am. Twenty-six, working for my family business.
Andy, my best buddy, always snorts when I talk shit about it at the sports bar we frequent. I get where he’s coming from. It’s a bit disingenuous to call the largest sports law firm in the USA a “family business”, but that’s what it is.
Started by my grandfather and his brother, Dad and two of his cousins took over, and I’m the third generation of Rampwoods to grace the offices of Rampwood & Stein LLP. Stein was my grandfather’s maternal grandparents’ name. They thought it sounded better than Rampwood & Rampwood. They weren’t wrong.
Half a parking spot catches my eye. My BMW won’t quite fit, but fuck it. I’m already going to have to walk at least ten minutes to get to this dinner. It will have to do. It’s late. There are no classes on the campus right now… it will be fine.
Pulling in, I park, and climb out of the car. My eyes dart to where the back bumper is over the no parking line. Eh. I’ll have to risk it. I can afford any fine that’s coming. I’ll charge it to the company card - this is a networking event, after all. It’s a Friday night. I’d rather be sitting in a sports bar with Andy, watching the game.
Hitting the central locking button on my keys, I shove them into my pocket and start walking. Christ. It’s fucking cold in January. Turning the collar of my long woolen coat up, I bury my hands in my pocket, bowing my head against the brisk wind, and walk quickly.
I catch a lucky break because they haven’t sat down for dinner or done any speeches. Sliding into the room, I flash a smile at the young woman ticking off names. A waitress is walking past on her way from the bar to deliver a tray of drinks. I snatch what looks like a whiskey off her tray, ignoring her annoyed exclamation, and keep walking. Table eight, table eight.
I find my table. Oh, fuck me. There are three dinosaurs seated on it. Another two are standing and talking to the pretty little table hostess in her skin-tight black dress. At least I’ll know which one she is.
They all dress the same, and ten of them are cookie-cutter blondes. There’s a dark beauty over on table two and this little brunette pocket rocket. She throws her shoulder-length dark hair away from her neck, grinning and giggling at something the dinosaur to her left is saying.
Another waitress appears, holding out some whiskey and champagne. The three take them, the hostess smiling, taking a tiny sip, and placing her glass on the table. I wonder how many she has been plied with. The men are always pulling the same tricks whenever I come to these things, trying to get the young hostesses drunk. It’s pathetic.
Taking a deep sip of my whiskey, I find my seat across from the one with the hostess’s and drop into it, turning to introduce myself to my table companions.
“Archie Keating,” the pompous old guy nods to me.
“Pete Rampwood.”
The inevitable blinking, double-take, and obsequiousness begin almost immediately. You don’t walk into a room full of Seattle society and drop the name Rampwood without expecting results. Just once… just once, I want someone to have no fucking clue who I am.
