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Had I stepped into the fucking twilight zone?
“Have you reached out to the Allisons?” I asked, digging for any little tidbit of information on Pop Rock.
Addison Allison.
Her name bounced around my head like a pinball machine. The way she owned the party told me she was a regular on the scene, and her brazen attempt to take me home turned me on, no matter how preoccupied I was with Will.
Speaking of my baby sister and shit-for-brains supposed best friend, why were we talking about fucking pictures when Beth was more than likely going to need surgery soon? Earlier than soon, if I had anything to say about it. But what I said didn’t mean squat. I couldn’t show up at the hospital all hell-fire and dick-swinging and expect something to happen.
Could I?
Nope. I’d have to call in every favor I had with my buddy from college who worked at MUSC in the hopes he could pull some strings. I’d settle for a thread or a hair. Just something to hold on to until we knew she’d recovered.
“…fluff piece.” My father’s voice brought me back to our conversation, and I raised my brows, trying to remember what he said. He shook his head and removed his hand, resting his leg on his knee.
“I’d like your help giving the family, and specifically you, some positive press—a fluff piece. Your mother suggested volunteering for a charity event. It also wouldn’t hurt to find someone to write a decent article highlighting your better qualities. So spend time doing high-profile volunteer work. Be seen at golf outings and fundraisers. Make sure your calendar is full for the next months. It’s not like you don’t have the time.”
“What kind of charity did you both have in mind?” I asked, clenching my jaw, and ignoring his dig about my free time.
Our family was well-off. More than well-off. Rich. My eyes ticked to the windows and toward the circular driveway, stopping on the three-tiered fountain before moving to the perfectly trimmed hedges, rose bushes, and five-car garage. All we were missing were peacocks prancing around the front yard.
I hated when volunteering was used as a publicity stunt. That wasn’t the fucking point, but my father didn’t get the memo, and if it would appease him, fine.
My volunteer hours were not privy to public scrutiny or to appear on page three. No one knew where I spent my time, which was A-okay with me.
“You won’t like the event we’ve chosen, but frankly, I don’t care—”
“Dad,” I interrupted, using the familiar name to cut off the typical lecture. “I don’t need to hear anything else. I just need to handle it, right?”
The rest of the scotch disappeared with a swallow, making my eyes water with the burn. I stood and sulked to the bar, grabbing the bottle, and holding it out to refill his glass, then my own. Only pouring enough to cover the bottom of mine, I stared at the golden liquid, swirling it around and watching droplets run down the side.
“Look at me, Simon, and listen good.” I dropped beside him and ran my hand through my hair, trying unsuccessfully to slick it back and out of my eyes. “Your sister has bad news again, and I have a big case. Can you please do something that doesn’t make things worse?”
He took a sip and shook his head, setting the glass down and sighing. “I need you, Simon. I need you to fix this. Who knows? You might find something that makes you happy.”
Yep. I had officially entered the twilight zone.
I remembered playing some stupid version of Truth or Dare in middle school. It was called Never Have I Ever. Maybe I was dreaming or back in middle school. Or I’d fallen down the stairs on the way to my car from Grayson’s party and was in a coma. Because Never Have I Ever remembered my father telling me he wanted me to do something that made me happy. Why couldn’t he tell me to man up or given me some sort of veiled threat or insult per usual? This bullshit lying manipulation thing was throwing me for a loop and pissing me the hell off.
“Happy?” The word felt weird on my tongue as I parroted it back, tilting my head.
“Yes, happy. Obviously.”
He drew out the word obviously like a certain greasy-haired potion’s master, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking him if he wanted me to turn to page three hundred and ninety-four.
“I’m tired of warring with you on what you’re doing with your life, and though I hate being wrong, your mother had a point when she said it’s time I stop blaming you for leaving the firm. We’ve already entered you into a dance event. Do that and any other positive press we need. Beth can’t, Simon. Be the good kid, the dependable one, and fix this, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Wait—dance? Did you say dance event?”
There it is.The reason for the bullshit line of doing what makes me happy. He’d already entered me like I was a fucking foregone conclusion. He needed me to take the heat off him. Off the trial. Off the bad press.
I fucking hate liars.
“Yes. Dancing With the Stars: Charleston Style.All the money raised is split between several animal shelters in the area. Very posh, lots of press. It takes place over several weeks with the finals happening right before Christmas.”
“Would it do any good arguing?”
“If it will make you feel better about yourself, sure. But I’m the best lawyer in the Low Country, and I’ll win in the end.”
