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“Chloe says she saw you in San Francisco a few weeks ago,” he explains, calmly, smoothly. As if there isn’t an ulterior motive behind his words. “I see you didn’t take time to come to visit us.”
“It was a quick trip. Had to cut it short to help out a friend.” And there’s no way in hell I’d make a trip out to visit my father. I toss back one shot of scotch. It doesn’t do nearly enough to dull the pain. “But I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Ah. She said you two really hit it off. Picked right back up where you left off it seems.”
“I don’t remember seeing Chloe.” I lie. I just don’t like where this is going.
“I’ll get to the point.”
“Please, do.”
“You’re becoming a real disgrace.” He’s not holding anything back now. “Someone said they heard you’ve taken up with building houses for the poor. I mean isn’t this whole teaching thing bad enough?”
I take another shot. “I can help people by teaching. The only people I help in your company are you.”
“And the investors. Let’s not forget about them.”
Please. If only I could. That’s all I’ve ever heard my father talk about. Catering to them and their needs, while the rest of us fell to the wayside. Though what they were investing in always seemed to change over time.
“What does this have to do with Chloe?” I ask.
“Her father wants to work toward a business merger, but he wants to ensure he’ll have a firm hold on the company first. That his future grandchildren will be given partial ownership even after he’s gone. Sentimental stuff like that. Chloe likes you, so...”
“And how many sacrificial cows are you exchanging for me?
“Knock it off!” My father’s face reddens. He stands, shaking the empty glass in his hand toward me. I flinch, immediately hating myself for it. “This isn’t a joke. It’s business.”
“Is this the part where you bitch slap me if I say ‘no?’”
“Watch your mouth, Zachary Rider,” he shouts. “This is the part where I deliver some hard truths. I’ve let you live in between worlds for too long, but now it’s time you grow up and take over your responsibilities.”
“I have responsibilities here.”
He rolls his eyes and raises his voice. “Pandering to the whims of children who will probably never end up using their degrees in the real world? Volunteering to cater to people so low in a prison of their own making they can’t escape?”
His words hit a nerve. A sharp pain twists deep within my chest at words I know I’ve heard before. Hadn’t Aly said something similar? That all rich people think is those living beneath the margins need a handout to survive and no actual guidance. Because they are poor people, and we always need someone to shine our shoes and park our cars.
Only now the words strike a new chord with me. Nausea spirals into my stomach. This is the man who raised me, whose DNA I share. I am part of him, and yet at this moment, I am ashamed to breathe the same air as him. Even more so, I am afraid of ever becoming like him.
“These are people who need help, Dad,” I explain. “Not people looking for a handout and an easy ride like your business partners.”
He levels his glare over me, a hardened stare that has made even the toughest of business moguls crack. But I stand my ground. I just focus on the glass still in his hand. His knuckles whiten as his grip tightens. One more ounce of pressure and it will shatter.
“Those are powerful words for a man who will one day need to claim the reins to such a company.”
“I have no desire to run your company.”
He scoffs. “And who do you think will run it then?”
A smile touches my lips. I’m either brilliant or foolish to follow down this path, but I can’t resist. Anything to ease the tension for even a second. “Isn’t Ezra doing all the heavy lifting for the company? I thought he was the one you’ve been grooming to take it over.”
My father leaps to his feet. The redness in his face deepens into purple. He looks like an evil little eggplant, and I’m not sure whether to be horrified or amused. Another voice insists I call emergency services. Because that color on a human can’t be natural.
“Ezra? Ezra?” My father is now the living embodiment of an erupting teapot. “You think your cousin Ezra can run this company on his own? Over my dead body.”
He paces alongside the far window. Short, choppy breaths escape him, and he mutters under his breath. If I lived close enough to my neighbors, they would have heard everything. Hell, they probably would be outside now, taping it all to sell online.
The sea of rage ebbs slightly. My father sets the glass down on the table. I’m surprised to realize I’ve been holding my breath all this time. I guess old habits and wounds die hard. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. His fingers tear into the short tufts of white hair on the back of his head, then slide down around to his forehead.
