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The club. The club means golf. If there is a more pointless sport than golf, I have yet to find it. “If I go ask Bennet right now, does he know about this plan?”
The pause is answer enough. “You’ve got an hour.”
Pulling my phone away from my head, I look at the time. It’s 7:16. Fucking hell.
Sitting up, I suck in a breath as my head spins. “No. I have plans today.”
I don’t, but I would rather snort crushed glass than play golf, even without a hangover.
“I wasn’t asking, Roman,” he says flatly. “We need to talk.”
“And I wasn’t offering to debate it.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and I just know he’s seething. I can see it perfectly, because I grew up with this man and sometimes we’re a bit too alike for my comfort. “How about 10:00?” he says with the cautious air of one handing over a briefcase for ransom. “Your mother would appreciate a visit afterwards.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, then wince, as I brush my eye again. I should have known that card would be the next to flip over. “Fine.”
I can practically feel his smugness through the phone.
The pounding in my head nearly drowns out the soundtrack of the golf course. If I focus hard enough to make my eyes water, I can pick out the calls of mourning doves in the distance, the swish of clubs against fog-soaked grass, and most audibly, my father’s angry mumbling as he tries to line up a shot he will never achieve.
Shifting on the uncomfortable back seat of the cart, I stretch out my fingers, slightly achy with the November chill, and turn the page of my book. I’ve read the same page three times, and still, the words won’t penetrate my mind. I blink, and focus on a random sentence on the new page.
“Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.”
I wish I had a highlighter.
Suddenly aware of a looming presence above me, I slowly look up.
My father stands over me, trying and failing to look menacing in his cable knit sweater and plaid wool hat. He scowls at my book. “It’s your turn.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m getting to the good part.”
Realistically there’s no “good part” of a Palahniuk novel. It’s all good, but that’s irrelevant. My father is the kind of man who thinks reading for pleasure isn’t a real hobby. I am the kind of man who thinks driving a tiny car on fake grass isn’t a real sport.I am Jack’s quiet contempt.
“We’re trying to play a game here,” Father says.
I close my book and reach into my pocket for my pack of clove cigarettes. “Yes, but why? You’re a warlock and a billionaire. You could do fucking anything, and you’re choosing to golf? Do you see how sad that is?”
“Like what, son? Drinking and pissing away my family’s money?”
I almost congratulate him on an excellent comeback—albeit an inaccurate one—but my pride won’t allow it. “I thought we were here to have a conversation. Isn’t that what you said on the phone?”
Father scowls. “Don’t light that.”
“Why? You have cigars in the glove compartment.”
He can’t seem to think of a response and gives up as the scent of licorice and tobacco overwhelms us. “Just come take your turn.”
I glance up at Bennet, standing behind my father. He shrugs, and I can practically hear his voice,“It’s easier just to play along.”
It’s only because of him that I get up and reach for my clubs.
“I heard about last night,” my father says, placated by my participation.
“No shit.” I gesture to my face. “What was your first clue?”
“Not that.” Apparently, a brawl between enemies isn’t newsworthy. “I meant about Lawrence”
