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I talk a lot about my mom and it’s healing, and it makes the evening happy, even if there is a pit in my chest. “You never talk about your mom.”
“No. I don’t talk about my mom.”
There is a coldness to his voice that has me wishing I’d said nothing. “I’m sorry, Creed. I told you I looked you up because I was curious about you, but a computer screen doesn’t tell me what you can. And I shouldn’t be nosey.”
He shoves aside his empty plate and leans in closer, as if trying to send me a message. His attention is on me and he’s not withdrawing. “I grew up wealthy, as we already talked about. Prep schools, fancy cars, and captain of the football team. I was that guy. My future was drawn out by my parents, and I just walked inside the storybook they created. I was smart enough and capable enough to take a role in the company and one day be CEO, and I actually started down that path. But once I was inside the company, the desire to make money no matter how our weapons systems were used, and who they hurt, was not acceptable to me. Weapons should be deterrents that keep people from actually using them. Then one night, after a sale to a particularly nasty group of people, I knew would kill hundreds if not thousands, I said enough. I decided that if he wants to create war, I’ll go fight the wars he’s bringing to our country’s door.”
“And what did he do?”
“Disowned me and disinherited me. Only he didn’t disinherit me. He ended up leaving me a small fortune, which pissed my mother the fuck off. Ultimately, when I wouldn’t give the money to her to use the same way he’d used the money, she disowned me. The money is in an account, untouched except for some charity donations I’ve made. I don’t want his blood money. I want to do something with my inheritance that somehow undoes some of his damage.”
“Are you shocked that he gave you the money?”
“Not really. I think he always thought I’d be lured back to that lifestyle. Now, how ironic that I’m an engineered weapon. In some ways, it feels as if he and my mother got a little revenge on me.”
“No,” I say, my heart hurting for a man who seems to really have never known love. “You won’t allow yourself to be used for bad. You choose what you do.”
“I’m the property of the military.”
“I don’t think either of us believes that,” I say, but we’re interrupted by the waiter and perhaps it’s a good thing. I want to say things to Creed that I should not. Not this soon into knowing him. No matter how human he feels to me, he’s not wholly that anymore. And my father made him a weapon and a potential enemy. No matter how much either of us wants to inherently trust each other, and I believe we do, there are reasons, walls, I do not want to exist, between us.
And because I have this really, really horrible thought. My father knew who he was when he selected Creed for Groom Lake placement. He knew who his father was. My father told my mother he was working on private funding. Was that Creed’s father? Did he push forward with Project Zodius to ensure Creed was involved, and therefore his father was motivated to fund the program? And then his father died? I suddenly want to know exactly how those dates align and I want to know badly.
I want my father to be a good guy. I want him to be the father I knew growing up, but ever since that fight I overheard, I’ve questioned him. I continue to question him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It’s a long time later, we’re back in our hotel room, in the bedroom, on a curved blue couch. The bed is just in front of our little sitting area, and to our right is such a stunning view. The lights, the Eiffel Tower, which looks real at night like this.
“This is a gorgeous room. I thought you didn’t use any of the money you inherited.
We’re side-by-side, both with champagne glasses in our hands. “I didn’t,” he says. “But what does a soldier have to spend his money on? I’ve saved mine, and I chose to spend it on you.”
To say I’m charmed and touched by his actions is an understatement. “You didn’t have to do this, Creed, but it’s stunning and I love it.”
“I wanted you to have a good weekend. I know it’s a rough time. Year two is still pretty damn raw.”
“It is.” I sip my bubbly. “But you’ve made it easier. Alone would have been rough. It was last year.” I lift my glass. “It’s weird drinking when I know it doesn’t affect you.”
