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I dip my head. “Yes sir.”
When I remain where I am, he sighs. “What else?”
“I want some time off. It’s summer, I’m tired, and I work my ass off for you. I need a fucking break.”
“Probably should have thought of that before you accused me of being a doddering old fool,” he says, briefly referring to his computer screen. “Kissing my ass might get you closer to what you want.”
“I doubt it, sir.”
He snorts softly and smiles, as he looks me over. “True enough. How long do you want?”
“At least a week.” I don’t back down from his intentionally intimidating glare. “Two would be better. A month would be best.”
He tosses aside the contracts he held in his hand, leaving creases on the paper from his angry fingers. “What the fuck would you do with a month to yourself? You have no friends, no woman, and no place to be, other than under my fucking thumb.”
I stand taller. “I want to go hiking in the mountains. Fresh air. Solitude. Chopping wood for campfires. Simple, basic shit. No schedules, orders, or twisted fucking plots to usurp tycoons. I’m burned out, and I can’t do what you need me to do when I’m this fucking tired.”
Jack returns to his work. “I’ll think about it, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I prefer you tired. Makes you less mouthy.”
“I can be plenty mouthy either way,” I assure him.
He hums in agreement and ignores me, until he reaches for his phone and sees I’m still standing here.
“Do I need to put up aNo Loiteringsign? Spit out whatever else you need to say or leave. I’ve got skulls to crush and so on and so forth.” He waves a dismissive hand at me, as he scrolls on his phone.
“Your son wants a treehouse,” I say, in a flat tone.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he says, still looking at his phone. “Which son?”
“Twelve.”
I rarely call Curty by his name in front of Jack. I don’t want him to pick up on the pride I feel when I say it. Plus, referring to him as a number makes it seem like I’m more detached and adequately disturbed by his existence. I don’t like to say Kira’s name around my father, either, but sometimes he makes me — says he does it just to hear the sadness in my voice.
He lowers his phone and looks up at me. “The twelfth one, huh? Your favorite.”
I grunt and look away with a shrug. “Yours too, I’m sure. Another little red-haired fucker, to piss you off. Should have thought that through when you raped Sherman Grant’s daughter. That guy was ginger-as-fuck — the orange practically fluorescent.”
My father smirks. “It wasn’t rape. She consented. In writing and everything.”
“Consent under duress is still rape,” I counter without pause. “You know what you did. Another ginger son is your fucking punishment.”
He smiles at me, his eyes sparkling with a treacherous glint. “You’re especially spicy, all of a sudden. Still pissed Daddy got into your pussy?”
I glare at him. “Until my dying day. I’m not enamored with your use of the wordDaddy, either, so kindly shut the fuck up and get back on topic. We were talking about a treehouse, in case your memory is as shitty as I suspect. Should I approve construction, or would you rather make your ex pay for it?”
He chuckles softly. “She’d like that — it’d give her more to hate me for.” He leans back in his chair and swivels slightly, as he watches me. “I’ll pay. For materials.”
I nod. “I’ll write an email for you to approve and send to her.”
“Make sure it says the construction will be free, too,” he says staring at me.
I pull out my phone and read aloud, as I make a note of it. “Jack will pay for materials and construction of said treehouse.”
“I’ll pay for materials,” he agrees. “Youwill provide labor. Show everyone you harbor no hard feelings toward your little brother.”
Yes, Jack. Everything is just as it seems.
Time to seal the deal. Just a little closer, old boy — like a dopey moth, into my web.
