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He laughs haughtily and walks over to his chair, sitting down with a thud.
“See, I knew you were listening, son.”
“Don’t call me that. And what was that shit you were spouting about when I turn thirty?”
He glares at me over the desk. “I am your Father, as much as you detest that fact, Ashton fucking-hot-shot Rivers, it is what it is. And I’ve nothing left to say about anything else you overheard.”
I push my chair out and abruptly stand. “Fuck you.”
“Your problem is you’re too much of a romantic,” he tells me. “Too much heart, just like your Mother.”
This isn't the first time I've heard this. And we’ve come to blows before when he talks about my mother. If he even mentions my sister, Kate, I will knock his head clean off his shoulders.
She was born with an abnormality in her legs and has never walked.
Mom devoted herself entirely to her care and well-being.
I believe things just got too hard for my dad, which prompted him to announce he wanted a divorce. He’s hardly ever bothered with Kate since then.
To top it off, I had to live with the asshole.
“That’s a great way for you to speak to your Father,” he sneers.
“For the record, I’m glad I’m nothing like you.”
“Maybe if you were, you’d grow some balls and start acting like the son you should be.”
I glare at him. He’s gone too far this time. “That’s just it, isn’t it, Dad… I’m not the son you always wanted. Why don’t you go out and get a new one? You've had plenty of women who could provide you with one.”
“Perhaps that’s the best idea you’ve ever come up with!”
I shake my head at him, disgusted, just as the intercom buzzes.
“Mr. Falcon, your appointment has arrived.”
“Send her in.” He buzzes back.
Yeah, I didn’t take my father’s name when I became a pro, much to his disgust.
I took my mother’s name, and I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it.
When I get to the door, I see a woman dressed in a tight-fitting black dress, with her cleavage bulging out over the top. She’s wearing sky-high heels and traffic-stopping red lipstick. I can tell by the way she’s blinking towards my father that she’s his latest squeeze, or maybe it’s just for the afternoon. The man makes me sick.
Flaunting it here in his workplace shows just how low he’s willing to sink.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he barks at me.
“Whatever.” I storm out, barely saying goodbye to Gen, who looks sympathetic. I wonder why I bother coming here anymore.
I'm done with him after this.
I won’t let him drag me down, or try to sway me into bailing his ass out of whatever shit is going down, or some bullshit inheritance I don’t know, nor care, about. I don’t care what he says.
“Later, Gen.”
I don’t wait for her response. I walk to the elevator and press the damned button repeatedly.
After that, I go to the gym and use the punching bag to release my frustration.
