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Brandon's forehead crinkled in confusion. "What?"
"You heard me," I said more calmly than I felt. Good. Focus on what makes you angry. "I give you a limit, and you blatantly disrespect it. Do what you want, and force me along for the ride. It's not...well, we're not seeing each other anymore, but if we were, it would have become a problem. A big one."
Brandon cocked his head as he listened. "I railroad?"
I nodded. "Mm-hmm. Pretty much anytime I do something you don't like."
Brandon scrunched his lips together and tapped a few big fingers on the table. "Well, shit," he said finally. "Then I guess you're not going to like this."
He pulled an envelope from his inner jacket pocket and pushed it across the table. Inside I found a check for the exact same amount that had previously been the balance of my trust, plus the extra cost of liquidating it. It was everything I had sent to begin repaying Brandon's original payment to Victor Messina, the man who had beaten my father within an inch of his life.
"You have got to be kidding." I promptly tore up the check and tossed it into the center of the table. "There is no way you thought I was going to accept that."
Brandon shrugged, but made no move to retrieve the shreds of paper. "True. Which is why I had it deposited into your bank account instead." Before I could open my mouth to ask the obvious question, Brandon shook his head, like I should already know. "HR keeps the files of all of its employees, former and current. I can look up your account information anytime I want."
I gestured angrily at the torn-up check and envelope. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You make these executive decisions about my life even after I explicitly state a desire otherwise. Insane gifts I don't want. Going behind my back to fix problems I never asked you to get involved with in the first place. Keeping shit from me I should have known about from the beginning."
"I accepted your inability to take gifts a while ago, Red, but I'm not taking this one back," Brandon said firmly, but with a sense of humor I found infuriating. It was almost like he was enjoying this, like it was some kind of negotiation. "No matter what you say, I care about you, I care about your family, and I'm probably the only thing stopping those shitheads from showing up while you're gone and taking your dad right back to the track."
"Right," I spat. "Now they're just sending their lackeys to do it instead. Stupid bimbos with giant hair to seduce my dad back to the tables. Seriously, what did you think they were going to do when they realized they could use the guppy to catch the whale?"
I stopped, realizing what had just come out of my mouth. My eyes blinked open, wide with sudden recognition. Corleone. In high school, I had known her younger brother, a kid who used to run errands...for the Messinas. Of course. It wasn't until I uttered the words that I realized just why I didn't like my dad's new "friend" It was so obvious.
Brandon watched me, blue eyes wide as oceans and the tiny crease between his eyebrows becoming more pronounced as he processed my comment. I pressed my face into my hands. I needed to talk to my dad.
"Excuse me," Brandon said abruptly.
He scooted back from the table, and wove his way quickly out of the restaurant. I sat there for a few moments, then pulled out my phone and dialed my dad's number. It went straight to voicemail; he was probably either at the club listening to his band play without him or out with Katie. Quickly I dialed the house line, which also went to the message machine. Bubbe must have been at some temple event tonight too. Damn. Lastly, I called Bubbe's cell, which also went to voicemail.
"Bubbe," I practically barked as quietly as I could manage. "I need to talk to you about Katie. Call me when you can."
"Can I get you something to drink, miss?"
A waiter stood in front of me, hand clasped neatly behind his back while I put my phone away.
"Sure," I said. Might as well. "A glass of your house red, please."
The waiter scurried off just as Brandon returned, oblivious to the way most of the eyes in the restaurant, especially the female ones, followed him with overt interest. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. At least he had come back.
"Sorry about that," he said curtly as he retook his seat. "I had to take care of something."
"Something related to Victor Messina?"
I hadn't meant it to come out as a snarl, but it did anyway. In response, all I got was a hard look.
Without breaking eye contact, Brandon held a hand up with the obvious awareness that the entire restaurant knew who he was and would cater to his every need. Our waiter appeared almost instantaneously. I snorted.
"What can I get for you, Mr. Sterling?"
"I'll have another twenty-year Michter's, neat. And my friend here will have your best scotch with a splash of water."
"I already ordered wine," I cut in saltily.
Brandon pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked up at the waiter, who visibly quaked.
"Where is it?" Brandon demanded.
"It's-it's on its way, sir. Here in a moment with yours too. Right away, sir."
