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Outside, I whip off my high-heeled shoes that were never meant for walking and start to walk gingerly on the uneven pavement, acutely aware of the damage I am causing on my pantyhose and the soles of my feet, my body shaking with sobs that I refuse to tame.I hate this man. How I wish he’d die instead of my mother.
Chapter ten
GAZPACHO IS A SOUP BEST SERVED COLD.
LIAM
How is it that in a home with close to ten thousand square feet, there is nowhere to hide? I am sitting quietly in the gazebo south of the tennis court, and a newspaper slaps against the mahogany coffee table next to me, skidding to a halt beside my now warm glass of Grey Goose Vodka. Noah's glare bores into me, his voice sharp as flint.
"Once again, you make the headlines, baby brother. What is it you are looking for with these people? What do you want from them? This is getting infuriating . . . this is getting old."
My fingers curl around the edges of the paper, lifting it to meet my eyes, and there I am, frozen in ink, dabbing at a red splotch on my shirt.
The caption mocks me: "Local tycoon Liam Dexter attempts a dignified recovery after a chilly encounter with a bowl of gazpacho."
I crumple the evidence of my “betrayal,” my jaw setting firm.
"There are things I need to say to her," I mutter, tossing the wadded paper back onto the table, then quickly reassure my close-to-explode sibling by saying, "And don't worry, brother, the family secret is safe and intact. I gave you all my word. Isn't that enough?"
Noah's scoff slices through the tension.
"Sometimes you can be a real selfish bastard, Liam. Wait till Dad sees this. How much longer are we going to bend over backward for—"
"LIAM!" Dad's voice, loud and thunderous, cuts Noah off mid-sentence, and we both turn to witness an albino Godzilla charging toward us, fire and smoke coming out of his mouth and ears—papa is mad alright . . . so what else is new?
Do scary people ever realize that when you do something so frequently, without consequence, it stops getting scary? That face was scary as hell when it could be accompanied by a leather belt, a crystal glass half-filled with some liquid, even a kitchen utensil that was capable of causing grievous bodily harm.
People sometimes wrongly assume that such things don’t exist in mansions like ours. Oh, the secrets many mansion walls keep. Dad reaches us in four effortless bounds, his face contorted, sporting veins throbbing like angry snakes under his skin. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as if he’s garnering all the restraint he has in him, not to deck me one.
How I wish he would try . . . how I wish he would go there. I am not six anymore.Try it this time, Dad. I learned a thing or two about defending myself in prison. Test me and see for yourself.
“What is this I see in the papers? Didn’t I make it clear that you are not to associate with the Ricardos? Didn’t I make myself clear?”
“You painted a very compelling picture, Dad, but I am not a child anymore. None of you have the right to tell me who I can talk to and who I can be seen with. There are parts of my life thatare private and personal to me. I know the risks of “The Secret” coming out. Lord knows you have only told me a million times. I got it . . . I’m on board. I don’t need to be reminded every two fucking seconds. What I want with Tony Ricardo is my business.
“You will be happy to know that even though you two have such reservations about the Ricardos on this issue, you areallaligned. She doesn’t want those meetings any more than you do . . . see, you have more in common than you’d like to think.”
"You selfish, self-important bastard. Do not underestimate what I'd be willing to do to protect this family . . . even from you."
My gaze locks with my father, defiance swelling like a wave within me. "And what would that be, Dad? Are you politely telling me that I would meet the same fate as Mr. Ricardo?”
I have no idea what I just said that could have taken a conversation that was already registering a 10.0 on the Richter scale right up to a gazillion. Three voices escalate, each louder than the last, until our words crash into one another indistinguishably, our alpha male egos clashing for dominance into a cacophony of discord and bile.
I take a break to draw in much-needed air, their secret, heavy as lead, remaining locked behind my teeth, and for the very first time in my life, I experience true, livid, exponential hate towards my father.
From as early as my memory goes, I have felt rage, indignation, wrath, even resentment toward him, but never hate. Even when he would take the belt to me for punishment, I would feel a myriad of emotions but never hate.
I look at him now squarely in the eyes, and I feel hate. I hope he can see exactly what is tattooed in my heart. I was born into the wrong family. I was sold into slavery by my family, right into my family. I am surrounded by evil. I don’t belong here.
“Listen, guys. I know what’s at stake here. I know that the tiniest slip-up could shatter the Dexter name and bring our empire tumbling down around us. I’m not a moron.”
"And yet you act like one," Noah spits the word like venom. "You paid a million dollars just for a chance to speak with Tony. Who does that without raising eyebrows? You have a thing for this child?"
"That’s my business—!" I shoot back before Dad cuts both of us off, saying,
"That’s preposterous. He doesn’t even know her."
Dad turns around as if to leave, then changes his mind and comes back roaring.
