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“Sophie’s isn’t far from here. I’ll be fine. I could walk you to work?—"
She laughs. “Thanks, but no. That might give things away.”
One more for the road, then. I kiss her until my balls ache, and I hate when she pulls away. But she’s smiling, and I did that. I made her smile, and it’s the best feeling I can have while wearing clothes. She leaves, and I go the other way, and it thrusts the opposite feeling through me. I hate to leave her, but I have to.
Brunch with Dad will not wait.
Sophie’s is yet another hoity-toity place he likes. The place has long been rumored to be a favorite of local high-end criminals, possibly run by them as a front for money laundering. But that’s just old Boston lore. Lots of places have that reputation in the city. It adds to their mystique and makes a lot of them into tourist destinations.
It's a small, brick building with private, soundproof dining rooms perfect for birthday parties and bribery. Or, in my case, blackmailing my father into giving me access to my money. The hostess takes me back to our private room. Dark stone flooring, no windows, ivory walls with decent artwork. The table has a black tablecloth on it and two place settings. The room has space for several small tables like this one, but we are the only patrons. It is almost awkward, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice. His martini is half drained.
A server delivers a very old scotch for me without taking my order. This isn’t his move, though. It’s Dad’s.
After the server leaves and the door closes completely, I take a whiff. It’s the good stuff, and I am not one to turn that down, so I take a sip. Heady, smoky, entirely too expensive. “What’s the occasion?”
“Can’t a father spoil his favorite son?”
I laugh at the characterization. “I’m the favorite?”
“For now.”
I shrug and sip again. “Thank you.”
He nods his head once. “Your mother is well, thank you for asking.”
“Is it too much to assume that if she weren’t, then you would tell me?”
A gentle lift of his eyebrows is all I get from him to say I was right about that. “Our last conversation was less convivial than I would like, Anderson. For the part I played in it, I apologize.”
I choke on the scotch, and it takes a moment for me to make words again. “Did you just apologize to me?”
“It has been known to happen from?—"
“No. No, it has not.”
He almost shrugs. “Apologizing can easily become a bad habit, and you know how I strive to avoid that.” He is doing this to drive me crazy. I know he is. Talking in circles is something of an art form for Elliot West.
“Let’s not get off-topic?—"
“Did you know Cole will be joining us at the firm?”
“Yeah, he mentioned?—"
“Yes. Not yeah. You’re not some uneducated street urchin.”
I stretch my hands instead of letting them ball up from tension. A fist feels stronger. It’s my first instinct. But he trained that out of me at a young age. According to him, a fist is the refuge of those who aren’t smart enough to fight with their words. I ignore his correction. “Cole told me the night of the party, when June was taken.” Maybe if I add that part, he will explain why we are here.
A line forms between his brows as a pensive expression takes hold. “You know, there’s something about all that which strikes me as convenient.”
“The kidnapping of my fiancée is convenient?” Huh?
“You can’t get your money. You yell at me. I don’t budge. Then your fiancée is kidnapped, so you need your money. Kidnapping is a very?—"
“Let me stop you right the fuck there. You have seen what I’ve seen. You know what’s going on here. How the fuck can you accuse me of anything like that?”
He held his hand up to silence me. “Ah, ah. I am not accusing you of anything. Merely pointing out how things might be.”
“You’re making shit up, so you don’t have to give me my money.”
