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As I continued my convulsive laughter, I could see Ian fighting a smile. “Fine,” he conceded, starting to laugh himself. “I guess it’s kind of funny.” After a few seconds, he began to laugh in earnest. “Okay, it’s really funny.”
After about another minute or so, we were finally both calm enough that I felt comfortable driving again.
“I have to tell you,” I said as I pulled back onto the highway, “I’m really not digging this thing where we’re smiling and laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Can you do something that will make me hate you again?”
His expression suddenly turned serious. Just barely, I heard a sigh.
“I could introduce you to my father.”
CHAPTER 8
Ian
“Wow,” she said. “That bad?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I didn’t want Clara to know who my father was, and not just because of the blackmail opportunity. In thirty years, the only person who ever really saw and loved me for me was my mother. Everyone else judged me through the filter of my father. They took the old adage “Like father, like son” as gospel truth. Dad’s fame, wealth, and ego were a stain I could never wash off. I’d never be just plain old Ian Dunning. I’d always be Ian Dunning, only son and heir of tycoon Daniel Dunning.
But Clara had no idea who I really was. To her, I was just an ordinary guy. I didn’t care if she hated me. Correction—I didn’t carethatshe hated me. In lieu of being loved for who I was, I was happy to be hated for who I was. And in order to be loved or hated for the real me, I had to keep my lineage a secret.
“No,” I said. “We just had a disagreement last night and I guess I’m still a little pissed. Forget I said it.”
“No way,” she said. “You can’t just cut me off there.”
“Slow down,” I said. “You’re driving too fast. And keep both hands on the wheel.”
“Both my hands are on the wheel and I’m going ten miles below the speed limit.”
“I know,” I said. “But you asked me to do something to make you hate me again, so I’m being an obnoxious backseat driver.”
“So you’re just making stuff up about my driving so you don’t have to tell me about your father?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. I then told the biggest lie of my adult life. “We disagree on a few things, but we mostly get on great. He’s a really good dad. You’d like him.”
“Fine, then,” she said. “I guess I don’t get to hate you anymore. But can I still dislike and distrust you?”
“It would be my honor to be disliked and distrusted by you,” I said. “But now it’s your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“I’m starting to find you tolerable as well,” I said. “I did something to make you re-hate me, now you have to do something to make me re-hate you.”
“But yours didn’t work,” she said. “It kind of made me like you more.”
“Effort, Clara. It’s all about the effort. Try to make me hate you. Show me I’m worth it.”
“Fine,” she said. “Give me a minute.”
As she continued to drive at fifty-five miles an hour, both hands on the wheel, she pondered which of her hateable qualities to share with me.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I think I’ve got one.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I drive a 1999 Mercury Cougar with a bullet hole in the dashboard.”
“I already hated you for that. You have to give me new material to work with.”
“Okay, Mr. Fussy,” she said. “Let me think.”
