6. Salinger
6
SALINGER
I hated every second of being in the military. It was a necessary evil to take care of my brothers. But it can’t be denied that I gained a valuable skill from that time—the ability to operate at full capacity on little to no sleep.
An ingenious move on my part, calling Mandy back into the office after her little late-night stunt. It came to me during the drive back to my penthouse.
Mandy practically sleepwalks through the morning. When she brings me my lunch, she pauses in the middle of my office, blinking and looking confused, like she’s just woken up and found herself there.
My stomach growls. She ordered from the same place as yesterday. It smells even better than before. There is also more of it.
“Mandy,” I bark.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. Dark circles underline her brown eyes, and her shirt is on backward .
Standing up, I cross the carpet in two easy steps, taking the tray from her.
“I can do it,” she protests.
“If you drop this food, I might just lose patience and fire you.”
She yawns, one hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“Lucky for you,” I continue, sitting back down at my desk and pulling up one of the reports she’d sent me that night. “I have to leave early today. So no need to try and one-up the boss. You’ll never beat me.”
“Gentlemen, today is a good day.” My eyes scan over my brothers, all with my same coloring.
“Did our darling Faulkner’s other testicle finally drop?” Fitz flashes an eat-shit grin at our youngest brother.
“You fucking piece of shit!” Faulkner throws a punch at Fitz.
He catches in in the ribs. “Oof!”
“Can you act like adults for one minute? This is supposed to be Salinger’s big moment.” Hawthorne, the second-oldest, puts our youngest brother in a headlock.
Faulkner continues to swing at the laughing Fitz.
“Aww, look at the little kitten.” Fitz snickers.
Faulkner swipes at Fitz with an oyster fork, grazing his hand.
“Ow!”
“You deserved it,” I tell him.
“He’s leaking body fluids on the table,” McCarthy, the middle child, complains .
Whitman, the second-youngest, pushes away his plate of lobster tempura. “Yeah, I’m done. Salinger, can you wrap this up?”
“Yes, dear brother, it’s time for Faulkner’s nap.”
“Asshole!” One of the bottles of water clatters to the table as our youngest brother wrestles out of Hawthorne’s grasp to attack Fitz.
There are six of us—well, six of us full brothers. Dear old Dad fathered over a hundred half siblings at least, packing us all like rotting garbage in his desert compound.
His hoard.
“We are gathered here today… Fitz, seriously, shut up and leave him alone. Like I said, we are here to celebrate a momentous occasion—I swear to god, Fitz, I’m going to let him take your eye out.”
“Not me eye!” Fitz wails dramatically.
I grab Faulkner and shove him in the chair next to me, where he glares daggers at Fitz.
“I am finally the richest Svensson in America, now that Svensson Investment is a smear on my path to victory. And Greg thinks he’s smart. Guess the superior Svensson wins again.”
Whitman lifts his glass to toast me. “And all is right in the jungle.”
Sometimes I wonder if I should have just left them all in the compound with the rest of my siblings. But my family is everything to me. Well, my five brothers are, anyway. I built my business and sacrificed everything for them, so they could grow up happy and safe away from my father’s oppressive, controlling delusions.
We meet once a week at a restaurant in a private dining room. The East Coast Svenssons might all cook together for a performative family meal. Not me. I’m not cooking shit for my brothers.
McCarthy slides the ice-filled tray over to me, and I select one of the small West Coast oysters arranged in a spiral from big to small, the tiniest one no bigger than a quarter.
“Far superior to the weakling snot they eat on the East Coast.”
“When we have the Manhattan Svenssons over again, we’ll have to rub our superior culinary standards in their faces.” Whitman and McCarthy toast oysters.
“Why would we do that?” Scowling, I swallow the oyster, the salt and taste of the ocean exploding on my tongue. Even though it’s been twenty years since I was locked in that desert compound where we never ate so much as a breaded fish stick, I still can’t get enough of seafood. It tastes like freedom and possibility.
“Because West Coast is better?” Whitman shakes his head.
“No. Why invite them over?”
“You were happy to see Greg, remember? You gave him a hug?” Fitz prods.
“A moment of weakness.”
“I thought we were friends with them,” Faulkner says with a sigh, pushing away Hawthorne, who’s trying to make Faulkner eat some of his salmon steak.
“No,” I correct him, “we’re family again.”
“And you all stab family in the back.” My half brother’s shadow darkens the doorway of the private dining room.
“You’re a long way from Boston.” Hawthorne rises to stand next to me.
We watch warily as Crawford, decked out in heavy motorcycle gear, slowly stalks in.
My brothers are tense, except for Fitz.
“Bro!” He jumps up to give Crawford a hug.
Crawford briefly tightens his arm around Fitz’s neck then slaps him on the shoulders.
My other brothers relax.
Whitman pulls out a seat for Crawford. His motorcycle helmet and gloves thud on the table. With the scar on his face and military-short haircut, he looks out of place in the upscale restaurant.
“Scotch? Fishcake?” Whitman grabs Faulkner’s glass and slides it over to Crawford.
“The fuck?” I curse.
Several of my brothers glance at me apprehensively.
“He’s an adult. He can drink.” Hawthorne sounds blithe.
“No. He’s not invited.” God, my fucking brothers.
“I invited him.” Fitz’s voice is firm.
“Besides,” McCarthy adds, stealing a shrimp from Hawthorne’s plate, “maybe he wants to throw his hat in the ring.”
“Salinger is about to offload a women back onto the market,” Whitman explains to our half brother with a grin.
“None of you are dating Alma,” I warn.
Crawford smirks as he drinks the scotch, probably filing away the conversation for ammunition to use against me later.
“Not Alma,” Hawthorne reminds me. “Mandy. Your assistant. You said she was about to quit, right?”
“She has nice tits,” Faulkner remarks.
“The fuck did you just say?” The handle of my fork digs into my hand.
Faulkner flinches .
“Wow, turds of a feather really do flock together,” Crawford drawls. “You all are sick.”
“Mandy’s a grown woman,” Whitman protests.
“Sounds like she’s not going to want to waste her time with the likes of you, then.”
“Can you just finish your drink and leave?” I spit at Crawford.
He spreads his arms wide. “But it’s family-bonding time.”
I glare. “As if you’re here for such noble reasons.”
Crawford knocks back the rest of the scotch. “Damn right. I’m here to collect the tithes.”
I level my gaze at him. “And the answer is the same. Eat shit. You’re not getting a penny from me for that Svensson puppy mill you’re running.”
“More like a feral cat colony.” Fitz is cheerful as he spears a fritter. “They were literally climbing up the walls when I was in HArrogate the other weekend. And racing goats in the foyer.”
“I thought you all forgave and forgot,” Hawthorne adds, crossing his arms.
Crawford slides his glass away and slowly stands, leaning over the table. “Greg had a momentary lapse in judgment. I did not. Hunter did not. Garrett sure as shit did not. You still owe us.”
“I don’t owe you shit.” The words rumble around the room.
“I think you do.” Crawford’s voice is dangerously even. “You tanked Svensson Investment.”
I can’t stop the smug grin on my face. “Sure did.”
Hawthorne kicks me under the table.
“It’s hardly tanked,” McCarthy protests. “They didn’t even lay anyone off. ”
“It will take a couple years for the fund to recover,” Crawford counters. “Greg’s being tightfisted with the money, and all those kids aren’t free.”
“That’s why I never had any.” I turn back to my drink.
Crawford’s gray eyes narrow.
“There’s a dozen of them about to go off to college. They deserve to have a normal life—well, as normal as it can be.”
“They can get a job.” I take a sip of my scotch.
“We also still need to find the rest of our sisters.”
Hawthorne sucks in a breath.
I don’t look at Crawford. “Maybe they don’t want to be found.”
Whitman starts to protest.
“Shut up,” I hiss at him.
“You're so fucking selfish.” Crawford’s fist slams into the heavy-wood tabletop.
I’m unbothered. “It’s called ruthless pragmatism.”
Crawford huffs out a derisive laugh. “Stop acting all tough. You were in the military four years and didn’t even see combat. You sat at a desk.”
“Correction. It was a standing desk. And that trillion-dollar defense budget wasn’t going to allocate itself, you know.” My tone is flippant.
“Yeah, and you sure got your cut, didn’t you.”
“My brothers deserve nice things.”
“You’re a coward.”
“That’s capitalism, baby.”
“Piece of shit. You didn’t even help put Dad in prison.”
Hawthorne looks guilty.
I’m not. “Right back atcha, Crawford. So if you’re done trying to appeal to my nonexistent better nature, get the hell out of my city. ”
The motorcycle helmet scrapes across the table. My half brother works his hands into the gloves as he makes his way to the door. “You know”—he pauses—“one of these days, you’re going to want your family’s help.”
“Doubtful.” I cross my arms. “You all are the only ones who’ve asked me for help over the years. So you’ll forgive my skepticism. I don’t need you, and I never will.”
“We’ll see.” Crawford sounds eerily calm.
The door to the private dining room slams shut behind him.
This is why I wish they’d all just stayed away. It’s too complicated, too much drama.
I have my brothers. I don’t need the rest of the Svenssons.