Chapter 2 #2
But I might’ve convinced her that chicken nuggets were made of zebra meat once upon a time, which wouldn’t have been so bad, except she was going through a phase where that was one of the few things she ate.
After days of only eating cheese sticks, she finally told Mom what I’d said and I’d been forced to apologize and tell her the truth, and I’d been grounded from chicken nuggets myself for an inordinate amount of time.
And that’s only one instance of the childish shit I pulled with my sisters.
Fun times, I think fondly. Before everything got so damn serious.
“What am I guilty of doing this time?” I ask my dad wearily, afraid to look down at the page.
Being somewhat of a local celebrity is weird.
When I was younger, the media would try to get pictures of our family because my dad is a bigshot in the business world.
And then overnight, when I turned eighteen, I went from ‘rebellious wild child football star’ to ‘hottest bachelor on the market’, and that’s a damn weird thing to hear about yourself when you’re barely out of high school and feel like a kid muddling his way through college.
My love life, sex life, and private life have become fodder for consumption and it’s exhausting.
Always on show, always be pulled together, always represent, always be an Andrews .
. . like I give a single, solitary fuck about what some past her prime trophy wife in the grocery line thinks about me when I can’t even run to the store in grungy jeans because it’d cause some sort of scandal that would hurt my family’s company.
Like now.
“Look and see for yourself,” Dad growls.
Anxious, I slowly peer down at the attention-grabbing headline.
Notorious Playboy Ross Andrews Nicks out of Nightclub with Wife of Mega Pastor.
The alliterative words are positioned over top of a blown up shot of me and a woman.
In the picture, you can see me trying to hide her face, but in doing so, I gave the photographer free reign to take clear pictures of my disheveled mug and wrinkled dress shirt that’s got one too many buttons open at the top.
“The hell?” I gawk in disbelief, remembering the night.
I’d met a woman in the club who said she was lonely and wanted someone to talk to.
I’m no fool. That’s totally code for only wanting one night, and she was hot in a broken doll sort of way.
And we had talked. She’d been touchy feely, the one to undo that extra button, but that was it.
Later, as the night wore on and we both realized that nothing beyond conversation was going to come of the evening, she became adamant that she had to go home and no one could see her at the club, so I snuck her out the back .
. . and accidentally into the waiting lens of the press.
I’d done my best to help hide her face, though I didn’t know why.
“I didn’t know who she was or that she was married!”
“It’s your business to know!” Dad snorts, pacing the room back and forth like a caged tiger.
I can see his mind whirling just as fast as he makes laps from the window to the wall.
He turns around to address me once he reaches the front of the table, placing both hands upon it and leaning forward.
“What the hell were you thinking, Son? A pastor’s wife? Joeden Snow’s, no less?”
“Like I said,” I say firmly. “I didn’t know. She didn’t even give me her name, just started talking.”
“Sure,” Dad says acidly. “Was that before, or after—”
I interrupt him, standing and placing my hands on the table, mirroring his stance because I’m not some intern he can push around.
Hell, I’m annoyed that I’m being forced to defend myself about a private matter.
“Let me be clear. I didn’t sleep with her.
She obviously needed someone or something, but all we did was talk, and then I had the driver take her home and then me home. ”
Dad pauses, brought short by the anger in my voice and the challenge to his authority.
He stares at me for a long while, scowling, but then relaxes.
Some of the tension eases from my body. “It doesn’t matter if you slept with her or not,” he finally says with a sigh.
“The damage is done. We have shareholders who are members of Pastor Snow’s church .
. . including the pastor himself. They are not pleased. ”
“Except nothing happened!”
Dad shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Bad optics is bad optics. And your track record doesn’t help matters.” Another dig that stings.
“What I do in my private life is no one’s business,” I growl. “Our shareholders should concern themselves with what we put in their pockets, not what I choose to do in the bedroom.”
“Except for the fact that when we took their money, we made a pact. A pact that stated that we, as a family-run business, would uphold the values of our investors,” Dad argues. “Something you’re woefully failing at, Ross.”
The room grows so silent you can hear a pin drop.
Even Courtney’s amused smirk has vanished. There’s playing the good daughter and getting jabs in on me. Then there’s shit hitting the fan, and this is for sure one of those times.
“Are you for real? Who the fuck are they to dictate what I do with my personal life?”
“They’re the people making all of this possible,” Dad says, holding his hands out to his sides, encompassing the entire boardroom and the skyline behind him.
“Say whatever you want about me, but I’ve done a lot for this company, and I’m committed and work hard—”
“You want to know what’s really being committed and hard work?
” Dad growls swiftly, making me feel as if I walked right into a trap.
“Settling down. Being happily married for thirty-five years. All while raising three children and giving them a good life. So, if you want to know what takes real commitment and hard work, try standing up, being a man, and finding someone to have a meaningful relationship with.”
“So that’s what this is really about?” I ask acidly as a conversation we’ve had multiple times begins playing on automatic loop. “You’re using this incident as an excuse to make me fall in line—”
“It breaks your mother’s heart to see you strutting around like a cocky, arrogant peacock that endlessly sows his oats,” Dad snarls. “You could have any woman you want, and what do you do instead? Carouse around, squandering precious time that could be better used to start a family.”
I stare at my Dad like he’s lost it. “You’re a piece of work.”
“Your mother and I aren’t getting any younger, Ross,” he continues as if I hadn’t said anything, “And neither are you. When are you going to grow up? Think about the example you are setting for your younger siblings and this company.”
“This is all such bullshit—”
Dad’s next words, though quiet and resigned, are like a stab in my gut.
“There’s a board meeting coming up, and your behavior and its impact on the company have already been added to the agenda.
You have two weeks to get your act together and make this storm you’ve created for our company’s image go away.
But if you keep this behavior up, even I won’t be able to protect you, and they can vote to remove you from the board, demote you, or even force your resignation. ”
It’s a struggle to control the fury emanating from my core. Demoting? Firing? Me?
Never has my father threatened me so boldly, even if he’s hiding behind the board. Or maybe he really is as much at their mercy as I apparently am.
Even Courtney, who usually loves when Dad shits on me, is pale faced at his words.
Piling more on the shitshow, Dad proclaims, “Also, it’s our anniversary this weekend. We’ll be having a family dinner tomorrow night before we celebrate it. I expect you to attend. I’m sure your mother will have something to say about this situation as well.”
Is he serious?
The man has a lot of balls telling me what he expects of me after just threatening me.
Out of spite, I want to tell him to shove the dinner up his ass. But eating with my parents on the eve of their anniversary has been family tradition as long as I can remember. Skipping it seems like a toddler throwing a tantrum, even if there’s a part of me that wants to do just that.
“Now, if you two will excuse me,” Dad says, walking over to the door that leads to his office, “I have the Rosenberg report to go over before I head home to your mother.”
The urge to face off with Dad over his bullshit threat is overpowering, but I squash the feeling before it can take root. When my father’s done arguing, he’ll walk away and won’t listen, no matter what you say.
Like father, like son, I suppose. I’ve been accused of being stubborn a time or two . . . okay, maybe more, as well.
If I want to get in a rebuttal, it’ll have to be at another time, because I have other problems to worry about.
“Very well,” I say sharply, adjusting my suit and rising to my feet. “Maybe we can further discuss this issue when you’re not so . . . frustrated.” Dad huffs, knowing I’m just getting the last word in, but as he turns away, I swear I see sad disappointment on his face.
I stalk from the room and head to my office. Behind me, I hear Courtney’s heels click across the floor as she hastens to follow me out the doors.
“You know,” she says breathlessly as she catches up with my long stride, “normally, I love it when Dad sticks it to you, but that was brutal. Total bloodbath.”
“You think?” I ask sourly, stopping to scowl back at the boardroom. “The old man’s gone too far . . .”
“But really, a pastor’s wife, Ross? A shareholder’s wife?” Courtney interrupts, looking at me incredulously. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“Like I said,” I growl, “I had no idea who she was.” When I see Courtney’s doubtful expression, I add, “and I wasn’t lying. I didn’t sleep with her. The one time I didn’t fuck the woman throwing herself at me, and it’s gotten me into more trouble than if I had thrown her the bone she wanted.”