Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Bad Attitude
Carrson
I slam the door open as hard as I can, announcing my presence. Nine heads snap up at once. Identical expressions with wide eyes and open mouths, as if I’d walked in holding a severed head instead of a bad attitude.
“Gentlemen.” I stride to the head of the table in the cramped conference room off the Ashford House kitchen.
Once there, I stare stonily at Mitchelson until he jerks to his feet, muttering as he scurries down to the only other empty chair. I sit in the spot he vacated, lean forward, and fold my hands, ready to ruin their morning.
“Carrson,” Stanson squeaks, voice cracking halfway through my name, “what’re you doing here?”
I let my gaze move slowly around the table, stopping on each of them long enough for them to wither. It works. One by one, they drop their eyes.
All except Jackson.
He sits at the other end of the table, leaning back, watching with a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other.
Fuck.
I didn’t know he came to these things.
“What?” I ask Stanson. “Isn’t this the Household Management Committee?”
“Ye—yes,” he stammers.
“And am I not,” I continue, “as the leader of this house a member of this committee?”
“I—well—uh…” He tugs at his collar, already sweating through it. “You are, it’s—I mean, we didn’t—you never show up.” He turns to the others for support, but everyone bows their heads, refusing to meet his eyes. “Uh, I’m surprised is all.”
“Don’t be.” I lean back in my chair, lace my hands, and rest them behind my head, careful to flex my biceps.
Someone down the table gulps so loud it carries.
Exactly the response I was hoping for.
Before I can claim victory, Jackson pipes up. “You never show up to any of the committees you’re supposedly on.”
He sounds bored.
Which makes me want to punch him more.
“I didn’t used to,” I say. “Now I do.”
I let that sit. No one seems reassured. If anything, they appear more worried than before.
Jackson writes something down, his pen scratching across the paper like nails on a chalkboard.
My eyes flick to him.
He underlines something.
I ignore it.
“Let’s get started,” I say. If I have to be here, we’re not dragging this out.
“Lewisson was about to explain why we’re all going vegetarian,” Jackson says.
Dry. Flat. Perfectly timed.
I frown.
“Vegetarian?”
A few of them shift uncomfortably, as if I’ve accused them of something personal.
Lewisson clears his throat, straightening a pile of papers in front of him. “It’s the butcher over on 83rd Street. He keeps raising his prices. We’re over the budget approved by the Finance Committee.”
I stare at him.
Then at the rest of them.
Then back at him.
Jackson writes something down, and I imagine stabbing him in the eye with his own pen.
“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that instead of fixing the problem,” I pause, “you’ve decided to remove meat?”
Silence.
Cowards.
I exhale through my nose, a headache already brewing.
“Unbelievable.” I snap my fingers. “Someone get me a phone.”
Chairs scrape. Papers scatter. One of them disappears. Another yanks open drawers. This house has three stereos, a pool table, and enough alcohol to kill a small country, but apparently locating a working phone is a group project.
Eventually, a black, blocky monstrosity is produced, followed by its spiraled cord. There’s more fumbling as they stretch it across the room toward me, careful not to get too close.
I let them.
Gives me time to think.
Which is unfortunate.
Because my mind goes straight to her.
Auburn hair. Blue eyes that don’t back down. A mouth that doesn’t know when to shut up. Her skin, so soft. Warm. How she sounds when she… Fuck.
This is not what I should be thinking about in a room full of men, but I can’t help it. She’s been in my head all week. Ever since we got back from spring break.
Annoying. Alluring.
I take the receiver when it’s finally within reach, bringing it to my ear. The dial tone buzzes low and steady.
“Give me the butcher’s number,” I bark, ignoring how much I sound like my father. I dial. The phone rings, which gives me enough time to think.
I’ve always known I’d have to step up eventually. Becky made it harder to ignore, and being back in my old house didn’t help. The Order. My father. That’s what this place wants, to turn me into him. They don’t know what he was. I won’t become that. But if I’m not him—
“83rd Market,” a man answers, interrupting my thoughts. “How can I help you?”
“Put the owner on,” I say. “Tell him it’s Carrson Ashford.”
There’s a slight pause, then, “Hold on.”
I glance up, making sure they’re watching.
They are.
Jackson taps the tip of his pen against his paper, and I know it’s on purpose.
The owner comes on a minute later, overly polite. “Mr. Ashford, so nice to hear from you—”
“I’m going to make this simple,” I interrupt. “You’ve been raising your prices.”
A hesitation.
“Yes, sir. The cost of grain has gone up, so you see our suppliers—”
“Stop.”
Silence.
“I don’t care why,” I continue. “I care that you’re not going to do it anymore.”
“I’m not sure I can—”
“You can,” I tell him. “You’ve done very well supplying this house.” I go on, “It’d be a shame to lose that…and to lose your contract with the university as well.”
I’m bluffing. I don’t have anything to do with how the school gets its food, but he doesn’t know that.
The room is dead quiet.
Nine men holding their breaths over a conversation about steak.
Pathetic.
“I’ll, uh, review the numbers,” he says carefully.
“Do that,” I reply. “Then call back with better ones.”
I hang up. Put the receiver back into the cradle with a solid click.
I turn back to the table.
“Next problem.”
Three hours later, I’ve solved a fight over a sister, redistributed rooms for next semester, and clarified, twice, that setting something on fire does not count as problem-solving.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Anything else?” I ask.
No one answers. They all sit there, stiff and silent, avoiding eye contact, as if I might assign them more work for breathing wrong.
The room smells like stale coffee and panic.
One starts to raise his hand, then thinks better of it and drops it back to the table. Even Jackson’s pen has gone silent.
“Then we’re done for now.”
Chairs scrape, and relief moves through the room in a visible wave, as if I’d lifted something heavy off all of them.
I wait until they’re on their feet, heading for the door.
“Stop.”
They freeze. Turn back to me in unison. I hide my smile.
“One more thing,” I say. “I’m tired of living in a pigsty. Get everyone up. Knock on every door. It’s time to clean this house.”
I let my gaze settle on Jackson for that last part, not bothering to hide the double meaning.
“The cleaners come on Thursday,” he says, scowling.
“I don’t care,” I retort. “This is our home. Start acting like it.”
His lips purse, and I think he might challenge me, but he lets it drop.
The truth is that he’s not the main reason I want the house clean. Not entirely. It’s because in a small, easily denied part of my mind I keep picturing it Becky walking in here. Seeing the mess. The noise. I think about the last time she saw it, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Next time she walks through that door, it’ll be different.
I’ll show her that I can run this house.
Keep it clean.
Keep her safe.
They’re all staring at me.
“Go!” I bark and can’t help but enjoy the way they all jump.
Is this how my father felt for all those years? My grandfather? This heady rush of power.
I can see how you’d get used to it. Grow to depend on it.
Kill to keep it.
I check my watch. Less than an hour before the next round of meetings. Not enough time to find Becky or make it out to the clearing.
My hands ache. For the bag. For her.
Not sure which I want more.
“Carrson?”
I glance up.
Thomson stands there, hesitant, like he’s debating whether this is worth risking his life.
“What?” I ask.
“I, uh, wanted to say I think it’s good. What you did today.” He stares at his feet. “We needed it.”
I put my fingers together and bring them to my lips, staring at him over them. He’s smaller than most of us and wears glasses, which is rare. The type who thinks being useful is the same as being powerful.
It isn’t.
There’s a bruise high on his cheek. Faded at the edges. A splash of brown turning green.
I nod to it. “What happened to you?”
His eyes go straight to the chair Jackson just left, and that’s all I need.
“Thomson,” I say, leaning forward, “what if I made you a deal?”
He takes a tentative step closer. “Yeah?”
“You help me with all this,” I wave a hand at the room, “and I keep Jackson off your back.”
He shoves his glasses up his nose with the tip of his finger, and I like that he doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t try to appease me but rather thinks it through. “Help how, exactly?”
“Catch me up on everything I’ve missed. Make sure Jackson doesn’t get the chance to call me out on something stupid.” I pause, studying the ceiling. “Tell me what people are saying when I’m not in the room.”
I expect him to balk at that last one, but instead a sly smile steals over his face. “That,” he says, “I think I can do.”
I nod, a quiet satisfaction stealing over me. Today had gone better than I expected.
“Thomson?” I ask, mulling it over. “Do you ever think about making things, I don’t know, better? Fixing things?”
Thomson’s eyes shine. With both hands, he clasps the necklace he always wears, the one with the cross of The Order, each side of equal length, and says reverently, “I do. I think about it all the time.”
I stand and walk over to him. Clap him on the back and pretend I don’t notice how it makes him stumble forward.
“This,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what I mean, me taking control or him stepping into place beside me, “is the beginning of something great.”
He nods quickly, glasses slipping again. His gaze flicks past me to the shelves lining the back wall, the ones stocked with alcohol for guests we’re trying to impress.
“We should celebrate,” he says. “Seal it with a drink.”
I think about the rest of the meetings waiting for me. The noise. The expectations. The walls closing in. And then, without permission…
Her.
“Why the fuck not?” I say, though I’m not much of a drinker. Don’t even know what to ask for. A memory of my father, glass in hand, amber catching the light, the smell of it. It takes me a second.
Then it clicks.
“I’ll take a bourbon.”