Chapter 17 #2
Who knows, maybe I am simply filler before Saylor takes off to begin the rest of her life.
But also, there’s something bigger going on between us.
I can feel it. When I’m with her, I like the man reflected in her eyes.
I forget all the failures that led up to this point in my life.
I’m suddenly a guy who’s making smart choices, who’s venturing out and being his own man.
It’s how I’d like to think of myself, but for some reason, it’s always been hard to believe those characteristics until now.
I think perhaps I’m inspiring Saylor to go her own way, too. And sure, there’s a chance that whatever direction she chooses won’t have me in it. But I’m in it now, and it feels damn good to be wanted in whatever way this is. Comfort, I guess?
Our dad’s office door swings open, saving my brother and I from having to fill more time with grunts and awkward glares. I get to my feet before Caleb, and it amuses me that my brother scrambles to make sure he reaches our father before I do.
“I don’t think you two have been this excited to see me since Christmas morning when I bought you that new gaming console.” My dad slings an arm around Caleb and guides him into his office while nodding for me to follow. It’s a good reminder of my place in this world.
“We were the only kids at school who had the Firefly 2000,” Caleb proclaims.
I open my mouth to point out that the console ended up catching on fire after two weeks and was quickly discontinued for massive patent fraud, but I decide saying so would be antithetical to my spy mission and snap it shut.
“So, what’s the occasion?” My dad sits behind his desk, propping his feet up and folding his hands behind his neck as Caleb and I plunk down on another set of leather chairs. These are much harder than the ones in the lobby. Nobody is allowed to be too comfortable in here.
My brother glances my way, so I clear my throat and lean forward. Asshole wants to put me on the hotspot. Fine. I’ll own it.
My hands clasped, elbows on my knees as I sit forward, I force myself to ignore the squeeze from the band around my chest. This mic has been hot since I got in my car, time to make it capture something worthwhile.
“Well, you’ve always told me that if I was going to get something out of my business, I needed to look beyond the cars and focus on long-term investments, right?”
My father’s mouth ticks up on one side, and his eyes haze, probably with skepticism.
I clear my throat.
“Well, we’ve had a good couple of months. And I was hoping that you could show me the ropes a little, maybe help me invest in some of the things you’ve got going on?”
My eyes lock onto my father’s, and I swear there’s a computer in that man’s head constantly scanning for danger. Several seconds pass before he speaks, and during that time, he simply stares at me and contorts his face into various expressions of suspicion and doubt.
“If you’ve had such a good month, why don’t you pay me back those legal fees and rid yourself of your family obligations?” He pulls open a side drawer and takes out a cigar box, opening the lid to offer one to me and my brother. I shake my head, but Caleb practically dives in for a Partagas stogie.
“Do you even know how to smoke that thing?” I mutter.
Caleb shrugs. “Sure, I do.”
He doesn’t. But hearing him cough and choke will be amusing, so more power to him.
My father clips the end of his then hands the guillotine to my brother. He flails with it for a few seconds but eventually gets his cigar clipped.
“I could pay you back, and yeah, it would save me from your frequent lectures on everything I’m doing wrong. But . . .” I draw in a deep breath for effect.
My dad lights his cigar and takes a few puffs. I don’t mind the smell of cigar smoke. It reminds me of my father’s home office when we were kids, in our first house, before he had an entire building downtown to go to.
“Those lectures are sinking in a bit, aren’t they?” My father took the bait, and it takes all my inner strength not to audibly exhale in relief. I waggle my head and glance up, playing the part of the slacker he thinks I am.
“Not all of them, but the money ones . . . maybe a little. Or a lot.”
My father laughs out hard and flattens a palm on his desk, and my brother flinches in response. He’s been trying to light his cigar for a few seconds. I’m surprised that little stunt didn’t make him swallow it.
“Here,” I say, taking the cigar from my brother and lighting it for him. It’s performative, mainly to show off for my father. A man who can smoke a cigar is a real man, at least in David Anderson’s world. I hand the lit cigar to Caleb, and as predicted, he coughs his way through his first puff.
“Lightweight,” my dad mutters.
I smirk but cover my mouth with my palm before laughter slips out.
“So, you finally want to make some real money, eh?” My dad leans to his left and pulls open a file drawer. He snags a dark brown folder and slaps it on the center of his desk, flipping it open and revealing documents that look a whole lot like the ones Steve-Mike showed me in the diner.
“I’d like to, yeah. And of course, I would pay you back the money for the lawyer once I’ve started earning.
If that’s how any of this works.” I’m playing dumb.
I may not have the fancy college degree he wanted for me, but I have a pretty good handle on finances and investments.
It’s impossible to grow up in our house and not pick up a thing or two simply from osmosis.
“I appreciate that. But I like seeing you make that money work for you. I’d rather you keep it.” He holds my gaze just long enough for his words to not quite sit right. I think he likes having leverage.
I nod, though, and force a faint smile on my lips, playing the part of the eager little boy who is happy to get a gift from dad.
“Okay. Well, can you maybe walk me through this?” I scoot my chair in closer and pull one of the documents toward me.
“Hey, whoa, whoa. Why does he get to invest?” Caleb steps right into the little brother with a chip on his shoulder role.
“I’m sorry, did you suddenly have your own money, son?” My father gazes at my brother over the rims of his glasses, the way a fourth-grade teacher does a kid talking in class.
It’s hard not to chuckle under my breath when my dad smacks Caleb down.
I’m not sure which bad guy I dislike more in this room.
But I need to get something going with my dad sooner rather than later, and if my brother insists on whining every time I’m in here, it’s going to drag this sting operation out for years.
Besides, his name is on those contracts too.
I may as well use all the tools in the box.
“I wouldn’t be totally against having his input on things. I mean, this is what he wants to do after college. And I know you’d like us to get along better, at least on paper.” I shift a heavy gaze from my brother to my dad, playing up the appearance that I’m only trying to please my dad.
Our father chews at his lips and nods slowly.
“It would be nice to see both of my boys’ names together on a few things around here, flexing our family prowess, so to speak.”
I want to vomit, but this is the kind of thing that really gets my dad off. He loves power. Always has.
“Is this investment, is it the one you’d recommend?” I flip a few more pages around, and Caleb scoots in, immediately sliding them closer to him.
“This one, or one like it. We have a few hot things in the pipeline. I have a few meetings lined up this week. Maybe you’d like to join me.” My father’s offer has me nearly kicking my feet.
“I’d like that.” I meet his gaze and do my best to reflect something close to admiration. It was na?ve to think I’d get him to spill his insider secrets to me today, but this is a good start for sure.
“I can make anything this week,” Caleb pipes in.
My molars gnash together, but I show nothing but gratitude on the outside. I have to keep this looking legit, though.
“Don’t fuck this up for me,” I say to my brother.
And for once, rather than chastising me, my father simply laughs before getting to his feet and pointing to Caleb as he echoes my sentiment.
“You’d better get used to that kind of demand, son. You’re dealing with other people’s money. You must make more for them, otherwise you’re nothing more than a thief.” My father’s analogy is a bit ironic, yet it resonates with Caleb just as much as every piece of advice our dad shells out to him.
“I know. I’ll make him money. Then he can owe me for the rest of his life, too.” Caleb’s glare lingers on my face for a hot second before my dad moves to his door and opens it, signaling it’s time for his prodigies—aka stooges—to go.
“You know, it’s brave of you to put your life savings in my control. What if I decide to make it disappear?” Caleb stops at the edge of Allison’s desk, probably so they can gossip about me when I leave. I pull my wallet out and ready my parking ticket before heading to the elevator.
“You could, Caleb. That’s right. But then, you’d be just as big of a fuck-up failure as I am, and I’m willing to bet that you’d rather come out looking like the hero than tanking my pathetic bank account.” I shrug, and Caleb huffs out an irritated laugh before flipping me off.
I don’t breathe until I exit the elevator, too paranoid about the security cameras in there.
There are cameras in the garage too, but I’m not on the executive floor.
I’m parked up here with the commoners, so nobody is zooming in on me to see whether my face is panicked or my brow is covered in sweat.
If they do zoom in, though, well . . . fuck, that’s exactly what they’ll find.
I climb into my car and wind my way down the garage to the exit, handing over my validated ticket to the guardsman before zipping through the gate and south through a handful of lights before pulling into the parking lot for Min’s Hot Buns.
I’m one of five cars parked here, and I think the other four are all employees working in the bakery.
I unclasp my seatbelt and tug my shirt up enough to reach the straps hugging my chest. I exhale loudly as the bands fall away from my body, and I pile the wire and mic into my lap.
I pull the small switch box from inside my waistband and turn it off before falling back into my seat with a deep breath.
I close my eyes in relief but crack a lid when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I wind up the wire in my lap and tuck the device under my seat before checking the alert on my phone.
I expect to see something from Mike-Steve, but I guess that’s not the way covert operations really go down. Instead, it’s a short text from Saylor.
SAYLOR: Is it weird that I missed you today?
She isn’t asking me for a thing, yet somehow her words overwhelm me in the moment.
What starts as a soft laugh suddenly leads to my eyes tearing up, and my chest growing tight, so I wipe them dry with my forearm before clearing my throat and rolling my shoulders to pretend whatever the fuck that was never happened. I cradle my phone to text her back.
ME: Not weird at all. I missed you too.
Of everything I’ve done today, sending that text scares me most.