15. Elliott
FIFTEEN
Elliott
My father barges into my office—shoulders squared, exuding arrogance in his custom-made suit. No knocking on the door for him. Not in his own damn building as he likes to remind me often enough. He goes straight to the minibar set up along one wall and makes himself a scotch. Neat, no water or ice to dilute the flavor. He rounds my desk and stops to my right, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows. I turn in my chair and wait for what’s coming.
My father likes to savor his criticisms like he does his drink. Sit with it for a bit, let the anticipation build, then speak with carefully chosen words to create the biggest impact. Words chosen to burn, to cut, to cloud judgment, like his favorite scotch, a bottle of which he keeps in my office for these occasions. A subtle reminder that he owns everything I see, and in his mind, perhaps even myself.
I stand up and pour myself a glass of water. Something that irritates him. A real man should know how to hold his liquor. How many times have I heard him say that? Dad and his real men ideas. I walk to the windows and stop a couple of feet away from him. He glances at my drink of choice and the barest of sneers curls his upper lip. I take a long gulp of my water to hide my smile. Point one goes to me. Something I’ll surely pay for . A real man never shows weakness of any kind. Never let them know they got to you.
Twenty floors below, traffic moves slowly in the streets of Manhattan, yellow cabs like bright pops of color among the gray and black and muted tones of asphalt, cement, and other cars. I hold my tongue. Wait him out, let the seconds tick by. My shoulders relaxed. I’m enjoying this game. His silent intimidation tactics stopped working on me many years ago.
He finally takes a sip of his scotch. “How was your date with Kate?”
Kate? Is that what this is about? “That was weeks ago, Dad. Why are you asking about it now?”
His eyes never leave the windows, but I doubt he sees anything other than his own reflection. He brushes a nonexistent speck of dust off his shoulder. He looks younger than his sixty years. If it weren’t for the mostly gray hair, he could pass for a man in his early fifties. He’s tall and fit and proud, and it shows in the way he carries himself, in his clothes, and the choices he makes. Even the choices he makes for me. Like Kate.
My father straightens his tie in the reflection. “I’m asking because it’s my understanding that you never asked her on another date again.”
And I never will, but I can’t quite say it like that. He’d take offense to it. “I don’t think she liked me much.” Though she seemed to like my money well enough.
“That’s what you say about every woman your mother and I make an effort to introduce you to.”
My mother never tried to push me into dating anyone, but I don’t call him on that. “Not every woman. I’ve had more than one date with some of them.” The ones who were as unhappy to be manipulated into a date as I was. The ones who made it clear they were not interested in me as a potential life partner as my father likes to call them. Never girlfriends or future wives. Potential life partner. Like they had been a mutual business transaction, with these women there was an understanding. Go on a few dates, maybe even sex, keep the parents off our backs for a while.
He turns to face me then. “I’m disappointed in your lack of maturity. You’re thirty-three. I was a father three times over by your age. You won’t make partner until you’re married to the right woman.”
The right woman, meaning the daughter of a politician or a socialite, or another equally important and pampered trophy wife. “Times have changed?—”
“I have not. And neither has this firm and the principles on which it stands. It’s bad enough that you chose to be a paper-pusher instead of acquisitions and bringing this firm more money. I won’t have my only son be the last one to make partner.”
And there it is. The competition between my father and his brothers. The competition between Josh and me. Except I’m not playing their game. “Father?—”
“No.” He stops me with a hand gesture. “That’s not what I came here to discuss with you. I want you to take over one of Joshua’s cases.”
I nearly choke on my water. Josh is a shark, the most competitive of them all, and my father knows it. He hates me. “Our areas don’t overlap. I don’t do acquisitions. I write contracts. And I don’t think my cousin will be okay with me taking over any of his cases.” He also hates when I call him Josh, so I do it every chance I get.
“He has no say in it. I’ve ordered him to hand over the files.”
“And everyone agreed with it?” There’s no way my uncle let that slide.
“They had a deadline. They could not make the deal. Now it’s your turn to make it work. I’ve ordered all the information to be delivered to you. It’s your problem to solve now.”
“But that’s not my job. I don’t do deals.”
My protest is ignored. No surprise there. He turns and sets the half-full glass on the corner of my desk and walks away.
There’s more to this story. Something he’s not telling me. They all like to play games and use underhanded moves. Dear old Dad dropped me in a den of vipers.
He halts at the door. “Get it done.”
I go back to the windows. No good will come of this new development. Josh will be pissed. He won’t care that I had nothing to do with taking his client. He can’t go after my father, so he’ll go after me.
There’s a knock on the door now. I turn to see Margaret, my father’s assistant. She walks into my office and places a thick folder on my desk. “Megs, you are a saint. You’re the only one who can handle him.”
She comes to my side and peers down at the street. “Thinking of jumping again?”
I laugh. It’s a terrible and morbid joke between us. “If only the windows opened, Megs.”
She pats my shoulder in a motherly gesture. “Two more years. Remember that.”
“I’m counting the days.” Two years until my grandfather’s trust is released to me under the condition that I work for the firm until I turn thirty-five. Had it been a lesser amount, I may have walked away from it. But I’m not giving up ten million dollars. Especially not when the money goes to my father if I do. And knowing how petty my father is, he’d write me and my sisters off the will like he threatened to do more than once before.
I sigh. “That’s the plan, Megs. In two years, I collect my money and then walk away. He probably knows, and that’s why he’s so intent on me making partner. He thinks that will keep me here, under his thumb forever.”
Margaret reaches into a pocket of her cardigan and hands me a piece of caramel candy. She’s been sneaking those to me behind my father’s back since I was a little boy. “For what it’s worth, I told him it was a terrible idea to give you this case. Joshua’s been foaming at the mouth since yesterday when your father told him you were taking over.”
I look at her. “I don’t know how you do this—day after day, year after year, you stuck by his side. Every time you go on vacation or have a day off, the whole office walks on eggshells. He makes all the temps cry.”
She shrugs. “I was here before him, and I never let him forget it. He doesn’t intimidate me because he knows he needs me more than I need him.”
“That’s true. The old man is lost without you.” I turn to my desk and nod at the folder she brought in. “How bad is it?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t envy you on this one. It’s a David and Goliath case. Lots of pressure from a big client going after a little old lady refusing to sell.”
Fuck. I hate these cases. I hate going after the small dog. I hate being Goliath. Even if we win, it’ll feel like a loss. “You should ask him for a raise. Whatever he’s paying you is not enough.”
She laughs. “Oh, I don’t have to. Every so often, I mention I’m thinking of retiring and he throws more money at me.”
I grin. “Megs, I love you.”
She pats my cheek like a grandma would. “I know, my boy. I know.” And with that farewell, she leaves me with the folder from hell.
I take a seat at my desk and stare at the folder. Fuck it. I open the bottom drawer on my desk and drop the folder inside. I don’t want to play this game my father set up for me. Whatever this deal is, it can wait. I grab my phone and text Jillian instead.
Elliott: What are you doing for lunch?