29. Solomon #3
“You never understood how the real world works,” he goes on, building himself up into a good rant. “People make connections all the time. It’s how things get done. You should always be networking. And you working with this girl—”
“I’m not even working with her anymore,” I say, without thinking, because I just want him to shut up. I just want him out of my apartment and far away from me.
But it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes narrow. “What do you mean you’re not working with her anymore? There are two weeks left in the season.”
“The head trainer wants—”
“You fucked it up, didn’t you?”
Of course that would be his first thought. It obviously must be my fault. God knows he doesn’t think I’m capable of any kind of success.
The fact that he’s technically right, that I did fuck up my clinicals, makes me feel sick. And he must be able to read it on my face, because he goes on as if I confirmed it.
“I knew this was going to happen,” he snarls. “I knew you couldn’t handle working one-on-one with someone else.”
“That’s not—”
“This is why your mother and I advised you not to follow this career path.”
“You didn’t want me following this path because you said athletics don’t count as a career,” I shoot back. “You said it was childish to work in sports and beneath someone with my last name.”
His eyes glint with anger. With cruelty.
“And we were right,” he says, derision filling his voice. “Do you think it’s admirable that you couldn’t even cut it in such an immature area of study? You should be ashamed of yourself. This is exactly what your mother and I expected from someone as mentally deficient as you are.”
It’s crazy, how those words can still hurt me. You’d think after all this time, I’d become immune. But no, the stabbing pain in my chest is every bit as strong as it was when he said the same shit to me ten years ago.
He keeps going, angry, hateful words spilling out of my father’s mouth, but I don’t really hear him anymore. My gaze shifts to the floor, his words turning to a buzz in my ears. I’m shutting down, the way I have a hundred times before, my brain trying to protect me from what this man can do.
I’m so out of it that I actually jump back when another body appears in my line of sight. I look up to see Cecelia standing there, looking shocked and angry.
Fuck.
“What the hell is going on?” she asks, looking between me and my father. “Who is this?”
“This is a private matter,” Dad says, giving Cecelia his best condescending glare. “And none of your business.”
“Considering you’re spewing hateful shit to my boyfriend, yeah, I’d say it’s my business.”
My dad blinks, looking confused.
The numb awfulness is still pulsing through my limbs, but there’s a little part of me that can’t help be amused. “Brent Barnes, meet Cecelia Ransome,” I say, enjoying the speed at which the color drains out of my father’s face. “Guess I introduced you to a member of the Ransome family after all.”
His eyes flash with rage and I take an instinctive step back, immediately feeling a bolt of shame at my reaction. Apparently, I will never grow out of being a terrified kid.
“Miss Ransome,” Dad says, straightening his tie and turning away from me. He manages to smooth out his expression, and I have to fight back nausea. It was always so chilling to see him do that. To turn from the snarling monster of my childhood into his charming, affable public persona.
“I’m sorry you walked into the middle of a disagreement. Our tempers got heated but we were just—”
“I heard you,” she snaps, looking disgusted. “I heard what you were saying to him.” She tosses me a quick, concerned glance and I feel my cheeks flushing. What had my dad been saying while I blanked out? I mean, I can guess, most of it, but I’m not sure how vulgar he got.
She’s the last person in the world I would ever want to hear that shit.
“It’s time for you to go,” Cecelia says, voice firm.
I can see the struggle on my father’s face.
He doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t want to risk pissing off one of the Ransomes.
At least if he leaves now, it will give him time to come up with some spin to explain what Cecelia overheard.
Hell, Sybil might even be successful. My mom lives for that PR shit.
Dad rearranges his features into something calmer, something understanding. Funny, I never had trouble reading his expression, either. Survival instincts, I guess.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” he says to her, all smooth and confident. “Solomon, we’ll talk soon.”
I manage not to shudder, my eyes already back on the floor. Part of me wants to watch him walk away, to assure myself that he really is gone and can’t affect me, but the instinct to hide, even if only just my eyes, is too strong.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving us in silence. It stretches so long I almost think she must have followed after him. It wouldn’t be too crazy of an assumption. Why on earth would she want to stay here after what she just overheard?
“Solomon,” she finally murmurs, her voice filled with enough pity to make me sick. “Was that your father?”