Chapter 13 Blue
Blue
I’m finding it hard to concentrate right now, and not just because my dad is droning on about his glorious frat days.
For the past two days, all I’ve been able to think about is the look on Liza’s face as she fell apart for me.
The fact that she questioned herself right afterwards gutted me, and I feel like a fucking dumbass for not making sure that she had absolutely no doubts about how scorching hot it was to watch her unravel.
I’m an idiot.
But I’m a lucky idiot, because we have plans to meet up later today.
It won’t be nearly as exciting as Friday night, because we’re grabbing a coffee at Drip right after my team meeting and before Liza heads off to her shift at The Gatehouse.
Unless part of Liza’s self care study involves getting busy in a public bathroom stall, I think our meeting will be G-rated, and that’s okay with me.
Now, that doesn’t mean I’m not already brainstorming a million creative ways to help Liza get familiar with her body and what she likes.
Hell, that’s the one track my mind has been driving on for days now.
But I like spending time with her, too. And yes, I know that sounds crazy because she’s despised me since the minute we met, but the truth is that Liza’s my fucking catnip.
That sassy mouth of hers, those sharp as hell one-liners?
Yes, fucking please. She makes me work for even the slightest bit of attention, and I should hate that.
Hard work and I are nothing more than acquaintances, unless you’re talking about hockey.
And even then, all my hard work isn’t going to amount to much.
In a year and a half, when undergrad is over, I’m going straight to grad school to be molded into the image and likeness of my father.
The very thought of it is terrifying, and not only because the man’s combover is the thing nightmares are made of.
Will that be me in thirty years? Well, certainly not the combover part. I love my luscious locks, but if they start to fade and my forehead starts to grow? I’m shaving that shit right off, no questions asked. I’ll take bald and beautiful over thin and wispy any damn day of the week.
But it’s not just my dad’s poor style choices that have me dreading the future he mapped out for me the day I was born.
I’m not cut out for the wide world of finance, and it has nothing to do with crunching numbers.
That’s the easy part. The hard part is going to be stifling my personality and pretending I give a shit about growing some guy’s portfolio.
It’s going to be sitting at lunches and dinner parties and staff meeting with a bunch of assholes and faking my way through life for the next, what?
Fifty years or so? It should be safe to pull the mask off once I hit retirement, right?
I sure as fuck hope so.
I’m not a guy with many shits to give, but the few I do have? Those I freely give to my family, the fine art of pranking, and the greatest game in the world.
Just so we’re clear, my family consists of my best friend, Dutton, and my cat, Hazel. Pranking is as fine a craft as painting or playing an instrument, and hockey is the greatest game ever invented. Obviously.
“The salmon’s delicious, isn’t it?” my dad asks , shoveling another bite into his mouth.
There’s a wedding or a christening or something at the club, so we had to pick a different spot for lunch. I don’t even know the name of the restaurant we’re dining at, but we’ve got a view of the water, and my dad’s on his third martini, so it’s got his stamp of approval.
My meal is good, but it pales in comparison to a stack of French toast. I’m practically salivating as I imagine a pat of butter melting in a pool of gooey warm syrup atop a tower of cinnamony, doughy goodness.
You know what, I’m amending my list. I hereby declare that I’ve got one more shit to give and I’m proudly bestowing it on French toast.
My father does not share this opinion, and I bet if I ever order it in front of his cronies or the junior partner broskis at his firm, he’d be horrified.
He’d probably disown me or claim that my devotion to the sweet treat that doubles as a breakfast food is proof that I was switched at birth.
Maybe he’d venture off on a quest to find the true heir to Halliday Financial, LLC.
Honestly, the guy shouldn’t be too hard to find.
We’ll just go on a nationwide hunt for a twenty-one-year-old man with bad hair, a penchant for boring ties, and a love of grilled lean proteins.
That should narrow the field a good bit.
And if it doesn’t, we won’t mess around with paternity tests.
We’ll just do a playoff round to determine the winner, kinda like they do in golf.
My dad loves that shit. After a round of sudden death, the guy with the highest score can have my life.
And maybe I can have some freedom. Hell, maybe I can even play hockey.
It’s a pipe dream, for sure. It’s something that’s nice to fantasize about, but it’s never going to happen.
"Something's got you smiling, and I don’t think it’s the honey bourbon marinade they use on the fish,” my dad observes, smiling like he knows something I don’t.
“Just happy to be here,” I shrug. “And the food is great,” I say, because all lies should have a thread of truth to them.
“Uh-uh,” my dad says, wagging his finger at me. “You can’t kid a kidder, Grover. I know exactly what’s on your mind.”
My father is the only person in the world who calls me by my given name, and I can guarantee he doesn’t know that my mind is alternating between two fantasies right now, hockey and French toast. My sex-starved brain could throw Liza into the mix, too, but dad would never guess that.
He hasn’t made it to a game yet this season, so Dutton’s the only housemate of mine he’s met, and that’s because my friendship with Sparky goes all the way back to preschool.
As I swallow my last bite of salmon, I have the strange feeling that I’m being watched.
My first thought is that maybe Liza started her shift early, but that’s crazy.
She would have texted. And this isn’t even the restaurant she works at.
My gaze darts around the room, looking for a familiar face, but it comes up empty.
I’m starting to think I’m just paranoid until I turn back to my father and see his eyes pinned on mine.
He’s not being accusatory, and he doesn’t even look pissed. But he is staring me down.
Shit. Maybe there’s honey-maple-whatever glaze dribbling down my chin. I dab at my face with a napkin and force my face into an easy smile. “What’s up, Dad?” I ask as casually as I can manage.
“Yep. You can’t hide it from me. You got wind of Kent Selkirk’s bachelor party, didn’t you?
Probably heard about it on Facetalk. Jim and I go way back, you know.
Even before we rushed Sigma Psi, we were friends at Avonworth.
I’m sure I can give him a buzz and let him know you’d love to join the guys’ trip.
The Selkirks are good contacts to have. I’ve nurtured that relationship over the years, and I’ll be happy to pass that torch to you when the time comes.
Jim’s got a lot of diverse investments, but they pay off.
Now, I’m not foolish enough to think you boys are going to be talking stocks and bonds all weekend,” Dad says with an exaggerated wink, “but that’s how deals get done, Grover.
It’s high time you learned that first-hand.
You go for a round of golf, you chat about your kids’ school play and the boat you’re thinking of buying, but what you’re really doing is laying that foundation so that when your clients are ready to make a move, you’re right there to guide them. ”
Dad’s beaming at me like the little speech he just gave is the equivalent of him passing down generational wisdom.
It isn’t. I’m not a total dumbass. I understand schmoozing and kissing ass.
I just don’t like them. And I really don’t like Kent Selkirk.
That guy’s a dickhead. I have no clue how he convinced some poor girl to marry him, but I’d bet my sweet ass he’s planning to cheat on her in Sin City.
And I guaran-fucking-tee he’ll crow about the secrets Vegas keeps.
He and his douchebag crew will chuckle about that for sure.
But I won’t be laughing. And I won’t be with them.
“That’s nice of you to offer, Dad, but when is the trip again?”
“It’s sometime in mid-March. You’ll be glad for a couple days in the heat after the winter we’re having.” He drains the last of his martini and snaps his fingers in the air to signal that he’s ready for the check.
“I won’t be able to make it since I’m still in season. It’s probably the same weekend as Regionals.”
A shadow falls across my dad’s face, the same way it does anytime we talk hockey.
He sighs loudly, then takes a drink of water.
An uncomfortable silence falls between us because we have a deal, my dad and I.
After graduation, I’ll head straight for grad school, maintain excellent grades, kiss all the ass I’m asked to, and join his investment firm.
That’s the dream he mapped out for me before the ink on my birth certificate was dry.
It’s not a life plan I’d ever naturally drift toward, but he’s my dad, and he’s provided for me my entire life.
Taking over Halliday Financial is a foregone conclusion. It’s not optional.