21. Ford
FORD
Despite my best intentions, I’m a sucker for the Mercer building.
I blame my mother. She used to take my siblings and me to work with her when we were little.
Not all the time. Only on the weekends when she had a tight deadline or when we had an appointment and needed to miss school.
Sure, Doris, our nanny at the time, was happy to help out, but my mom was adamant that she be involved in as many of the day-to-day activities as possible.
And weekends? It was all-hands-on-deck. I always loved her for that.
For wanting to be present. To be at our games.
Our tournaments. Our concerts. You name it, she was there, front and center.
And even if work was a squeaky wheel during family time, she’d have us tag along and set up shop in one of the empty board rooms with a set of whiteboard markers or a deck of cards.
Yeah, those were the days.
With a sigh, I look around the spare office and flick off the light.
Ever since attending the chili cook-off last week, everything feels like a fever dream.
Between classes, a few late nights tracking down customers who owe us money or have fallen off the face of the Earth, and planning the next Harden Night, life has been busy as it is.
Then, one of the board members reached out again.
Asked if I was ready to take my position on the Board of Trustees.
My mom left a seat for each of us long before she died.
They each became available as soon as we turned eighteen, though we could wait until after graduating from HHU before assuming the seat.
Obviously, my brothers and I agreed to the latter.
And since Jagger signed on for his master’s, Hawke decided to take a light load, and I spent every semester taking extra credits, we’re set to graduate this spring despite our age differences.
Still not sure how she managed to thwart my father on that one, but I’m not complaining.
If he had it his way, he’d hold that shit over our heads, too.
Seems my exhaustion has finally caught up to me.
Guess that’s what happens when inspiration strikes.
Tomorrow night, it’ll finally come to fruition.
I cover my yawn with the back of my hand.
Invitations have been sent. Gus has been informed.
We should be good to go for our first real Harden event since Jagger’s fight with Ethan.
Part of me wishes I could’ve gotten everything off the ground a little faster, but masterpieces take time, and I’ve been spending every waking minute when I’m not in class trying to get everything into place.
Now that it’s finally here, I can say with confidence that it’s going to be one for the books, as long as Morgan doesn’t fuck it up.
Closing the office door, I start toward the elevator.
When I was little, I’d take the long way, avoiding my father’s hallway like it was the plague until I noticed he was rarely in his office anymore.
And even when he was, the door was always closed, and the blinds were shut after Hawke caught him getting sucked off by his secretary when we were little.
Color me surprised when I notice the cracked doorway a beat too late.
“Son.”
The word hits like a hammer, and my heels dig into the ground.
Fan-fucking-tastic. I should just keep walking, but I can’t help myself.
Say what you want, but I know my sperm donor avoids me as much as I avoid him.
We all know he looks at Jagger like he’s his biggest disappointment, and blames Hawke for stealing his wife, but me?
I’m the one who should’ve never existed at all.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Trying for a girl to appease your wife, only to find out you’re having another son.
And then, years later, to bring a baby girl into the world, only to send her halfway across the country.
Yeah, Titas Harden is many things, but a stand-up guy isn’t one of them.
Turning to face the shadowed figure behind his desk, I say, “Yes, Daddy Dearest?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Working,” I offer. “You?”
“What are you working on?”
On figuring out a way to get your grimey hands off Mom’s business.
With a smirk, I lean against the edge of his doorjamb. “You know, the usual. Implementing world peace, how to feed starving children, expanding animal shelters, that kind of thing.”
“As if you’re capable of thinking of others,” he notes.
My smirk stretches. “Yeah, sometimes I forget you raised us to be heartless.”
He pushes to his feet and rounds his desk. “Saw you at the chili cook-off.” My brow lifts. “You were taking bets,” he adds.
Aw, so that’s what this is about. Man has his panties in a twist over a few simple wagers.
Usually, I wouldn’t be so brazen, but considering the lack of options lately, I had to take what I could get, including a handful of wagers in broad daylight.
It paid off, too. I made three grand by the end of the night.
Not exactly groundbreaking, but considering how much our numbers have dipped recently, I’m not complaining.
Maintaining my cocky persona, I scratch the edge of my jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t think I didn’t see it,” he growls.
He moves closer until his nose is barely an inch from mine.
It’s the same scare tactic he’s used since I was little.
It used to work, too. I’d piss myself anytime I earned anything but an A in school, well aware of what would be waiting for me as soon as he found out.
Now, my grades are for me, and the future I’m working to build, and I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks, even if I am sporting a 4.
0. He’s found other reasons I piss him off, though.
My internship at Mercer Consulting. My extracurricular activities.
My connections with Gus Toro. Yeah, he has plenty to be pissed about.
If only his scare tactics still worked. If our gene pool didn’t create men over six-foot-three, it might’ve, but here we are.
I bet he hates it. How all of his sons managed to match his height, if not outgrow him entirely.
Yeah, motherfucker, how is it? Needing to look up at your youngest son?
“When are you going to get it through your thick skull?” My father jabs his finger against my temple, and I fight the urge to grab his wrist and twist it behind his back until he’s nothing but a squealing pig. I won’t. But fuck, do I want to.
“Not sure what you think you saw,” I tell him.
“Was it when Mary was sucking my cock behind one of the tents or…?” She didn’t suck anything, but seeing the look of derision on my sperm donor’s face is enough to make the lie worth it.
He’s never been a fan of his sons doing anything that could spark public scrutiny, and some solid voyeurism would definitely fit in that category.
Kind of ironic, too, considering his sexcapades with his secretary while my mother was still very much alive.
His eyes thin, his derision so thick I can almost taste it. “You can’t be serious,” he seethes.
“As ED,” I confirm dryly.
“You know better than to flaunt your conquests around Harden Heights, and if we’re going to find you a suitable wife, you’d be smart to—”
“A suitable wife?” I laugh. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
My head flies left as his fist connects with the side of my face.
Pain radiates from just beneath my eye, and I wipe at the tender skin with the edge of my knuckle.
Gotta give the bastard credit. He’s pretty quick for being an old guy.
Crimson paints the back of my father’s hand, confirming what I already know.
Fucker left a mark. Probably from his father’s ring.
I wonder if the bruising will be in the shape of our family crest. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
When I was little, Jagger would do his best to protect me. To stop me from pushing my father too far. You see, everyone took their turn with dad’s belt, but I was the only one who struggled to listen. To learn from my mistakes. Guess even now, I haven’t learned my lesson.
You know what I really can’t wrap my head around, though?
Why can’t I fight back? Why can’t I hit him?
Beat the shit out of him, the same way he’s done to me more times than I can count?
What the fuck is wrong with me? I’d blame my exhaustion, but I know better.
Nah, this is nothing but full-blown paralysis.
My mother would be so proud of her spineless son.
Running my tongue between my upper lip and teeth, I murmur, “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” His nostrils flare. “To answer your question, I’m talking to my son, who, for better or worse, will carry on my name to future generations, and I will not have my daughter-in-law be a whore who’s seen on her knees in public or a fat nobody from Austin.”
Austin. He knows where June’s from, which means he’s done his research.
My fists clench at my sides, and my glare fills with so much hatred, so much fucking loathing, I’m surprised he doesn’t burn up on the spot like the demon he is.
“Careful,” I warn. He can do a lot of things.
Hit me. Talk shit. Say I’m worthless and that he wishes I was never born.
He can criticize my choices. My grades. My existence.
He does all of that and more on the regular.
But if he goes after someone as sweet and innocent as June Withers, I’ll fucking kill him.
He must be able to see it. How close I am to beating the shit out of him despite the years and years of conditioning he’s put me through to leave me nothing but a defenseless pussy because he slowly shifts back, giving me space. “Get out of my sight,” he growls.
It’s the closest thing to a surrender I've ever received. Not that I’m entirely surprised.
You don’t get away with stealing a multi-million dollar company without learning how to read people…
and odds. And the odds of him walking away if he decided to push shit were less than zero.
Or at least, it’s what I’d like to tell myself.
Truth is, I’ve never hit him back before.
I’ve never even been close to hitting him back.
Why? Why can’t I hit him back? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times.
One I’ve yet to find the answer to, despite the many nights of tossing and turning and replaying conversations and abuse like I’m on a carousel with no exit strategy.
And none of those times, not one, has pushed me so close to the edge as when my father referenced June.
“I said, get out of my sight,” my father demands.
With a slow nod, I step away and turn on my heel, giving the bastard my back. I could take him. I could beat the ever-loving shit out of him. Maybe one day I will. And if he has the audacity to bring up June again, it’ll be a hell of a lot sooner rather than later.
But not today. Today, I’m done.