Chapter 5 #3
“The sanctimonious thing. That annoying fucking thing where you act like you’re still my chaperone,” I snap.
“I looked into him, all right? It’s a basic meeting at an office in New York.
We’re not going to wind up with mafia guys stuffing us into the trunk or whatever you’re thinking.
” I hold up my hands and sigh sharply. “And yes, I know it’s sensitive.
But if we just sit on the egg instead of asking questions, at least getting it looked at, this never goes anywhere.
We have to trust someone enough to get an actual opinion. ”
He isn’t satisfied.
Holden doesn’t think I’ve picked the right man when he hasn’t given Fairfax a glance. Even though he said he trusted me to take the lead on the art side.
Just when I thought he’d start dealing with me like an adult.
His nostrils flare. “I’m not your chaperone, Cleo Blackthorn. I’m your goddamned protector.”
“Yeah? Then you should trust me to protect my valuables.” I hate how my voice breaks.
How he makes me so mad I’m on the verge of doing that squeaky, ragey sound I’ve tried to suppress my whole life.
Thanks, Dad. Many shouting matches with his dumb, drunken ass growing up put that there.
I inhale deeply and hold it, closing my eyes. Too long.
“What’s going on?” His voice softens as he steps closer. “Shit, I didn’t mean to set you off.”
So close. I can feel his massive presence, his radiating heat, before I even open my eyes a second later.
“It’s called working in tandem. Together. Compartmentalization,” he explains. “Find a buyer. That’s your job. Mine is to vet them. I have ways of sniffing out security risks you don’t. I need to trust you, yeah. You need to give me the same courtesy.”
“You… you can’t keep doing that,” I say miserably.
“What?” He shakes his head.
“Being reasonable.” I want to spit.
Instead, I don’t know what’s happening when he grabs my hands and gently pulls them to his chest. He holds them in his firm grip, sheltering them, sheltering me.
I cannot and will not cry. There’s been too much of that lately.
But he flips me like a switch. A second later, I feel better.
And I’m only disappointed he doesn’t lift my fingers to that rough, stern mouth, hidden behind its halo of dark scruff.
“You have dinner plans? I should run home to Kit for a quick check before the flight tomorrow. If you need food, I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s fine, go knock yourself out. I’m having dinner with my dad tonight.”
“You’re ready for that conversation?” His eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
I take a step back, desperate for breathing space. Room for so many conflicted thoughts.
“I said it’s fine. Dad’s my problem, Holden, not yours. I appreciate you setting up the meeting and the plane. I can deal with my father without a babysitter.”
Then I turn my back and walk away.
My back burns the whole time.
I just know his heavy gaze lingers until I disappear down the hall.
The chowder place in Portland we meet at feels downright tacky under the neon lights. Old fishing gear and lobster posters everywhere, like someone wanted to parody their own food.
I’ve squeezed into a cramped booth with an iced tea in front of me and an angry knot in my stomach.
Holden is such a piece of work. The type of work that knocks you flatter than running a marathon.
And meeting Dad, won’t that be—
Well, seeing him occupies that baffling space between bittersweet and hell frozen over.
Bittersweet because he acts like he’s happy to see me. He always wants to catch up, and sometimes I start feeling like he might care about my life. The illusion usually lasts for roughly a half hour before the horns come out.
Then he hits me with his latest tale of woe. He’s the world’s biggest victim, in case I forgot it for five seconds.
Sometimes, he comes sniffing for art connections. Mine, which I guard jealously, even when I have to lie through my teeth.
Also, he’s my dad.
I love him in that messy way you only know when you’ve accepted love will never be perfect—or clearly reciprocated.
I want to think he loves me, too. Deep down, somewhere under the pathological greed and selfishness.
That’s what makes this hell ice-cold.
Because whenever I see him, I’m reminded of what I could become if I’m not careful. Just like I remember why I’ll never be a top priority in his life.
Even when he’s busy playing nice, soft, concerned Dad, I’m somewhere under his real true loves.
Money and alcohol have this man’s heart like a caged bird.
I order a bottle of wine for the table anyway before he shows up and starts pushing for the expensive stuff. Might as well start the evening on a high. I know how it’ll go sooner or later.
Maybe it’s enabling him and an addiction I can’t control.
Who knows.
I hate how much that bottle reminds me of fucking Holden and the wine cellar, and it makes my palms hot and itchy.
Dad appears from nowhere a few minutes later, his greying hair tied up in the oldest man bun ever, the rest slicked back so tightly I can see his skull through the thinning strands.
Seriously. His own vanity and obsession with looking young might be his second biggest vice.
I’ve seen the old photos. Once, he was a handsome guy, but he’s let himself go big-time the past twenty years. Everything’s a little saggy and a lot red.
Bloodshot eyes.
Unmistakable gut from drinking too much beer and wine.
Jowls and shadows under his eyes from too many nights throwing poison down his throat.
“Hey, Little Queen.” He smiles and drops into the seat across from me. His eyes light up when he sees the wine and he grabs the bottle, staring at the label. “Now we’re talking. Napa Valley.”
“Hi, Dad. I know what you like.”
He doesn’t respond until he’s filled his glass, almost to the brim. Shameless.
“So how’s it going with my little bee?”
Not well.
I run my finger along the top of my wineglass. We do this every time, tossing bland, casual questions back and forth until he gets to the point where he rips his heart open.
I wonder how long he’ll wait before asking about my inheritance.
“Things are good,” I say softly. “I’m working on a new piece for my home décor business. It’s a three-paneled textured piece, all black and gold, a lot like the one I sold around last Christmas. Still can’t believe Margot and her hubby jumped on it. I can’t believe I let them.”
He chuckles.
“Hey, girl, a sale’s a sale. Nothing to sneer at either if it makes your cousins happy. Don’t forget they’re loaded. You’re gonna hit it big one of these days and leave them in the dust.” He winks at me as he opens the menu. “No big dates coming up?”
“Nope. Way too busy for that.” My face heats.
“Bah, I liked the boy you were with before. The kid with the motorcycle.”
I resist the urge to groan and cover my face.
“Finley? That was two years ago, Dad. And it was a motorized bike. Back in college.”
Back before my heart froze over.
Back before I found out a boy would resort to selling your nudes around campus for beer money and a tune-up on his stupid bike. I had to threaten to press charges until I watched him delete our dirty photos from the cloud.
The look on his face when he watched me grab his phone and smash the screen to pieces a second later was satisfying.
“Well, you’ve got time. Chasing your heart’s desire will pay off a hell of a lot more than jumping boyfriends will at your age.
” He pours us more wine—his second full glass—and smacks his lips.
“You’ve got your whole life ahead, Clee.
Plenty of time for settling down later. Take it from me, don’t rush anything. ”
“No plans to.”
I watch him drain half his glass before he sets it down and smiles.
“So. Tell me about your meeting with the old man’s lawyer. I tried calling her to ask for some details once, but she shut me down pretty quick. All private, you know, for your eyes only.” He snorts.
I thank my lucky stars Miss Wilkes is a trained ninja, immune to the Gordon Blackthorns of the world.
I also lock up. Before I came here, I thought long and hard about what I’d tell Dad about my inheritance.
As much as I love him, PopPop had every reason not to leave him another dime.
And if I do sell the egg, it could make me rich. Like, proper Blackthorn rich, assuming it’s genuine.
But Dad will always come charging for his sliver of the pie—and he’ll never shut up until I write him a check.
He’s been to at least a dozen of my art shows, and I’ve never seen his face light up. Not like the way he looks when he’s gotten a windfall, another cash lifeline, enough to keep him warm and kill his liver faster with premium booze.
The truth hurts. I plaster on a smile so harsh it burns my cheeks.
“She can’t tell you, legally,” I say. “Don’t hold it against her.”
“Sure, but you can. So what’d the old goat leave you?”
“It was a good inheritance. Very generous. More than I expected, honestly.”
“Shit,” he mutters, trying to hide his excitement.
When I don’t say more, he finishes his glass and fills it again, twisting his lips.
“What I don’t get is Uncle Leo’s obsession with leading people on wild goose chases when he could just leave them easy money.
Don’t tell me he boned you like that, did he? I’m not having it.”
Ehhh.
If I agree, he’ll know it’s a colossal inheritance instead of just a good one. Then he’ll start fuming.
But if I stay silent, he’ll make some blind guesses and start fuming anyway.
“See? Just like I thought.” He scoffs, tapping his finger against the table. “Just like your cousins. Remember? Stupid, the hoops they had to jump through. It’s a fuckin’ miracle no one got hurt in Margot’s case with those break-ins. Christ.”
While that’s true, PopPop never could’ve known she’d be in danger. Half of it came from her husband’s past anyway.
Gramps had a special way of doing things, but he was never cruel.
Hearing Dad talk, you’d think PopPop was a deranged sadist. When Margot inherited that old house up north, he wouldn’t stop raging for days.