Every Little Dream(10)

And he can. I’ve seen him to do it over and over again.

He’s probably inside sitting behind his desk, stroking his ego with the fact that he holds my future in his hands. He’s warned me for months. Shape up. Be responsible. He’d heard rumors about my failed relationship last year. Don’t ask me how. He probably had someone following me. Since then, I’ve been commitment free.

I didn’t like who I became with Carly. Angry. Possessive. Ready to burst into a fight with anyone. That person was more like my father. Impulsive. Ready to strike out if the wind blew in the wrong direction.

That’s not me.

I don’t want to be him.

But every day I feel it, pulling me in, pushing me toward the power-hungry shark my father turned into after years of being in a cutthroat business. Now he wants me to be him. Step in and be his assistant. He’ll use anything he can to own me. With this last trip to jail, I handed him the ammunition. I know exactly what’ll happen once I walk through those doors.

My life will be his. He’ll make sure of it.

I take a deep breath and push against the heavy glass doors. For a second, I see my reflection as my father might. The rebellious son with hair that’s too long. One too many tattoos. Not exactly how I planned to turn out when I was twelve and thinking about my future.

The lobby reeks of professionalism, a light scent of mint and lemon cleaner. A slight breeze from the fans overhead creates a chill so no one feels too comfortable.

I stride across the room and let his secretary know I’m here. She points to the armchairs covered with brown leather. I sink into one and know I’m in for a wait. Just one more intimidation tactic.

The seconds pass.

The minutes tick by.

With each quarter hour my rage builds. He said 8 a.m. sharp. I grip the armrests, trying to get rid of the frustration. I’m playing into his hands. He wants me mad and off my game when I step into his inner chambers.

“Chadwick.” Finally, the secretary calls my name. I glance at her high cheekbones, the way her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, stretching her skin tight. Probably at his request.

I push open the door and step inside. Even though I’ve been here before, the effect is always the same. The plush carpet under my feet that I used to roll around on. The heavy cherry wood desk with plaques and his name in gold lettering. He used to tell me that someday I’d have a plaque with my name on it right next to his. The frames on the wall glorify his achievements. In this office, in front of my dad, I feel like the little boy who got caught sneaking cookies.

I’m twenty-three. I’m a man. I’m not that boy. My father is not my boss. I keep telling myself that, hoping one of these times that I’ll believe it. His eyes don’t veer from the computer screen in front of him, but he does offer a wave of his hand. Telling me I can sit down. I stay standing.

“Really Chadwick.” He speaks for the first time, his deep vibrato resonating through the room. “No need for the show. Sit down.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stand.” It’s the least I can do. I know once I sit and have to look up at him, I’ll completely lose my nerve.

He closes his laptop and puts his full attention on me. The few times he does are when I’m in trouble. His eyebrows draw together and the lines deepen on his forehead. His blue eyes, just like mine, pierce through me. I glare back.

“We’ve had enough of the games, don’t you think?” he asks, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

I say nothing, waiting for his explanation.

“You’re no longer a teenager sowing his wild oats. You can’t live off your trust fund forever. Clearly, you weren’t ready for that way of life. You need to learn the hard lessons of life to appreciate what you have.”

What? His words throw me. I expected a lecture and then pressure to come work with him. But he’s talking money. My trust fund. It feels like he’s reached out and placed his hands around my balls, squeezing gently at first. Then getting tighter. I fight the sheen of sweat that wants to break out on my face. I can’t let him know he’s getting to me. That I care.

“I realize this isn’t what you expected. You probably thought I’d slap your wrist, ask you again to work for me, then send you on your way.”

Fuck. How’d he know? Can he read me that well? The sweat breaks out. Double fuck.

“I’ll get right to it. You have two choices. One, I cut off your trust fund. You can go off find a job doing whatever it is you truly want to do. Break away. If that’s what you truly want.”

I swallow. Okay, this might not be bad. I could walk away from his reign of power in my life. I can see a glimpse of freedom on the horizon, the scent of fresh air, the wind against my face.