“It’s confirmed. Peter Knight of Evergreen won’t approve the acquisition. You know what to do,” my snake of a father told me, not two steps into his front door.
“I just got off a seven-hour flight. You can’t let me settle in? Possibly say hello?”
He stood, watching me, a slight tick in his square jaw. He tucked his hands into his Italian silk pants. His six-foot frame followed the steps up to the foyer and stopped a few inches away from my own. We were face to face. Although I fell an inch shorter, he no longer intimidated me. I knew if I had to, I could kick his ass.
“Hello, Spencer,” he said, a serpent’s smile spread wide across his mouth before falling flat. “Get to work. I don’t pay you to sit around. I don’t care if it is your Christmas break.”
We stayed where we were, each waiting on the other to back down. The tension was palpable. In the end, his face relaxed and he began to chuckle, stepping aside and making way for me. I picked up my bags and headed for my room, giving myself plenty of space to pass him without touching him.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I changed my mind and threw my bags on the second to last step, intending to pick them up later. I stretched my muscles, loving the feel of my back popping, and started for the kitchen.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked, still standing in the foyer, watching my every move.
“If I don’t say hi to Mom and Bridge, they’ll think something’s up,” I told him and continued on.
He didn’t respond, but I felt his stare burning into the back of my head.
I knew my sister and mother were in the kitchen because I could hear their laughter from across the immense modern monstrosity that was my parents’ home. My dad picked it out because he picked out everything, and my mom went along because my mother always goes along with what my dad says.
My mother was a beautiful woman, though she doesn’t realize it. In fact, she was gorgeous, inside as well as outside, but she shared the physical characteristics of a woman in her forties who’d had two kids, and for some reason, she thought that gave my father carte blanche to be a cheating, lying asshole and get away with it.
As soon as I entered the kitchen, my seventeen-year-old sister, Bridget, or Bridge as I call her, squealed, jumping off her stool and threw her arms around my neck. Her eyes burned with moisture when she pulled away to look at me.
“My Bridge,” I told her, squeezing her cheeks together, puckering her lips.
“My Spence,” she garbled through goldfish lips.
I released my grip, kissed her cheek, then hugged her. “I missed you, Bridge.”
“I missed you, too, bub. What are you doing here so early? We weren’t expecting you for another two days.”
“I know. After I finished my exams, I thought I’d surprise you, decided that last dorm blowout wasn’t worth it.”
Bridge’s hands met her hips and one brow arched over a grey eye. “You’re lying, but I don’t care,” she said, smiling.
My mother, Jessica, stood, straightening out her crisp apron and smoothed her hair before making her way over to me.
My mom was a former Tennessee beauty queen, all Southern drawl and breeding. In my younger days, I’d done a lot of “yes, ma’ams” and “how’d ya do’s” to get me labeled the freak in my Cali private school. Needless to say, I’d lost my inherited politeness by age seven.
“Mama,” I said, tugging her small shoulders to my chest.
“Baby boy,” she said, her smile wrinkling the laugh lines around her eyes. She smacked my cheek with a kiss then immediately tried to wipe away her lipstick residue with her red manicured fingers. “Merry Christmas, Spencer honey.”
“Merry Christmas,” I told her.
She pulled away and joined Bridge back at her stool. I leaned over the counter, examining their Christmas cookie progress.
“How were your finals?” my mom asked, steadily rolling the dough with a pin over the cold floured marble. Bridge’s eyes followed the movement as well.
“Fine. I aced them all,” I said, popping a piece of dough in my mouth.
“Cha,” she tsked, but smiled anyway. “So cheeky, boy.”
I was majoring in business. I had a mind for it, yes, I just didn’t enjoy it. My dad picked my major. He paid for my life, so I complied, just as I would comply with the “job” he had for me that evening.
I raised my head from my mom’s task and noticed Bridge looked a little green. “You okay, Bridge?” I asked.
“Wha?” she asked, her hand going to her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, swallowing, “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go lay down.”