The Pact(25)

“No one was too much,” I tell her. “I’ve got to meet my parents tomorrow so I need to call it a night.”

“Your parents are in town?” Steph asks, surprised.

I quickly glance over at her and recognize the look in her eyes. It’s almost the same that Nadine had when I told her it was just going to be me and them. Hell, had Steph wanted to meet them too? She’d already met the pain in the ass that is my brother and now she wants to see the rest of my family? Suddenly my parents are the most popular people around. Well, with everyone but me.

“Yeah it was kind of last minute. For my birthday.”

“Well let me know how that goes,” she says and for a moment it’s like we’re back at my place, hanging out on the couch and talking about our families. She knows nearly everything about them and our relationship, just as I know the same about hers.

I miss that. Tonight has shown me that I’m missing a lot of things.

I can feel Nadine nudge me, wanting us to get out of there.

“Will do,” I say to Steph, sending her a knowing look. If it comes to me needing to vent, she will be the first I’ll call.

Before James can attempt to squeeze out of the table and tackle me, I put my arm around Nadine’s waist and usher her away. I wave goodbye to everyone over my shoulder and hear James call me a “pussy.”

Once back in the flat, after the cab has dropped off Nadine, I settle into bed. It still smells like sex from earlier, while my mouth tastes like beer and I already have a headache. I’m not prepared for tomorrow whatsoever and I as lie there in the dark, my mind races around and around on the same loop.

Everything is changing. I’m nowhere but I’m somewhere and it’s not where I want to be.

I don’t really know what I want.

But I know I don’t have it.





CHAPTER SEVEN

LINDEN



“Linden Stewart McGregor.”

Yes, my father, in his thick Aberdeen brogue, just called me by my full name. I don’t think I’ve heard him address me that way since I was a wee fuck, playing with his heirloom wooden boats and breaking the masts for fun.

I manage a smile, just as phony as his is, I’m sure.

“Dad,” I tell him, not willing to do the same. He might try and be seen as a quasi-politician, authority figure to me, but he’s still just my fucking father. I’m not Bram, I won’t relate to him in the way that he wants, the way that everyone else does.

My father strides across the marble floors of the hotel, looking lean and healthy. He’d quit smoking a few years ago and took up a lifestyle that required a lot of tennis and racquetball and rounds of golf, all chased with too much Scotch. While I inherited his height, he’s never been one to put on muscle like I have. Then again he runs like a wind-up toy – I doubt he could put on weight if he tried.

He shakes my hand, firm, and I return it even firmer. He doesn’t even wince, just smiles like he’s actually glad I’m here.

“Good to see you, son,” he says, his blue eyes nearly twinkling. His skin is bronze now, which means he’s been taking more trips to St. Barts and other hoity-toity places where the rich and privileged pretend they won’t get skin cancer. I wonder if he brings mum with him on these trips or leaves her at home.

I quickly scan the lobby and notice she’s not here. I’m relieved but that familiar pang of guilt strikes my chest, as it always does when I’m glad she’s not around.

“Where’s mum?” I ask, not willing to return the sentiment.

His jaw tenses for a brief moment. “She’s having a lie-down,” he says far too brightly and that smooth expression goes back on his face. Always the politician.

“You mean she’s sleeping in? It’s still the morning.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder and ushers me toward the elevators. “Let’s have brunch, shall we? We have a lot to talk about.”

My chest feels tighter. This was what I was afraid of, that my father had something serious he wanted to talk to me about and that’s why he came. I have no idea what he’s going to say, all I know is I’m not going to like it and for some damn reason I have a really hard time when it comes to my parents.

It’s part of the reason – or maybe all of the reason – why I moved to San Francisco to begin with.

We take the elevator to a restaurant on the top floor. It’s not only on Nob Hill, but it’s a tall structure to boot, so we have a crazy view of the city. Today there’s fog moving in by the Golden Gate, covering the hills of Marin, but other than that it’s sunny and beautiful.

We sit down amid fine diners picking away at their thirty-dollar eggs Benedicts and I realize I’m a bit underdressed. I’m in grey jeans and a black collared shirt with zippers at the chest pockets, something Steph gave to me one day, saying she had too many in stock and it was too late to send it back.