“How does that make you feel?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” My mind is cluttered with other concerns. “I’m just relieved it’s over.”
Flynn eyes me for a moment, and I think he’s going to continue this line of inquiry, but he shifts. “And how are you feeling in general?”
I pause to consider his question, and the truth is, apart from the sabotage of my beloved Charlie Tango, and that someone wants me dead, I feel…good. I’m anxious, of course, and I’m pissed Ana won’t move in to Escala yet, but I understand that she wants another night with me in her apartment, and that could happen this weekend. The panic rooms are going into the penthouse and we need to be out of there. It’s a hotel, The Grace, or Ana’s.
“I’m good.”
“I can see that. I’m surprised.” Flynn looks thoughtful.
“Why? What is it?” I ask.
“It’s good to see you externalizing your anxiety, rather than turning it in on yourself.”
I frown. “I think the threat to my life is external.”
He nods. “Yes. It is. But it distracts you from giving yourself a hard time.”
“I’ve not thought of it that way.”
“Have you spoken to your father?”
“No.”
Flynn remains impassive, his lips tightening slightly.
I sigh. “I’ll get around to it.”
He glances at the clock. “Time’s up.”
Friday, July 1, 2011
There’s a knock on my office door, and as Andrea enters, I look up from the selection of wedding stationery that Ana has sent me. “Yes?” I ask, surprised by her intrusion.
“Your father is here.”
What? “In the office?”
“He’s on his way up.”
Shit!
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey,” Andrea continues. “I didn’t want to leave him in the lobby.” She shrugs apologetically. “He’s your father.”
For heaven’s sake. I check the time. It’s 5:15 and I’m due to leave at 5:30 for the long weekend.
“Ask him to wait.”
“Yes, sir.” She leaves and closes the door behind her.
What the hell.
I do not want another conversation with good old Dad. The last one went so well. But thanks to my PA, I have no choice.
Damn.
He never turns up unannounced…unlike my mother. Taking a deep breath, I stand and stretch. I roll down my shirt sleeves and don the cuff links that have been lying on my desk. Grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair, I slip it on and fasten one button. I tug at my shirt cuffs, then straighten my tie and run my hands through my hair.
Showtime, Grey.
Carrick is standing outside my door, holding his battered briefcase. “Dad.” I keep my voice neutral.
His lips curl into a warm open smile that reveals twenty-four years of love and paternal pride.
Whoa. It floors me.
“Son,” he says.
“Come in. Can I get you anything?” I ask, trying to keep a handle on my suddenly warring emotions.
Does he want a fight? Make peace? What?
“Andrea’s already offered me something. I’m fine,” he says. “I won’t be long.” He enters my office and takes a quick look around as I close the door. “It’s a while since I’ve been here.”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“What a lovely portrait of Ana.”
On the wall facing my desk, a monochrome Ana looks captivating as she stares at us, her smile sweet and shy, hinting at her amusement and belying her strength. I like to think she’s laughing at me in that way she does; in that way that makes me laugh at myself. “My newly acquired portrait. Her friend from WSU, José Rodriguez, took it. He had an exhibition in Portland. You’ve met him at my place. The night Charlie Tango went down. There’s a series. Seven in total. I had this one installed earlier this week. She has such a beautiful smile.” I’m babbling.
Carrick’s look is warm but guarded, and he runs his hand through his hair.
“Christian, I—” He stops, as if he’s had a particularly painful thought.
“What?” I ask.
“I came to apologize.”
And just like that all the wind is out of my sails, and I’m becalmed and lost at sea.
“What I said was wrong. I was angry. At myself.” His gaze sears mine as his fingers grip the handle of the old valise that he’s had for years. My throat tightens and burns as I search for something to say, and I remember how his briefcase always sat on a weathered chair in his study.
“Christian, this is the second school that has been forced to expel you for your belligerent behavior.” Dad is beside himself. He’s in full asshole mode. “This is totally unacceptable. Your mother and I are at our wits’ end.” He paces in front of his desk, his hands behind his back.
I stand before him, my knuckles raw and throbbing. My side aches from the kicking I’ve endured. But I don’t give a fuck. Wilde deserved it. Stupid bullying prick. He likes to pick on kids smaller than he is. Poorer than he is. He’s garbage, and the fucker’s been expelled, too.
“Son, we are running out of options.”
Dad and Mom are connected. I know they can find some other school. Fuck it, I don’t need to further my education.
“We’ve even discussed military school.”
He removes his glasses like he’s in a movie and glares at me, waiting and wanting a reaction. But fuck him. Fuck military school. If that’s what they want to do to get rid of me, fuck them. Bring it. I lower my eyes and stare at the stupid case he carries everywhere, ignoring the fire in my throat.
Why doesn’t he take my side?
Ever.
The guy jumped me.
I stood my ground.
Fuck him.
Now the lines around his eyes are deeper and the lenses in his glasses thicker, and he’s watching me, waiting for an answer to his apology in his calm and patient way.
Dad.
I nod. “Me, too,” I murmur.
“Good.” He clears his throat and glances once more at Ana on my wall. “She’s a beautiful girl.”
“She is. In every way.”