Did Satan change diapers? What kind of father was he?
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder episode 73
Brent
The restaurant perfectly matches Dad. Upscale. Lots of men in business suits. The walls are all dark wood paneling and there’s some kind of esoteric structure behind the bar that changes colors periodically. Throw in the expensive bourbon and it’s everything Dad loves in one convenient location. The name is even appropriate. Gilt. The definition of opulence.
Or, add a u and you’ve got the feeling every parent inscribes into their children from birth.
All I can think when I look around is pretentious bullshit. The only women present are arm-candy blondes.
I never wanted to be part of this world. I left all this to Marc. I just want to play football. My place is on the field, not in the boardroom.
And now my place is nowhere.
“Have a scotch with me.” Dad slaps me on the back as I slide into the bar where we’re going to wait until our reservation time.
“I can’t. Training.”
“Ah. You’ve got great willpower, Son. You’re a credit to your team. They’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He’s smiling and happy. Again I consider telling him everything. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.
“Now tell me.” He nudges me with an elbow. “You getting a lot of tail in the off season? It’s a good thing you got rid of that Bella girl. It’s no good having to deal with a ball and chain when you’re a single, good-looking guy, amiright?”
Aaand he’s back. “I didn’t get rid of Bella, she broke up with me.”
He blinks at me as if he can’t possibly comprehend why I would admit to something so enfeebling and then waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever.” He turns the subject to a few business partners he wants me to meet, some people who are investing in the new expansion project he’s been working on for the past year.
“Marc told me all about it,” I say. Marc did the majority of the work on the project. Before he quit.
“Right. Well, it’s a good thing I have a real man now to help me front the company. Let me tell you my plans.”
And off he goes, and everything is “I” and “me” and what he’s been working on. No mention of Marc. He doesn’t even say his name.
It’s a defense mechanism. It has to be.
It’s clear to me it bothers him, how Marc left. The fact that he won’t even say Marc’s name proves as much. But the old man will never admit to being upset, or to something as “feminine” as missing one of his own children.
It’s the Crawford way. Deny, deny, deny. Don’t let them see you go soft.
When I was a kid, it was always, “shake it off,” and “use your emotions on the field.”
Like it’s never okay to express any feeling other than anger or aggression.
“Jim, come meet my son,” Dad calls out across the bar. We halt our way to our table as Dad’s acquaintance makes his way over.
I recognize the name, if not the face. Jim Sinclair is the owner of HouseMart, the home supply giant. Didn’t Dad mention he wanted to get our products into their stores?
Jim is a middle-aged man with thinning hair and an expensive suit. We shake hands and then he introduces the woman with him.
“This is my daughter Angela. Angela, you know Albert. And this is his son Brent.”
I shake Angela’s hand. She’s a petite blonde with ultra-white teeth and a demure black dress. Her handshake is firm.
We make small talk and then Dad invites them to eat with us.
Crap. Dinner definitely won’t be over until late.
An inkling whispers through me before we get to the booth. A premonition, if you will. This was planned, probably for a reason I won’t like.
My suspicions are confirmed as we’re walking to our table. “I wouldn’t mind finding a way to join our two empires,” Dad mutters to me with a wink and a nudge in Angela’s direction.
He’s maneuvered it so Angela and I are sitting side by side, across from our dads.
And there it is.
I’m being whored out by my own father.
Great.
Maybe now would be a good time to tell him I’m impotent.
My jaw clenches. Not that the state of my cock even matters. I’m fine. It’s fine.
As Jim’s drones on and on about some merger or acquisition or whatever, Angela clears her throat and leans in my direction. “He’s really into scalable business strategies and leveraging things,” she whispers. “Pretty much anything involving business jargon that sounds impressive but is actually useless.”
“You’re not into it?”
“Not really. But I pretend to be for my dad.” She shrugs. “This stuff is important but he never—” She cuts off and glances over at our fathers.
“He never what?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”
Dinner is served and it’s actually not a bad time.
Angela is nice enough. She’s smiling and listening to our fathers talk, a look of perfect interest and understanding on her face while she quietly sips her wine. Every part of her is pressed and smooth, not a hair out of place.
Not like Bethany’s haphazard bun with the escapist curls.
I take a long drink of cold water. None of that matters. I can’t be thinking about women. Too many other things on my plate. Not to mention the fact that my lower half is useless. Not something that’s necessarily bothered me much over the past few months, considering my other concerns . . . but it kind of bothers me now.
I wish the night were over already. Exhaustion is wrapping languid fingers around my body, making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges.
As it is, I’ll have to go back to the office to pick up my car—I left it in the lot next to the building. I pat my pocket surreptitiously to make sure I have my keys and realize I’m missing something else.
My pills.
I left them in Marc’s office.
“Brent,” Jim interrupts my thoughts. “I hear you’re involved in a lot of charity work. Angela is involved with the Ladies Auxiliary right now, raising money for children of active-duty military families.”
They’re all staring at me, waiting for a response. “That’s really great.”
“We’re having a charity auction in a couple of weeks.” Angela smiles at me. “A lot of the sponsors are big Sharks fans.”
The eyes of my table partners land on me like a three-hundred-pound barbell. I can’t say no. “I would love to help.” That’s not a lie. It’s a worthy cause. But this isn’t about the charity. It’s about manipulating me into spending more one-on-one time with Angela Sinclair.
“Something that won’t take up too much of your time,” Angela says. “Maybe a signed football? I’ll give you my number.”
Dad claps me on the back and answers for me. “That sounds great.”