“It wasn’t your doing,” Ryke refutes. “I didn’t meet Lo because of you. I met him because I wanted to.”
My father rolls his eyes dramatically. “I can’t ever win with you. Ever since you asked me some silly goddamn question and you didn’t like the answer.”
“I was fifteen,” Ryke sneers. “I just found out I had a brother. I felt lied to and cheated on. I needed your compassion and you fucking spit in my face. But I guess I should have known better.”
“You didn’t need compassion.” My father grimaces at the word. “You needed the truth, and I gave it to you. It’s not my fault you were too weak to handle it.”
“What are you guys talking about?” I ask, hesitating. Maybe I shouldn’t know. But I hate being in the dark.
My father is quick to answer. “Ryke asked me a simple question that day. Would you like to tell him, Ryke?’
“Fuck you,” Ryke sneers.
“I suppose not.” He takes a small sip from his drink, smacking his lips before he continues. “He asked me if I could take back the day that I fucked your mother—take back having you—would I?”
My throat goes dry, not expecting that. I think I know his answer. Because even in his hatred, his bigotry and vileness—there is one fact that my father has never let me question.
He loves me.
And it’s a fucked up love. Ryke is right. It does mess with my head. And it’s something I have so much trouble walking away from. Sometimes I don’t want to. Other times, it’s all I dream about.
My father’s eyes hold this unbridled clarity, unwavering from mine, the haziness of his drink gone to honesty. “I told Ryke that I would do it all over again. I have zero regrets, in this lifetime or the next.”
Zero regrets.
That’s what I pick out from that. Zero regrets. Not even when he grabbed me by the neck, not when he called me a shitty fuck at ten years old. Not when he made me feel like I was never good enough to be his son. Zero regrets.
Right.
No one says anything more at first. Ryke is probably worried that I resent him. He wished I wasn’t alive. But truth is, I kind of did too. Until I looked at Lily. Until I talked to her. I don’t think I could have survived this life without that girl.
I redirect the conversation to Hale Co., which my father only likes to discuss in small quantities. The company took a minor hit in comparison to Fizzle, but he’s still working on launching a new baby product. Something about cribs. It’s ironic that the world’s worst dad has a fortune from baby things, but since it was my grandfather’s business first, it makes the irony less valid. Unless he was an alcoholic asshole too.
The burgers arrive when he says, “This marriage helps Fizzle, but do you know what would really benefit Hale Co.?”
Ryke freezes, the lettuce falling out of his bun.
I must be slower because I don’t get it. “What?”
My father cuts through his burger with a knife, juices oozing out. His eyes find mine. “It’s a baby merchandize company. Babies would help.” I can’t breathe. “Little Hale babies in little Hale onesies. It would be great goddamn marketing.” He takes a bite of his burger. “You can’t beat that.”
“No,” I say instantly. My blood feels like it’s on fire. I have been coerced into marrying Lily. I’m not going to have children because my father tells me to. There has to be a line somewhere.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I said no. Not now. Not in a fucking year. Not ever.”
My father sets down his silverware and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Is this a new development?”
“No.”
“Is something wrong?” he frowns. “Are you sterile?”
“For fuck’s sake,” I snap. I didn’t think I’d have to discuss this with him. “I don’t want kids. It’s not because I can’t have them. I don’t want them.” I don’t want them to turn out like you. Or me.
Ryke stays quiet, but I can tell he’s processing. The only person I told was Lily. That’s the only one who mattered.
“You’ll change your mind,” my father says like he knows me so well. He picks up his knife again. “And it’s okay if it’s not anytime soon. Hale Co. can wait.”
We finish eating and after all the tense conversations, it’s hard to remember why we were here in the first place. One of the servers clears the last dish, and I ask the question. “Who’s the leak?”
“That, I can’t tell you,” he says.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Ryke growls, saying exactly what I’m thinking.
My father ignores Ryke. “The good news is that I have it under control, and it’s being handled quietly. If I tell you two, I’m sure you’ll cause a fucking mess that I won’t be able to clean.”
I don’t agree with him. I can’t. “I need to know,” I refute. “This isn’t some guy who did me wrong or fucked me over in a small way.”
“You won’t change my mind, Loren.”
“Why’d you tell me to come here then?!” I shout, blindsided by all of this. We sat here for nothing.
“To have lunch with you and to tell you that you need to drop this. Let it go.”
I spring up from the table like my soles are on fire. “Let it go?!”
My father glowers. “Loren, you’re overacting.”
“Lo,” Ryke says, rising and resting a hand on my shoulder.
“Overreacting?” I let out a manic laugh. “I have a girlfriend at home who’s scared to walk out of the fucking house without getting assaulted. And I’m overacting? It took her a month to stop tossing and turning at night.” I grip the chair. “She has men mailing her goddamn plastic penises from prison and alleged sex tapes being rumored every day. This bastard toyed with her for weeks, texting her vile things before he finally leaked it. And you have his fucking name!”
My father is on his feet. “And what the hell are you going to do? Yell? Shout? Stomp your shoes and make noise?” His eyes grow dark. “There is nothing you can do that I haven’t already done. It’s over. Let. It. Go.….please.” His voice has softened considerably, and I pale.
Please. He doesn’t use that word, and I know what I have to do.
I have to trust him.
But I don’t know who he’s protecting—me or himself.
{ 46 }
LILY CALLOWAY
Garth must have been ex-CIA or a stunt driver on some Hollywood lot before becoming a personal bodyguard. He lost the paparazzi tailing us within two minutes. It usually takes me a solid hour driving in aimless circles, and I get so bored that I make stops at The Donut Man for jelly-filled pastries. Now that I think about it, maybe the donuts are the reason it takes me so long.
Lo has tried to conceal the location of his office from the press. For now, it’s the one place void of cameras peeping through windows or gates. Being here makes me feel normal again.
I kick my feet on his desk and lean back in the nice leather chair. Garth is broad-shouldered, his peppery hair receding and his forehead oily. He sits on the couch, currently transfixed by his mini-tablet. We don’t talk much other than to discuss where I want to go, which is fine with me. Talking can be overrated.
Lo’s office has more personality than our bedroom. Posters of his favorite science fiction and superhero movies line the walls: Battlestar Gallactica, Star Wars, X-Men (of course), Spider-Man (the Andrew Garfield version), and Kick-Ass.