Tyrant (King #2)(24)

“Is my mother is feeling any better?” I asked as I followed Nadine to the study. The house wasn’t large by any means. The glass doors of my father’s study could be seen from any point in the great room and kitchen and it was a straight shot from the front door. There was no need for her to show me where it was. But then I realized that Nadine was just trying to be mindful of my memory loss.

“Thank you,” I said. Nadine nodded and with a tight smile, went back to her work in the kitchen.

And then it happened again. For the second time in less than twelve hours. This time the sputtering was only for an instant, the images coming in faster, clearer.

Another memory.

*

Ray

15 years old

My father’s office is his temple, a virtual shrine to himself and all of his political idols. American flags hung on the walls in frames, photos of himself shaking hands with men with fake bright white teeth, and even faker smiles. Men who he saw as more than mere mortals.

Men who he aspired to be like.

The gods of the Republican Party.

In his quest to become them, my father had long ago chosen politics over family. Except, of course, when the bill or law he was pushing involved family values of some sort. Then, we were at the forefront, paraded around and used as examples everything a good conservative Christian family should be.

A cross hung behind his desk, next to the American flag.

It’s complete bullshit.

HE is complete bullshit.

He’s never stepped foot inside a church for reason’s other than having to do with politics, but he tells people he’s a Protestant.

What he is, is a f*cking liar.

Everything about him, everything about his office, screamed formality and bullshit.

Which was why I chose this very room as the place I was going to tell him the news, and during his regular business hours, in hopes that he would curb his temper while on his sacred holy ground.

I dress for the occasion like I am going for an interview. Matching yellow jacket and pencil skirt, straight out of the Jackie Kennedy handbook. I’ve been hiding the bump for months now under baggy clothes, but the suit accentuates my rounded belly. I am six months along and there is no more hiding.

I spy my father through the glass French doors, with his back to me, leaning against one of the green chairs in front of his desk. I take a deep breath and push on the handle. “Dad, can we talk?” The word ‘dad’ feels funny to say. I haven’t called him it in years. The use of the word is strategic on my part, starting the conversation with a reminder of who he is to me.

Something I think he often forgot.

He hasn’t been any sort of father to me in years.

He isn’t a dad at all.

He spins around when he hears me come in, revealing that he isn’t alone. Tanner is sitting in one of the big green chairs in front of my father’s desk, smiling a little too brightly for my liking. Something is up. “What’s going on?” I ask, taking tentative steps further into the room.

The senator speaks first, “Tanner told me your news,” he says, straightening his jacket, yanking at the bottom hem. He looks down to where my hands rest against my rounded belly. He looks disturbed, as if someone has just told him his numbers are down in the polls, not that his fifteen-year-old daughter is pregnant.

“He did?” I was going to kill him.

“Yes,” he says, rounding his desk and taking a seat in his high-backed burgundy chair, more throne than office chair. His lips set in a straight line. “And as much as I don’t want to, I’m going to have to bring someone else in on this.”

Who could he be bringing in? Oh. Shit.

My mother.

I hadn’t even really thought about telling her. To me, my mother was a non-issue. I rarely saw her and when I did it was at a function where she pretended to be the PTA-type mom, then when the lights went out in the ballroom, the switch on being ‘mom’ was turned off and she’d go back to ignoring me like always.

I don’t even hear my parents speak to one another unless they are bickering about something. And it’s always something to do with my father’s campaign. They stopped arguing about their relationship years ago.

It’s hard to argue over something you don’t care about.

“Okay,” I say meekly, preparing myself for the shit storm I am about to receive. And although I am shrinking into the seat next to Tanner I’m oddly looking forward to what is about to take place. I wring my hands. Tanner doesn’t seem affected. He sits casually with his ankle crossed over his knee.

My father stands up, looking impatient. “I will back in a moment,” he announces, and leaves the room.

I snap my head to Tanner. “What exactly did you tell him?” I whisper.

He whispers back. “The truth.”

I punch him in the shoulder. “Why the hell did you do that? I was going to tell him. That’s what we’d agreed!”

“Yeah, but I thought about it and I decided that it was better if it came from me because he can’t get pissed at me.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make, Tanner. You can’t just decide all the rules all the time on your own, you know.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And why can’t he get mad at you?”

“He can get mad, he just can’t kick my ass or anything. Because if he does he knows that all it would take would be me telling my dad how mean the good senator was to me. And just like that his number one campaign supporter would bring the money train to a screeching halt,” Tanner says proudly. He winks at me.