If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(20)

“I don’t want anything to do with the business,” I tell my father. “I don’t agree with anything they stand for. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll hire a CEO to run the place after he finally kicks it. And as far as my grandfather goes, it’s his fault that he’s all alone. He basically disowned me when we moved away. He’s got himself to blame.”

My father’s eyes glaze over and he turns to stare out his window.

“Pax, your grandfather wasn’t the same after your mother died. None of us were. You can’t hold that against him. When we moved, he felt like he was losing you too, and you were the last connection that he had with your mother. Since your grandma died so long ago, you and Susanna were all he had. When he lost her and then you, he felt like he lost everything.”

“Yet he didn’t have to lose me,” I spit angrily. “His f*cking temper is what caused him to lose me. He chose to be angry and cut off contact. I was just a kid. I didn’t even choose to move. You did. But he took it out on me. So, as far as I’m concerned, he can rot.”

My father stares at me, his gaze thoughtful as he temples his fingers in front of him. Finally he sighs and nods.

“I guess I can understand your feelings. Your grandfather is a formidable man. And stubborn. He used to make your mom want to pull her hair out sometimes.”

And now his eyes really do glaze over as he thinks about my mom, lost in his memories. If there was ever anyone who didn’t get over her death, it was most certainly my father.

“Dad, you look like you aren’t eating right,” I tell him, pulling him from his thoughts and back into the present with me. He doesn’t look happy about it, either. He prefers to live in a world made from memories.

He shakes his head, shaking away my concern.

“I’m fine, Pax. Just stressed about some big cases that I’m handling. How are you doing? Are you pulling things together?”

“You mean, am I still using?” I stare at him harshly. I mean, f*ck. If you have a question, just ask it. Don’t beat around the bush. Dad nods, tired again.

“Fine. Yes. Are you still using?” He asks the question haltingly, as if the words taste bitter in his mouth. And he doesn’t really want to know the answer, I can tell. He thinks I’m a f*cking addict who can’t quit.

It’s f*cking annoying.

“No, I haven’t used,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “I said I wasn’t going to and I’m not. Not the hard shit, anyway. I’m not an addict, dad. Seriously. I use it because I like it. Not because I have to.”

My father stares at me with his best hardened attorney gaze.

“That might be so,” he tells me. “But eventually, when a person keeps using, they become addicted. You’re pushing it.”

“Whatever, dad,” I sigh, pushing away from his desk and standing up. “It’s been good to see you. I’ll see you next quarter.”

I stalk out, away from his disapproving stare and his doubts. What he doesn’t understand is that if you constantly expect the worst from someone, that’s probably what you’re going to get. He should have learned that by now. I’ve certainly shown him time and time again.

I am headed back toward the Skyway when I decide to take a quick detour, into a seedy little bar that I know of. I’ve had to stop there numerous times after heated visits with the old man. The bartender knows me and calls out a greeting when I enter. I never can remember his name. Dave? Dan?

I make my way across the dingy room, glancing around at the split vinyl seats and dark walls. This place hasn’t changed. It still has a hole in the paneling back by the pool table where somebody punched it and it still smells like piss and old grease. It’s not what you would call upscale, but it’s perfect for drinking away a bad mood.

I nod at the bartender.

“I’ll have a Jack.”

The bartender nods back and fills a tumbler with the dark golden liquid, sliding it towards me. It sloshes a bit onto the bar, but he’s not concerned. Cleanliness isn’t exactly his highest priority. You can tell that by his stained shirt and greasy hair. But that doesn’t bother me. The whiskey will taste the same regardless of the bartender’s personal hygiene habits.

Before he can attempt to talk with me, he’s distracted by another customer, a dirty old man who is clearly far too drunk. I watch with interest as the bartender tries to cut him off, then just gives up and pours him another drink.

“Hey, big fella. I’m Amber.”

I stare down at the big-busted woman who has just slid up to me. She’s got bar whore written all over her, from her extremely tight jeans that exhibit camel toe to her garish overly done makeup. Her tits are practically busting out of her top because it’s three sizes too small.

I cock an eyebrow and take a gulp of whiskey.

“Big fella? The 1940’s called. They want their phrase back.”

Amber throws her bleached blonde head back and laughs as though it is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

“I’m from Iowa. I guess we still talk that way back home.”

“Charming.” I knock back the rest of my drink and motion for another. I look at Amber. “Would you like one?”

I figure it’s the polite thing to do, even though I’m not much in the mood for company. She nods.