Rascal (Rascals Book 1)(23)

“There are some absolutely lovely young ladies at the club that I think you should meet,” my mother said, her diamond earrings sparkling as she took a sip of wine. “You are still single, aren’t you?”

I thought about Alex, about our date and the kiss. The kiss that had fueled many fantasies over the past few days.

“Actually—” Hayley started, but I shot her a look.

“Still single,” I said tightly.

I’d rather have my mother attempt to set me up with some society bimbo than have her harass me for information about a woman I wasn’t technically dating. Because I was pretty sure no one in the world would consider two kisses and a fake date any sort of relationship.

“We should have a party,” my mother said to my father. “Invite some young eligible women for Emerson to meet. Appropriate women.”

I didn’t respond, and neither did my father. It was probably the only thing we agreed on—that I didn’t need any help with dating. Mainly because my father thought I should be concentrating on work. His work in particular.

Our meal was served, along with a second whiskey for me. My beverage of choice did not go unnoticed by my mother and sister, who gave me a nearly identical look of disapproval. It was startling how much they looked alike, their heart-shaped faces and wide eyes.

“So, the bar,” my father tried again.

“It’s coming along,” I said brightly, hoping to change the subject. “So, Hayley, do you want anything special for your birthday?” I asked my sister.

“A pony?” she joked.

“What are you, ten?” I wanted to know. “Besides, don’t you already have a horse?”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “I had a horse. During my dressage phase.”

“Was that before or after the debutante phase?” I teased.

“At least your sister finds appropriate outlets for her energies.” My father stabbed his salad with his fork. “Hobbies that are easy to explain amongst our circles.”

My jaw tightened.

“The bar is not a hobby,” I said between clenched teeth.

“Emerson,” Hayley said softly, and I knew she was trying to keep the peace. She always was. She just wanted all of us to get along.

But we couldn’t. Not until my father accepted that I wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps.

“Managing a dive bar is hardly an acceptable use of your talents,” my father continued, steamrolling right through the tension. “You should reconsider my offer.”

“No, thank you,” I told him, keeping my voice quiet, even though I wanted to yell. “I’m not coming to work at your investment firm. It’s not for me.”

“You’ve never even given it a chance,” my father argued. “You’re just being stubborn.”

“Where do you think I got it from?” I muttered, my appetite completely gone.

“Emerson, Dad,” Hayley once again tried to interject, but my father ignored her.

“You think you’re hurting me, but you’re really just hurting yourself,” he told me, his face getting that angry red coloring he always got during our conversations.

I was getting pretty heated myself.

And he wasn’t done. “You’re being completely selfish,” my father said. “Think of the family—think of your mother. Do you think she likes having to lie to people about what you’re doing with your life?”

“I don’t know why she has to lie,” I countered. “There’s nothing wrong with managing a bar.”

I was done. I was so done. I threw my napkin onto my half-empty plate, finished my drink, and stood.

“Sorry, Hayley,” I told my sister, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “But I can’t stay.”

“Sit down,” my father ordered, like I was eight years old and he could boss me around whenever he chose. But I was a grown man now, standing on my own two feet, and it meant I could use them to walk out the door whenever I chose.

“I have worked my ass off to make this bar a reality,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady even thought I was fuming. “And I’ve done it all without your help. You have two choices—you can support the decisions I make about my life, or you can get the hell out of that life. For good.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heels and left.



I could hear my dad’s voice following me the entire way back to the bar. I could have gotten a cab, but I decided to walk, fueled by anger and just enough whiskey to keep me warm during the cool spring night. I kept replaying the conversation over and over in my head, knowing that I shouldn’t have lost my temper.

But no matter what I did, it would never be good enough for my parents. The bar could be a huge success and I could become a self-made millionaire—instead of a trust-fund brat following my father’s footsteps—and it still wouldn’t please my father. He had such fixed ideas about success and status, it felt like he cared more about controlling me than he did about my own personal happiness. To him, being a Hayes man meant a steady job in the family firm, a big house in the right neighborhood, and a dutiful, sweet wife from another country-club family: functions and charity events, golf on the weekends, and vacations on the boat.

Just thinking about it made me wince.