“Randall.” He didn’t even need to raise his voice.
“Okay. I can do that. No problem. I can make a public statement.” It would be embarrassing, but not any worse than what I was already going through. “I’ll make an apology.”
“Good.” Dad nodded. “In that statement, you will also confess to being a sex addict and that you’re admitting yourself into treatment in order to get help. I’ve already found a reputable facility.”
“Wait, what? I don’t have a sex addiction.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Sounds like one to me. However, that’s not the point. The point is saying it and doing it.” His tone shifted into a sneer. “In today’s world, everything is a sickness or a disease. And the public eats it up. Look at Robert Downey Jr. He confessed, went to treatment, and everyone worships him like he’s a god. And he’s just an actor. You’re a Morgan.”
“Dad. I still don’t see how this—”
“I’m still speaking, Randall.” He glared.
I shut my mouth.
“This could impact your brother’s political career. The standing of this family in the community. Our only option is to make you a sympathetic character. One who is fighting hard to overcome his addictions. Your own rags-to-riches story.”
My turn to cock an eyebrow.
“You will complete treatment. You will move back home, proving that you’re making a genuine effort to change, and you will get an appropriate job for your birthright.”
“My birthright? Like I’m a prince or something?” I couldn’t help it. My temper rose once more. Maybe Stewart hadn’t been entirely off on what he said in the article. “And you expect me to throw away my career? Go to rehab and move back here? Seriously? Toss away my relationship?”
He scoffed. “Relationship. Surely you jest. If you’re going to have a relationship, not that I’m concerned about you having one in the slightest, it will be with someone of equal footing. Not some hippy who works in a kennel. And as far as your career, you’ve already thrown that away. No one will want you now.”
He was serious. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow part of me was. Not only was he serious, but he actually expected me to do what he said.
“No.”
I noticed Dustin glance at me, the first time he’d looked anywhere since he sat back down.
“Excuse me?” Dad’s voice was almost playful. Dangerously so. “Do you think this is a negotiation?”
“No, Dad. I’m not doing that. I’m not doing any of that. I’ll make a public apology, but that’s it. I’m not handing the reins of my life over to you again. I’m just not.”
The smile he gave me was unlike any I’d ever had from him before. It both cut and terrified me. “Randall, you seem to think that simply because you rejected my money that you have nothing to lose. You are very wrong, my boy. Very wrong. Despite your disrespect, and your refusal to live a sensible life, you’ve been allowed to remain a part of this family. You will no longer have that privilege. I will have no other option than to publicly condemn the lifestyle choices you have made, though of course, I will also make it clear that you will be welcome back with open arms once you seek help and treatment. You will no longer be part of this family, Randall. Not to any aspect of it. You will be completely and utterly disowned, and you will be ruined.”
Though I’d feared this day would come, somehow always expected it, it still didn’t seem real. And as much as I’d worried over it, I still didn’t know what to do.
Another smile. “I know it’s a big shift, Randall. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to consider. This time tomorrow, should you still reject our help and love, you will no longer be a Morgan.”
I DROVEhome in a complete state of autopilot, not remembering one bit of the drive. Only when I pulled onto the block of my apartment did anything register in my brain. And even then, it was only confusion.
At first I decided I’d accidentally turned down the wrong street. It looked like there was a block party in full swing. People scattered over the lawn, cars and vans crowded every which way, some even with their back wheels over the curb.
It was my apartment, no doubt.
I realized what I was seeing when I was less than ten feet from the large group. Too close to turn back easily without drawing attention, but far enough away I had enough time to lower my visor in front of my face. I reached over and snagged the dog blanket that stayed in the front seat and held it up over the driver side window, and simultaneously increased my speed. Enough to keep people from walking out in the way, but slow enough to avoid initiating a car chase. At least I hoped.
I probably didn’t need to bother with the visor or the blanket. It was dark enough outside no one could see into the car unless they turned their headlights on me.
No one did.
I kept my gaze trained straight ahead, drove past the crowd, made sure to make a full and complete stop at the stop sign, and then turned right. With a glance behind me and not seeing anyone chasing after me, I hit the gas. I sped through several more blocks of the neighborhood, taking random turns and routes that led to nowhere. No one seemed to be following me. I felt like I should laugh at myself for being so overdramatic, like I was suddenly James Bond or some shit.
It didn’t feel overdramatic.
It was a block party, all right. A block party of reporters. Apparently The Dirty prompted phone calls. TheSeattle Weeklycalled for the hands-on touch.
