“I am,” he assures me. “Just some family stuff. We’ll talk soon. Be safe.”
“You, too,” I say, watching as he turns to jog toward the resort.
He doesn’t overshare, but my stomach is in knots as I watch him go. There is only one person who could send him running back like that. One person who could make him look so scared.
His father.
CHAPTER TWENTY
—JAMIE
My father wants to talkto me. He called my phone, and when I didn’t answer, he followed that with a text. He loathes texting, having to wait for a response. I’m sure it pained him to send me a text now.
On the way back to the resort, I message Astrid to make sure she’s all right, and she responds right away to let me know she’s out shopping with our mother. Which seems like odd timing. Almost as if it was planned. That’s not encouraging.
When I arrive at the resort, my father is waiting for me in the lobby. I’m disconcerted, thrown off my game. I expected to find him waiting in our suite. There, in that grand lobby with gold and marble—nothing looks bigger than my father.
Brent Matthews stands six foot five in a three-piece suit, the sleeves tight on his arms. My father works out when he’s not at the office. He’s always been huge, part of what gives him so much credibility in the security world. It also made him an intimidating attorney, but there wasn’t enough money in it for him. Instead, his consulting agency helps the wealthy CEOs and politicians protect their assets. In plain terms, he’s still keeping criminals out of prison.
“Dad,” I say, and then clear my throat to sound less surprised. “How are you?”
At first my father doesn’t respond. He looks from my black eye to my wrapped arm, emotionless. He glances at the concierge and motions him over. The man comes running.
“Get the on-call physician here,” my father says. “Tell him my son needs his arm rewrapped immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” the concierge says before dashing back to his desk.
“It’s fine, Dad,” I say. “I—”
“It’s not fine,” my father says. “You look ridiculous. Now, let’s go into the conference room. We need to talk.”
He starts walking, but I’m rooted in place, my self-esteem crashing to the floor. The way my father can make the simplest things my fault is almost an art form. I’m not the one who wrapped my arm, and yet, I wish I could chop it off rather than keep it a second longer. That’s what my father does. He gets inside your head. He guts you from the inside out.
Before he can summon me again, I follow my father down the corridor toward the conference room. When I get inside, he’s already in place at the head of a long table. He opens a folder and then takes a shiny silver pen from his suit pocket. He’s going through some kind of checklist. I stand at the entrance waiting for instructions.
He glances at me without his lifting his head. “Why are you standing there?” he asks. “Close the door and sit down.”
I take a seat across from him, eight chairs between us. He doesn’t talk, examining his paperwork instead. My leg bounces under the table. As another minute ticks by, I gather my courage.
“So what’s this about?” I finally ask.
My father pauses as if annoyed that I spoke. He sets down his pen with a loud clink.
“It’s a funny thing, James,” he starts. “I received an alert that my credit card had been run recently. I don’t use credit here, and God knows your mother has her own cards. So imagine my surprise when Iget a notice of a charge from something called the Surf Shack.” He folds his hands in front of him, and leans forward. My heart is racing.
“Okay…” I reply, not admitting to anything.
“I had the concierge look into it,” my father continues, “and it turns out that’s where we store our boats. At that point, I’m sure that someone there was running my card without my knowledge. But after a few calls, I found out that you had rented surfboards.” He smiles. “But what was strange was when the owner began falling over himself with apologies. So then,” he adds, “I have to ask what he’s so sorry about, right, James?”
I’m doing my best to stay steady, to not give anything away. I don’t answer him. My father nods at my silence and sits back in the leather chair.
“Turns out,” he says, “the man is sorry that his teenage daughter stole your boat. I’m stunned. Well, I decided to go down and check the damage for myself. It wasn’t so bad. I told the owner not to worry about it. That we had it handled. This meeting”—he motions around us—“is to let you know that you will never see that fucking boat again.”
I look down at my hands in front of me on the table. What can I say? I don’t pay for storage or insurance. It may be mine on paper, but my father owns everything about my life.
“Understood,” I say evenly. “Are we done?” I know I should take the criticism stoically, but my father has just stripped me of my last possession. There’s nothing left to take, so there’s no point in just sitting here and letting him berate me. What more can he do? He can’t arrest me for being a bad son.
“No, we’re not done,” my father says, closing his folder. He leans forward on his elbows, his dark eyes boring into me. “I think you know that. There’s another matter we need to discuss.”
