“Carrson,” Stanson squeaks, voice cracking halfway through my name, “what’re you doing here?”
I let my gaze move slowly around the table, stopping on each of them long enough for them to wither. It works. One by one, they drop their eyes.
All except Jackson.
He sits at the other end of the table, leaning back, watching with a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other.
Fuck.
I didn’t know he came to these things.
“What?” I ask Stanson. “Isn’t this the Household Management Committee?”
“Ye—yes,” he stammers.
“And am I not,” I continue, “as the leader of this house a member of this committee?”
“I—well—uh…” He tugs at his collar, already sweating through it. “You are, it’s—I mean, we didn’t—you never show up.” He turns to the others for support, but everyone bows their heads, refusing to meet his eyes. “Uh, I’m surprised is all.”
“Don’t be.” I lean back in my chair, lace my hands, and rest them behind my head, careful to flex my biceps.
Someone down the table gulps so loud it carries.
Exactly the response I was hoping for.
Before I can claim victory, Jackson pipes up. “You never show up to any of the committees you’re supposedly on.”
He sounds bored.
Which makes me want to punch him more.
“I didn’t used to,” I say. “Now I do.”
I let that sit. No one seems reassured. If anything, they appear more worried than before.
Jackson writes something down, his pen scratching across the paper like nails on a chalkboard.
My eyes flick to him.
He underlines something.
I ignore it.
“Let’s get started,” I say. If I have to be here, we’re not dragging this out.
“Lewisson was about to explain why we’re all going vegetarian,” Jackson says.
Dry. Flat. Perfectly timed.
I frown.
“Vegetarian?”
A few of them shift uncomfortably, as if I’ve accused them of something personal.
Lewisson clears his throat, straightening a pile of papers in front of him. “It’s the butcher over on 83rd Street. He keeps raising his prices. We’re over the budget approved by the Finance Committee.”
I stare at him.
