Then at the rest of them.
Then back at him.
Jackson writes something down, and I imagine stabbing him in the eye with his own pen.
“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that instead of fixing the problem,” I pause, “you’ve decided to remove meat?”
Silence.
Cowards.
I exhale through my nose, a headache already brewing.
“Unbelievable.” I snap my fingers. “Someone get me a phone.”
Chairs scrape. Papers scatter. One of them disappears. Another yanks open drawers. This house has three stereos, a pool table, and enough alcohol to kill a small country, but apparently locating a working phone is a group project.
Eventually, a black, blocky monstrosity is produced, followed by its spiraled cord. There’s more fumbling as they stretch it across the room toward me, careful not to get too close.
I let them.
Gives me time to think.
Which is unfortunate.
Because my mind goes straight to her.
Auburn hair. Blue eyes that don’t back down. A mouth that doesn’t know when to shut up. Her skin, so soft. Warm. How she sounds when she…Fuck.
This is not what I should be thinking about in a room full of men, but I can’t help it. She’s been in my head all week. Ever since we got back from spring break.
Annoying. Alluring.
I take the receiver when it’s finally within reach, bringing it to my ear. The dial tone buzzes low and steady.
“Give me the butcher’s number,” I bark, ignoring how much I sound like my father. I dial. The phone rings, which gives me enough time to think.
I’ve always known I’d have to step up eventually. Becky made it harder to ignore, and being back in my old house didn’t help. The Order. My father. That’s what this place wants, to turn me into him. They don’t know what he was. I won’t become that. But if I’m not him—
“83rd Market,” a man answers, interrupting my thoughts. “How can I help you?”
“Put the owner on,” I say. “Tell him it’s Carrson Ashford.”
There’s a slight pause, then, “Hold on.”
I glance up, making sure they’re watching.
They are.
Jackson taps the tip of his pen against his paper, and I know it’s on purpose.
The owner comes on a minute later, overly polite. “Mr. Ashford, so nice to hear from you—”
“I’m going to make this simple,” I interrupt. “You’ve been raising your prices.”
A hesitation.
“Yes, sir. The cost of grain has gone up, so you see our suppliers—”
