Instead of answering, he motions at the hallway leading to Dad’s study.
“Fine, fine, I’ll go.”
I head to the office, knock on the door, then wait for the grumbled “Come in.”
My muscles are wound tight as I walk inside, which is always the case when I have to be one-on-one with dear old Dad.
My father’s office looks like money and midlife crisis had a baby.
Leather chairs that squeak when you sit, books that no one’s opened since the Cold War, and that mahogany desk—huge, shiny, and pretending to have a personality. It’s positioned right in front of a window that probably cost more than my entire existence. Perfect view of Graystone Ridge from up the hill, because, of course, Dad likes to look down on people while he works.
He’s standing behind it now, his posture military-grade straight, his tie strangling him in a shade of asshole—sorry, green-blue. The same shade of his eyes that we don’t share, cold, probably because he patented emotional frostbite.
His hair’s gone more ash than blond, styled by a similarlyemotionally stunted barber. He looks at me the way one might look at a cracked valuable vase—expensive enough to fix, but why bother when you can just buy another one?
He rounds the table and leans against the desk, crossing his ankles and folding his arms. I do the same, leaning against the wall. You know, mirroring each other like some weird Armstrong mating ritual of superiority.
“Preston.”
The word hangs in the air, perfectly framed by the smell of cigar smoke and generational trauma.
I grin at him, because what else do you do when your father stares at you like he’s deciding whether to ground you or disown you? “Hey, Dad. Great talk. Loved the game recap.”
He doesn’t smile. He never does. That’s my job, apparently—smiling enough for both of us. A job I take with honor, thank you very much.
What Dad does, however, is frown. Alot. Particularly with me. I’m shoved neatly into the frown category in Dad’s head.
“Have I mentioned I love the decor of this office?” I whistle. “Trauma chic.”
“What happened tonight, Preston?”
“The usual. I kept the crowd entertained.”
“You turned the game into a brawl. That’s not like you.”
“It’s called hockey, not synchronized skating.”
“You don’t lose control like that on the ice. Ever.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
He exhales, frowning deeper. I’m trying to beat my record of how long I can keep Dad frowning.Almost there.
“Don’t start with that tone.”
“Oh, this isn’t a tone, Dad. This is my personality. You know, the one I was born with.”
Another deeper frown. Yes, shit happens, namely me.
“Is this because you’ve been off your medication?”
“I’m taking the stupid meds, Dad.”
“Not the latest dose Julian approved.”
Yeah, so quick break. Julian is Jude’s older brother and the devil responsible for putting me together through synthetic drugs.
Because ofissues.
