Jagger’s upper lip curls, his knuckles white as he rests his fists on the cream-colored table cloth. “Disrespect her again,” he growls.
“I didn’t disrespect her, I disrespected her father. And, what is his name?” Mr. Harden continues as if his son isn’t fuming beside me.
Jagger’s statement is a warning. A dare. And I really don’t want to see what happens if his dad is stupid enough to push him further. The hostility ratchets up to an all-time high. And it isn’t only Jagger. Ford’s sober as a nun, like all the drinking was an act, and Hawke’s spine is like a steel rod. Meanwhile, Cobie’s staring at her lap like she wishes the ground would openup and swallow her whole, just to keep her from witnessing this conversation. I don’t blame her. This is awkward as hell, and it’s all my fault. Okay, that’s not true. It’s one hundred percent Jagger’s father’s fault. Seriously, could he be any more of an asshole? But that’s the thing. What’s the worst he can do? Be a dick about my upbringing and where I was raised? Surprise. I’m well-aware it was a shit show. There’s no need to ruin a perfectly good evening by dancing around it.
With that in mind, I keep my hand where it is on Jagger's knee and run my thumb along the outside in a gentle sweeping motion, hoping he reads the movement for what it is. I’m okay. I can handle this asshole. Hell, I’ve handled a lot worse than him in my relatively short life. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. “My father’s name is Virgil Reeves.”
“And your mother’s?” Mr. Harden questions.
”My mother’s name was Mary Hart.”
The fork in his hand stalls out an inch from his mouth. “Was?”
Yeesh. He really is in interrogation mode. I clear my throat, ready to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “She, uh, she passed away.”
I wait for the obligatory condolences which come anytime I mention my mother’s death, but it never comes.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Mr. Harden offers. “Since your father was fucking anything that–”
“You gonna let this continue?” Hawke demands with a death glare pointed directly at Jagger.
“I’m going to get a drink.” Cobie stands. “Hawke? Ford? You coming?”
Ford rests his elbows on the table. “Nah, we’re good here.”
“Violet, why don’t you go with Cobie?” Jagger suggests, but his pinpoint stare is directed across from me. “Get a drink so I can have a quick conversation with my father?—”
“I’m not sure losing a parent is ever for the best,” I say, refusing to let this asshole bully me no matter how much imaginary power he has. “Inanycircumstance,” I add. “But, since you clearly want the full story, here it is. My mom left two years after my dad showed up on our doorstep. Then, poof. Nothing. A few years later, she was pronounced legally dead, and my dad’s temporary custody of me was moved to full. The rest, as they say, is history. A really shitty history. And the fact you have the audacity to say it’s for the best feels like a new low, even for you.”
“Well, shit,” Ford mutters. I don’t miss the amusement laced in his surprise, and I doubt his brothers do, either.
Ignoring him, Mr. Harden addresses me. “You’re right, Miss Reeves.”
Hawke turns to Ford. “Did Tight Ass just admit he’s wrong?”
“Sh, I’m watching history be made,” Ford says into his glass.
“Don’t act so surprised, boys,” their father chides. “Just because I’m rarely wrong doesn’t mean I’m unable to acknowledge when I am.” Mr. Harden takes a bite of his meal, slowly chewing. Well aware he holds the attention of every person at this table, he basks in it. The attention. The looks. The curiosity. He likes this. Maybe a little too much. I can’t help but wonder what else he’d do to stay in the spotlight. To keep the focus on him.
“You said so yourself, Miss Reeves,” he continues after washing down his bite with a bit of his drink. “I have a knack for hiring the right people, and from what they’ve found…” With a quiet clink, he sets the glass back onto the table, giving me his full attention. “Your father did not take it well. Being forced to have full custody of a child he never wanted.”
Jagger’s muscles tense beneath my hand, proving he’s this close to reaching over and grabbing his father by the throat. Okay, that’s probably a little over-the-top, but also…is it? Iglance up at Jagger, offering him the softest smile I can muster. “No. No, he did not take it well, but I think everyone at this table can agree that sometimes we’re given shitty parents, and it is what it is.” I give Titas my full attention once more. “However, without his assholery, I would’ve never met your son, so I guess things turned out for the best.”
“For you, I believe it,” he murmurs. “And youarea pretty thing?—”
“Enough,” Jagger growls.
“Nah, let him keep talking,” Ford interjects, his voice thick with sarcasm. “This is definitely the way to keep us in line. Right, Hawke?”
Hawke glares at his father. “Really knocking it out of the park, Tight Ass.”
Tossing his head back, Mr. Harden laughs. And the sound? It’s condescending and sarcastic and disrespectful in a way I can’t even wrap my head around. I always knew I had an asshole for a father. I always knew Jagger’s upbringing wasn’t the picnic it may appear from south of Harden Heights. But this? Seeing their own father laugh in their faces after hitting on one of their girlfriends? It manages to lower the already subterranean perspective I had of him.
“Is that a problem? Pointing out that my sons have an affinity for pretty things?” Mr. Harden smirks. “You do know it’s genetic. Don’t you, boys? Yes, we all love our pretty things.” He cocks his head. “Take your mother for example?—”
Hawke slams his hand onto the table, the silverware clattering in response, and I flinch at the sound.
“Right,” Mr. Harden murmurs with an icy undertone, chilling me in its wake. “Best not to discuss it.” He wipes the edge of his mouth with his napkin. “Would you care to dance, Violet?”
