“What?”
“You still planning on working for him?”
Him? Which him? I tilt my head, unwilling to confirm or deny who he’s referring to.
Realizing there’s more than one option, he clarifies, “Your father. Are you still planning to work for him at Mercer after graduation?”
It’s a good question. One my father’s been dying to get out of me for months despite Donahue’s letter of recommendation. Then again, we both know it isn’t a commitment. Not really. I could still pull out. Still decline Mercer Consulting’s official offer letter if they decide to send one my way. Which they won’t. Not until they’re confident I’ll accept. Heaven forbid it gets out that I have the audacity to turn down a once in a lifetime opportunity like this. I press my lips into a thin line, debating whether or not to give him an answer when I don’t know who it’s really coming from. “Are you asking, or is Titas?”
The truth must sting because he rubs at the edge of his jaw. His focus falls to the table separating us. “This stays between you and me. Promise.”
A few weeks ago, I would’ve asked him to swear it in writing, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s the possibility of shit blowing up in my face this weekend. Maybe it’s the messiness of the situationaltogether, and I’ve realized things aren’t always quite as black and white as we’d like them to be. But for some reason, the smart-ass comment falls flat on my tongue, and I tell him the truth. “I guess it depends,” I admit.
“On?”
“On whether or not we’d kill each other.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, I get that. Still surprised you’re considering it, though.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Honestly?” He leans back in the booth, watching me. “Because if that’s the case, why mess with Gus at all?”
My eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I know your dad…tightened the reins and shit, okay?” he concedes, referring to our frozen trust funds. “All I’m saying is…you could’ve called me. I would’ve given you the money?—”
“We don’t want your money, Judge.” The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, or maybe it’s my uncle’s assumption in the first place. I know my dad loves telling people what spoiled brats we are, but the fact my uncle bought it? Not gonna lie, it kind of burns.
Instead of backtracking like I expect, Judge growls, “So, you don’t want my money, just Gus’s, right?”
And here we are again. Round and round, we go.
I scrub my hand over my face. “We’re not taking money from Gus,” I mutter.
“What?”
“We didn’t take any of his money,” I repeat. “The guy’s a loan shark. You really think we’re that stupid?”
His jaw locks, but he stays quiet.
Resting my elbows on the table separating us, I clarify, “We’re paying him to use his grounds. He’s nothing but a shady landlord, all right, Unc? And we wouldn’t have had to start paying him if your brother hadn’t been throwing a fit every timewe threw a party or decided to have some fun throughout our college experience.”
“Fun,” he mutters. “That’s it?”
“I mean, we learned from the best,” I quip. “I think you forget we started hosting these parties because we grew up watching you do it before you up and disappeared out of nowhere.”
He doesn’t deny it. The way he left us. Left town. Left everything.
“Do you have an exit strategy?” he questions.
“Did you have an exit strategy?” I toss back at him.
“My best friend dying in my arms kind of forced it.”
And here we go again. Right back at square one. I’d find it humorous if I wasn’t so tired of the same old song and dance. “What happened with Gus?” I demand. “I know he’s a bad guy. I know you’re on his shit list and can’t go into Drift territory?—”
“How did you?—”
