Page 1 of Colt

CHAPTER 1

Eldest Daughter

LAINEY

OCTOBER

That can’t be it.

Using a pair of metal tongs to turn over the meatballs in Mom’s ancient cast iron pan, I try not to wince as the memory of today’s interview loops through my head for the thousandth time.

The parade of haughty private equity bros in their matching puffer vests.

The not-so-subtle digs about me applying for a “non-income-producing seat” in the marketing department.

The freezing conference room with a sad little office park pond outside the windows. Even the fountain looked depressed, trying in vain to keep the toxic-looking sludge from crowding the pond’s surface.

The cherry on top, though, was being propositioned by one of the firm’s partners at the end of my interview. Randolph Price Edwards III was his name. No, I’m not joking. Just like he wasn’t joking about the two of us—and only the two of us—hanging out afterward.

Yeah, Prestige Partners can’t be the company—the type of job—I’ve spent years busting my ass for.

“So?” Mom drops some ice cubes into a glass of pinot grigio and hands it to me. “Did you get the job?”

Taking a long, hard pull of wine, I give the meatballs another flip. They’ve started to sizzle, releasing the mouth-watering scents of butter and garlic. I don’t love coming home to Fort Worth anymore, but I do miss Mom’s cooking.

“I didn’t get an offer, no,” I reply. “Honestly, I’m relieved. The people I met…they just didn’t feel like my kind of people. One of the guys I interviewed with had the balls to ask me out. During the interview. Can you believe it?”

Even now, my stomach turns over at the way Randolph kept fluttering his stumpy, lily-white hands between his thinning mop of brownish hair, the arms of his chair, and the pile of paper in front of him.

My résumé was on the top of that pile. The one I’ve meticulously built, first with internships at marketing firms in college and then with a very specific selection of courses in business school at the University of Texas at Austin, where I still live.

It was almost like Randolph wasn’t sure what his most vital appendages were for. Bet that applies to more appendages than just his hands.

But the memory of Randolph keeps me from following that train of thought, even though I’ve had sex on the brain lately. Guess that’s what happens when you haven’t gotten laid in a year.

Longer than that if we’re talking about getting properly laid. But I’m starting to think good guys who are also good in bed just don’t exist.

“Huh.” Mom lights the burner underneath a giant pot of water. “I’d take the invite as a compliment if I were you. That’s just how men are, sweetie. I think you’re expecting too much of these guys.”

I blink. Sip my wine.

I’m…honestly not sure what to say to that. I recognize that Mom comes from a different generation. She also hasn’t worked since I was born, so her view of how people act in the workplace is probably a little skewed. But surely I’m not asking for too much by wanting to be respected?

“I’m not sure I agree.” I avoid meeting her eyes.

She shrugs. “You haven’t had much luck in your job hunt so far. I’d keep an open mind if you really do want an offer.”

Thing is I don’t want an offer. Not anymore. But I’m not sure how to explain that to my parents.

Letting out a silent sigh, I tell myself I’ll only be back in my hometown of Fort Worth for thirty-six hours. Maybe less if I play my cards right. I made the three-hour drive from Austin right after my bomb of an interview because it’s Mom’s birthday this weekend. If I don’t celebrate the occasion, no one else in my family will.

So here I am, having procured her favorite cake from her favorite bakery. We’ll enjoy it after brunch at the buzzy French bistro where I made a reservation weeks ago. Mom loves that spot.

Dad looks up at me from the magazine he’s reading on the family room couch. “You haven’t gotten an offer yet, Lainey.”

“It’ll happen.” My younger brother Pete, who’s a senior in high school, is seated beside him, scrolling on his phone. “You’re smart. They’ll notice.”

Y’all aren’t hearing me, I want to say. I just told you I got the ick during my interview. I don’t want to work at Prestige Partners. I don’t want to work in private equity, period.