Page 11 of Gold Rush

He startles, then scowls. “You always have to be right about everything, don’t you? So fucking superior. Yeah, I cheated. You were never here, and when you were around, there was always an event with your family or a law review article due. I got sick of sex in the same position for a few minutes. Anyone normal would. It’s like we were fucking married after a few weeks of dating. Other girls wear lingerie. Other girls like sucking my dick. No guy is going to stick around for a boring bitch who hardly ever puts out, no matter how much money she has.”

I’m frozen. Numb to the poison being spewed my way. I’m listening to a stranger, too, it seems like. Or maybe that’s just self-defense. Maybe he was always this bitter, this pathetic, and I was too distracted to notice those warning signs before they blared bright red.

I want to slap him, right over the ugly bruise. I want to injure Carson, similar to how his words just hurt me. But mostly, I want him gone. Want this done. So, I stand and stare and wait for it to be over.

Carson shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Typical. Too fucking polite to fight.”

He steps back, clear of the doors, and they slide shut a few seconds later. My stomach swoops as the elevator begins to rise.

And then the first tear falls.

4

Two Months Later

“Congratulations, Flynn,” Mom says, lifting her flute of champagne. “We’re so proud of you.”

“He hasn’t passed yet, Philippa,” Dad comments, ignoring the champagne and going straight for his bourbon instead. “And he most likely won’t.”

Julian Parks’s favorite hobbies are belittling my few accomplishments, golf, and discussing the stock market. In that order.

“Lots of attorneys fail the bar,” I state, although I’m ninety percent certain I did, in fact, pass.

“All attorneys pass the bar exam, Flynn,” my father states. “That’s what makes them lawyers.”

“You’d know, right?” I, too, skip the bubbly in favor of a stronger drink.

My dad dropped out of college. He grew up with limited resources, with two working parents and five older siblings. Logically, I’m aware that his relentless, projected ambition is fueled by a desire for me to achieve more than he did. In our actual, dysfunctional dynamic, it feels as though he’s punishing me for having the opportunities he didn’t. That I can’t enjoy being rich because I didn’t earn it the way that he had.

“Watch your mouth.”

I swallow more bourbon.

So does Julian.

The waitress who was flirting with me earlier skips our table in favor of the next. Likely sensing the suffocating tension, so thick that I could choke on it.

Mom clears her throat delicately. “We’re going to visit the Waylands this weekend. They just bought a property on Nantucket.”

Daniel Wayland is the reason my father dropped out of college. Dad invested the money he’d saved for tuition in Dan’s tech start-up, becoming a major shareholder in a company currently valued at several billion dollars.

“Fun,” I state flatly.

“You’re welcome to join us. Dan and Lorraine would be thrilled to see you.”

“I’m busy this weekend.”

“Busy with what?” Dad pesters.

“Partying, of course. What else would I possibly do with my time, Dad?”

I haven’t bothered to correct my father’s assessment that I’m indolent and inept in years. It’s a lot easier to float in a lazy river than try to swim against the current. And constant disappointment becomes less cutting with frequent exposure.

What I do in my limited free time is, frankly, none of my father’s business. I went to law school, like he’d wanted. And I’d never ever admit it to him, but I like being an attorney. Also, I’m good at it. I graduated with honors and received a job offer from one of the top firms in the city.

“I called Adrian earlier.”

That comment gains my father’s immediate attention. He cares about his money, so mentioning his financial adviser is a reliable way to get him to listen.