I didn’t especially want to talk to him, but seeing his name appear on my phone also didn’t do much for my libido, so I gave Ethan an apologetic look, lifted it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said awkwardly as Ethan backed away, picked up his towel, and marched toward the bed. So much for the exploration.
My father skipped the introduction. “I’d like you and Ethan to join me tonight at an event.”
The order, framed as a request, was so brusque it took a moment to catch up. “This isn’t really the best time . . .”
“For me, either. I’m involved in the Towerline project, as I’m sure you’ll remember.”
That took a moment of memory searching. Towerline was a large real estate deal my father was trying to close. It would put four brand-new interconnected skyscrapers along the Chicago River.
“I helped you find those account numbers,” he said, reminding me again—as if that was necessary—that to him, everything was a transaction.
Still, while his attitude was regrettable, he was right. He’d helped track down the owner of a Swiss bank account, which led us to a conspiracy to take out the GP’s former head, Darius West.
“What’s the event?” I asked, resigned.
“A party to raise money for some art-based charity or other. The charity isn’t important.” My father, the philanthropist. “The location is—it’s at the home of Adrien Reed.”
My father paused, as if his mere mention of the name would send me into excited apoplexy.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Yes, you do. He owns Reed Logistics. I’m sure you’ve seen the facility near O’Hare.”
Since I hadn’t really been on the lookout for a logistics partner, or its warehouse, the explanation didn’t do much for me. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
I could practically hear the flat stare through the phone. “He sponsors free bat night at Wrigley,” my father added, helpfully this time.
In my sunlight-tolerating days, I’d loved attending free anything night at Wrigley. And there was probably a box of mini Louisville Sluggers in the basement of my parents’ home.
“Oh, Adrien Reed,” I said. “I thought you said Adrien Mead.” I knew it was lame, but I was committed.
Silence, then: “Given his new national reach, Reed’s expressed interest in meeting Ethan.”
And there was the pitch. Swing and a miss in my opinion, but that was ultimately for Ethan to decide.
“I’ll mention the request and your offer, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Because of Balthasar?”
The question made me shudder with memory and concern. “How do you know about Balthasar?”
“The several ongoing live broadcasts.” His voice was flat, radiating disapproval that we were making a spectacle of ourselves again.
“I have obligations,” I said, in answer to his question. “So I can’t make a commitment right now.”
“Family obligations trump paramours,” my father said. And with that, a four-word missive on loyalty—and apparent evaluation of my relationship with Ethan, and despite the fact that he wanted to use him for his connections—he hung up the phone.
I threw the phone into the bank of pillows on the bed, gave it a single-fingered salute for good measure. Not exactly classy, but sometimes even messy feelings needed expressing.
Ethan emerged from the bedroom in his favorite sleepwear, a pair of green silk pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. “Another quality conversation between father and daughter, I see. Did you know you pace when you talk to him?”
I looked down, realizing I’d traversed the apartment. “I guess I did. He wants us to attend a charity event at the house of the Wrigley ball night guy.”
“Adrien Reed?”
I looked at him. “How do you know that?”