"Still?" I ask. How much more of a message do I need to send? I assumed Joseph's mangled face would have been enough of a warning for everyone to keep their mouths shut.
"No, but only because-"
"They've moved on to something juicier," I interrupt, cringing inwardly as I silently chastise myself. I hate it when Dad cuts me off. But I continue, since I've already done it. "Don't treat this like high school. It's not the same. There's no queen, no king, and no cliques that rule it all. People talk whether you're in school or not, but it doesn't dictate anything. You choose how much you allow people to rule you."
Great. I sound like Dr. Phil right now. I just lost all my coolness.
"Was this your way of getting around my question?" she asks, biting back a grin.
She shouldn't draw my attention to her lips. That's not nice. Not nice at all.
"Ah, yes. Your question. I came here to be close to my family, as I said. But also because this is where most of the partiers will be—rebels without a cause acting out for attention. Believe it or not, the ones who don't end up in rehab will be some of the most successful businessmen or businesswomen in the country. Always are. And you build stronger bonds over beer than you do over brunch."
I'm rewarded by her laugh as I start pouring my beer into a glass, watching to make sure the foam doesn't rise too quickly.
"You want one?" I ask absently.
"Um... I'm eighteen."
"Old enough to vote and go to war, but not drink?" I ask, smiling.
"I'll take one, but you can keep the glass."
Great. Now I'm a pompous ass pouring a beer into a glass. Shit. It's just a habit. My mother would knock the hell out of me if I drank straight from the bottle.
I chuckle while shaking my head, stalling.
"I only pour it in a glass when I eat. Less backwash," I lie, trying to save face.
Her nose wrinkles up as she says, "On second thought, I'll take the glass after all."
She bought it. Good. Now I don't look like such a pretentious jerk with money. I really wish her opinion of me didn't matter.
I pour hers, showing it the same attention I gave mine, and do well to ignore her eyes on me.
"So you're twenty-one?" she asks, making casual conversation. Progress.
"Yep. Not far from twenty-two."
"And you're set to start work right out of school, I bet."
She's creeping back into bitter territory, but I don't think she's meaning to. I still feel a need to defend myself.
"Yes. Though, I doubt it's for the reasons you think. I'm not going to deny I'm lucky, fortunate in some areas even. Having a job lined up with my grandfather's company is one of those fortunate circumstances."
"And it's just that easy. Finish college and take over his business?"
I laugh, finding her too much like my father for my liking right now, and I'm dangerously close to sounding bitter. But I rein it in. She doesn't have a clue about all the work I've put into that place. Most people don't. Only my granddad appreciates it.
"Definitely not easy. My father hates it. He built his business on his own, and then he married into money. He came from the belly of the lower-class, and he earned his right to stand high in the upper-class—as you called it. He thinks I should start at the ground-level and work my way up."
And he harps on it every chance he gets.
"And you don't feel you should have to?" She has to stop sounding like him soon, or this night is over. "You don't think there are people who have been working and waiting for an opportunity like you'll have?"
Apparently I'm going to have to rehash the same argument I've had with Paul Colton numerous times. At least my dick isn't paying her a damn bit of attention right now.
"My grandfather needs someone to take over certain pieces of the business as soon as possible. Those pieces aren't the ground-level. Though there are others who have been waiting longer for this opportunity, this is the company my grandfather built from nothing. He wants someone he can trust, and he knows that's me. So is it unfair to some? Yes. But do I feel guilty for being the one my granddad trusts? Hell no."