1
Hollis
“Thanks for lunch, Dad.” I lean over and give my father a kiss on the cheek. It’s tan from time out on the golf course.
“I’m just glad I got to see you. You’re too busy for your old man these days.”
Old man? Hardly. My father is the epitome of youth and vitality, thanks to a few plastic surgeries, fillers, and some strategically placed Botox. He and my mother—whom he divorced ten years ago—can barely move their faces, but who am I to judge?
Dad smiles (or tries to).
“Kiddo, want to walk me to my office?”
I glance at the entrance to the baseball stadium, peering up at it through the window of my car—a college graduation gift—and inwardly groan. No, I actually don’t want to walk him inside; that will take another hour at least. I’ll have to say hello to every janitor, administrative assistant, lackey, coach, player, and staffer we walk past on the way to his office, located at the far ends of the earth, down the hall, and to the right.
Ugh! “Yeah, sure—of course I have time.”
No time, actually, but I cannot say no to my father.
No, I do not want to risk the chance that I’ll bump into Marlon Daymon, first baseman and ex-boyfriend. Boyfriend? Eh, it’s a stretch to call him that, considering “dating” him was emotionally exhausting, played into all my insecurities, and made me feel like shit in the end. Conveniently always forgot his wallet. Took hours to reply to messages. Was always late. The last straw? When he “borrowed” my car and was photographed soliciting a prostitute, though who even noticed? Oh, just the tabloids and their millions and millions of readers, that’s who! Luckily, no one knew it was my car, so my name wasn’t dragged through the mud—but it could have been.
Fortunately, Marlon is no longer my problem, no longer my boyfriend, and I have no desire to risk seeing him inside this building yesterday, today, or tomorrow.
Shit, shit, shit.
Dad unbuckles and slides out of my white SUV, motioning for security to come over and play valet while I gather up my purse, phone, and water bottle.
Holding the skirt of my dress down as I slide out, too, trailing behind Dad. A few people are gathered outside the gates—as usual—hoping to glimpse or meet whichever players happen to come outside. Several of them have posters, one or two of them t-shirts. All of them are wearing huge grins when they see Dad coming toward them, his expensive gray suit gleaming in the sun.
He shakes a few hands. Poses for a few photographs.
Puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me through security when we’re finally inside and I set my purse, water, and phone on the conveyor belt for scanning. Grabbing it at the other end, I follow Dad across the main floor.
We’re at the back of the building, the exact opposite side of the concessions, making our way toward the executive offices. The concrete beneath our feet has the sound of my heels clicking, echoing because the halls are virtually empty.
It’s a Friday and the Chicago Steam has a bye week. They might have been in the building to practice, but they certainly won’t be here for a game, so anyone who happens to be here should be clerical, office staff only. Maybe.
Here’s hoping.
I cross my fingers behind my back, and we arrive at the glass corridor that houses Dad’s office. Glass, glass, and more glass. He pulls the door open and holds it for me.
“Thanks, Daddy.” I call him that every so often, just to give the old man a thrill, like I’m a kid again and he’s actually taking care of me, though I’m an adult now, with a real grown-up job, paying my own grown-up bills—who just happens to enjoy a free lunch every now and again.
Do you blame me!
We’re greeted by anyone and everyone, mostly ass-kissers trying to remain on Dad’s good side, but little do they know, he doesn’t really have one. When his business blew up and the money followed, he became a real pompous windbag. When he worked his way through the ranks, and had pleased my grandfather enough, he was able to assume the position of general manager for the Chicago Steam, his ego inflated to epic proportions.
Lucky for me, I don’t live off my father; therefore, I don’t have to kiss his ass like everyone else. Like my sister, Fiona, or my brother, Lucian—both trapped under Dad’s thumb, both at the mercy of his pocketbook.
Not me.
I’m not rich or wealthy by any means—not even close—but I get by just fine; I have my own little apartment, pay my own bills, work for anyone other than my parents.
I step over the threshold and go to a plush seat opposite his desk. Plop down and glance around, then lean forward, fiddling with a metal paperweight on his desktop. Pull back one of the balls and watch it tick tick tick, back and forth like a pendulum.