“If you haven’t figured that out yet, Sara Jane, it’s already too late for yours.”
. . . Nastas O’Hare is halfway through his report when he asks, “What do you think, Alex?”
When my eyes land on him, I swear a smarmy grin peaks the right corner of his thin lips.
Fucker.
I look down at the notes in front of me, quickly skimming over them. My gaze darts to my dad. “You’re selling the company?”
“Not yet,” he replies coldly. “We’ll be restructuring as we already said. During the transition, I’ll be talking to potential buyers.”
This company has been his baby, even when I was one. He always chose business over family. Over me, and over my mother. Money. He loves money. “Why are you selling?”
“We’ll talk about this later. How do you feel about this strategy?”
I look down at the paper again. “It’s rough and not well-thought-out. We can’t just throw ideas on a piece of paper and expect that to be the plan. I want to see the whys and hows. Why is this the best plan for Kingwood Enterprises? Why do you think breaking it up into smaller divisions will help to eventually sell it? How do you plan to make it more attractive to buyers? How do we go about implementing your ideas so it’s not disruptive to day-to-day business?”
With pride and a wry grin on his face, my father sits back and crosses his arms. “I warned you about my son.”
3
Alexander
The song and dance in my father’s office is over and I’m left fuming at my desk. How can he sell? How can he betray my mother like this? How can he betray me? Our relationship is a rocky shoreline at best, but every once in a while it would be nice to have some smooth sailing.
Why does it always have to be about what’s best for him? I’m his only fucking son. What about the Kingwood legacy? What about my future? What about his? What does he have up his sleeve?
I watch those assholes leave his office, their conversation light as a feather in the breeze. It’s almost like they don’t realize how this changes my entire future, as if it doesn’t alter my life. I’m walking before they reach the elevators. My dad has shut his door, but I walk in anyway.
He looks up, his expression souring. “I’ll call you back, Reg.” He sets the phone down and I shut the door. “What do you want?”
“Restructuring?”
“Business is business. Go back to your desk and get to work.”
His gaze lowers, and he starts sifting through papers covering his desk. I stare. When he realizes I’m not leaving, he looks back up. “What, Alex? Say it so we can both get back to work.”
“Mom would not approve of what you’re doing?”
“Your mother isn’t here to have a say.”
That’s like a slap to the face, and I shudder. His blows have always been low, but this is even beneath him . . . or so I thought. He’s right. She’s not here. My grip is firm on the arm of the chair, but my legs are unsteady. My mother isn’t here to reason with him, to fight for me, or to discuss the future of the company. “She should be.” I turn my back to him and walk to the door.
“Alex?” When I don’t stop, he repeats, “Alex? Stop.”
With my hand on the knob, I reply, “What?”
“I miss her too.”
My glare moves from the wood grain of the door and settles on him. “Do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I do.”
“And what about me?”
“What about you?”
“How do you feel about me?”
A pfft accompanies an eye-roll, and he returns to tending the papers in front of him. “I don’t have time for your childish games, Alex. You have work to do and courses to study for.”
“I used to love you. When Mom was alive.”
His busy hands stop, but he doesn’t look up. “Close the door behind you.”
I don’t. I leave it wide open and walk through the bullpen. I nod to Cruise to join me. He falls in line as we head for the elevators. When my eyes meet Kimberly’s, I say, “You were right.”
She replies, “I’m sorry.”
Cruise punches the button for the elevator ahead of me, but I stop at the front desk. “No need to be sorry. You warned me.”
I’ve seen that sympathetic smile too many times to count. “Take care of yourself, Alex.”
“I always do.”
Cruise and I ride down to the basement in silence. He knows the boiled tension that exists between my father and me. Sometimes I talk about it. Most times I don’t. I hate where my head goes when I let myself dwell on it too long. It wasn’t always like this though it’s all I remember now.
We get in the car and head out of the garage. “Hungry?” I ask.
“Starved. Pizza?”
“Yep.”
I turn on the music, and turn it up, hoping to wash away my anger so I can enjoy my pizza with a clear head. The asshole told me to get back to work. Fuck that. Cruise will cover his own ass later. A clear conscience isn’t possible, so I try to temper my thoughts instead.
Only one piece of pizza is left when Cruise slurps the last of his soda, then says, “You have class in fifteen.”
“Drop me off, okay?”
I push back from the table, stuffed, and drop some money to cover the tab and some extra for the service. Speaking of service, the waitress is cute. Cruise was all over her, though she seemed to want to be all over me. He gets plenty of pussy, so I never feel sorry for the dude. He also scored her number, not one bit upset to come in second best. Maybe he’s used to it with me. Not in looks. I’m not judging one way or the other on how the world sees him, but he’s my second-in-command, my right-hand man, and my best friend. I guess I’m his wingman in life too.
The door swings open and we step out onto the sidewalk. The sun is bright and I pull my shades from the front of my shirt and slip them over my eyes. The trunk of the car is popped at the curb and I grab my backpack and set it down. I pull the tie from my shirt and roll up my sleeves. I hate going to school in dress pants but my dad insists on a suit while at work. He also insists I stay and work, but fuck him and this whole mess. How can I be expected to treat today like it’s just another normal day when my inheritance is suddenly being broken into pieces.
Once I’m dropped off on campus, I’m tempted to sneak over to the psych building. If I could have gotten here earlier, I would have, just to steal a glance at Sara Jane. I like spying on her. There’s an innocence to her eyes when she’s in class staring off into space or taking notes. I can still see her in that Catholic school girl uniform—wet hair, bare legs, eyes that always saw the good in me. She pretends she still does, but I see the darkness clouding her eyes, the despair she’s better at hiding. It’s not all bad. I see the hope in the blue skies of her eyes as well. If I could spread it with a brush, I’d paint over the darker corners, and let the sunshine back in.