Page 40 of Grift

Patrick

It’s a few days later. My office door is cracked open. It’s the end of the day, twilight settling in and making the space feel close.

I don’t look up when footsteps approach, or when they stop, because I recognize their owner. Ignoring him is a subtle, but very effective way to piss him off.

Typically James Carney calls you into see him in his big, spacious office. If he deems it necessary to walk all the way down to you, either you’re in some serious shit or he wants something. Either way, I’ll take a hard pass on dealing with it today.

“Patrick my boy, how’s married life?” his grin is half-fake politician smile, half sneer.

I’m steeling myself for a polite reply when he adds, “As advertised in the previews?”

Suddenly, the only thing I see is a dark spot in my vision, my fists crashing down onto my desk as I rise to my feet, while my office chair rolls back and hits the wall, toppling.

I’m around the desk and moving his way so fast that there’s maybe one stride between us left before I…. what? Punch him? Wrap my hands around his throat? Both feel like very real and potentially viable options in this moment.

How fucking dare he? If he thinks he’s going to set up a situation like this, and then continue to weaponize what happened to Jessica against her like it’s some casual joke? Some thing he can throw around?

I will kill him.

He doesn’t look afraid, exactly, but he’s regarding me with an assessing look. For maybe the second time in his life, my father takes a step back and raises his hands in a placating gesture.

My hand shoots out past him, and pushes the door shut on the terrified worker that came running at the sound of my rage.

“Easy, son,” his voice is milk, honey and lies. “I just meant she looked beautiful at your wedding, that’s all.”

“Bullshit,” I grit out. It’s taking everything I have to keep myself under control, and it’s a battle I’m in danger of losing. You never want to lose control with this man, because he’ll use it against you – now and in the future. “You don’t ever talk about my wife like that. Do you understand?”

There it is again. That word.

Wife.

The word that says something other than “this is temporary.” Something other than “we did this because we had to.” Something other than “we’ll work together to find a way out of this for good.”

My father eases back, casually grabbing the door handle and pulling it open again. Part of me simmers in satisfaction, although I know I’ll pay for this. A hundred times, in a hundred small ways, for months or longer. James Carney never lets a slight go unanswered.

“Speaking of the lovely younger Mrs. Carney, I have tickets to a philanthropic event in the city tonight. But I can’t make it. It would be good for you to get out there and show her off a little,” he says, adding quickly, “Remind the good people of Boston that you’ve married into a top-tier family.”

When I don’t respond, he continues. “We need to use this to our advantage. Be strategic. And to her advantage, too. Now that Jessica has stepped out of her father’s shadow, she has a chance to build any reputation she wants. Given the event her mother put on record time, which was a total success, maybe Jessica should come work organizing events for me.”

“She has a job,” I say, my voice cold and cutting. “She has a fucking doctorate.”

He waves me off.

“If she’s going to be sticking around, she’s going to have to find a way to make herself useful,” the tone is too off-handed, too calculated. He’s baiting me.

Normally, I take the bait – hook, line, and sinker. But lately, Callan’s been pointing out to me every time it happens. Exactly what our father said, how he said it, and why he went after a specific topic to make me go blind with rage. I understand why he approaches me that way. I’m an easy target. But when you have your stupid impulsiveness thrown in your face enough times, you start to recognize when it’s happening.

“Nobody pushes your buttons better than him, and you play into it every time. Bad temper, no control,” I can see Callan shaking his head.

Whatever my father’s playing at, I’m not having it. Not tonight. Not after what he said about Jessica.

He’s already on his way out of my office. “Grab the tickets from my receptionist.”

“We can’t make it.”

He pauses mid-step and turns back, genuine confusion causing his brow to furrow. “What did you say?”

“Jessica and I can’t make your party. Sorry. Try Callan. Or maybe Catriona’s social calendar is free?”

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