Page 58 of Filthy Rich

Also, his letters provided evidence of his thoughts I could go back and study. Even after dozens of letters from me, extolling the many things the Fansees had done for me, he never relented in his hatred of them. At first, I thought that I could convince him to let it go.

I think that idea was inspired by Julian. We adopted him, a small, wiry-haired dog, a few months after I went to live with the Fansees. He wasn’t much to look at, and he limped. Even after we bathed him, he smelled pretty bad. But the longer he lived with us, the better he looked. Most of the awful things he did—like pooping on Seren’s favorite rug over and over—gradually improved.

One thing he never stopped doing was chewing on shoes.

We learned to hide our nice shoes, or they would quickly become not nice. We should’ve kicked that crappy dog to the shelter. He was a real mess. Seren was far too soft for that, and she felt like him finding the hotel was some kind of sign that he should be part of our family. But if he managed to get one of your shoes, and you caught him before he did any real damage, the only way to save your shoe was to distract him with something he wanted more and trade them out. He was a terrorist, really.

After watching that, I had an idea.

I could entice my father with other ideas—other people or companies—he could defraud when he got out instead of the people I cared about. Sadly, my clumsy efforts only made my dad more doggedly determined to punish the Fansees for turning me against him.

And now that he’s out, I’m worried.

I was able to put him off last night, at least a little, by telling him how tired I was. My dad knows movie stars need to get enough rest, so after I bought him an expensive steak dinner, he largely let me go to sleep.

Not that I could fall asleep until quite late indeed.

But now that I’m awake, I can’t really put him off any more. The second he hears movement in my room, he taps on the door. “Coffee?” He pokes his head in.

I hold out my hand. “You want to be my manager?” I take a sip, and then spit it right back out. “Black, Dad? Really?”

“Real men take their coffee black.”

“I’ve seen you add a bucket of cream,” I say. “And sugar.”

“That was before.” He sips on his own mug. “Now I take it black.”

“You said one day I should take it any way our mark was taking it, so we could bond.” I arch one eyebrow. “What happened to that?”

“Black’s a way they could take it,” he says. “You should be ready for that.”

“Not with you.” I shake my head. “You’re true north, right?”

He snorts. “You don’t think that, not anymore.” He sets his coffee down. “Yes, to answer your question. I think the least you can do is pay me a generous salary for being your manager.”

“I don’t have a manager.”

“Now you do,” he says. “And I’ll only take a paltry twenty percent. And for that, I’ll make sure no one else is fleecing you the way that I am.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

“Speaking of, I spent a few hours reviewing your contracts last night?—”

“Wait, you did what?”

He plows ahead. “Several of them have clauses that concerned me. What kind of agent lets you sign a non-com?—”

“Dad, I don’t want you digging through my stuff.” Not that I’m surprised. I knew he’d have pawed through everything. He probably placed bugs, too. “But if you need a job that badly, maybe I’ll let you be my manager from New York, where your job couldn’t send you back to prison.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll tell them I had to come here because of work.” He beams. “It’s a high profile, honest position. My salary will impress them, and it’ll drag their ex-convict averages way up. Trust me, they’ll grant me a waiver.”

I can’t help staring.

“Relax,” he says. “It’s all going to be fine now that I’m out.”

He still hasn’t brought up the Fansees at all.

Maybe he won’t.

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