Page 5 of The Sculptor

I groan. I don’t want to talk about our father.

“He’s in town and wants to have dinner with us.”

I tap the steering wheel in agitation. “I heard. You’re going to cancel, right? Tell him Remington has a bad case of mono?”

Vance chuckles. “I would, but that would mean I’d have to tell him about HalleandRemington.” He makes this noise in his throat like he’s annoyed. “And I’m trying to quit drinking so much.”

Meaning, he can’t tell our father about moving his new girlfriend and the teenager she befriended at a ratty motel into his house while sober.

He would need a healthy buzz to get throughthatconversation.

“Ah.” I fight off a grin. “That’s why you want me at the dinner—for distraction. Father didn’t request my presence. You did.”

“He’s your father, too,” Vance clips out, his mood tanking by the minute.

“Yes, but you’re his favorite. He doesn’t require the fuck-up or the philanthropist’s company, just his pride and joy—ruler of the plastic surgery kingdom. Hissuper sweetlegacy.”

I’m being sarcastic with the last bit, but the rest of it… one hundred percent fact.

Dr. Harrison Potter has no use for his eldest son, who would rather donate his services to charity than pour them into private practice, and he especially has no use for his youngest son, who is an utter fuck-up—his words, not mine. There’s never been a time I’ve made my father proud.

Not that I give a shit.

“You need to be there.” Vance has pulled out his I-know-better-than-you voice.

“No,youneed to be there. You let me keep my daddy issues. Women like broken men. It makes them think they can fix us.”

Vance snorts out a laugh. “Is that how you justify your commitment issues?”

“You’re a fine one to talk,” I snap, his words sobering me. “It’s how I justify not going to dinner. Cancel the visit, Vance. I promise, as soon as I make grandpa look like a frozen Ken doll, I’ll come back and spend some quality time with my big brother, who sounds like he needs a hug.”

“Fuck you.”

Ah, there’s the brother I know. “Not today, sweetheart. You know the fall is off-season.”

“You and your fucking seasons,” he chides. “You could try dating a woman longer than a season, you know?”

“And you could smile once in a while. We all have pipe dreams, big brother.”

With that parting remark, the line goes dead, and I’m left staring through the windshield at a set of cathedral-style doors, a little less pissed off than I was earlier.

Getting out of the car, I grab my bag full of Botox and stride to the door. Even the doorbell looks pretentious, with a lion’s head poised above the button. I press it once and wait.

And wait.

It takes more than three minutes—yes, I timed it—for someone to finally come to the door.

Just long enough to add to my irritation.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Potter. Won’t you come in?” I almost turn around and leave due to her tone. I remember that pompous pitch—it still haunts me from when I was a teenager. Though, I wasn’t dealing with Congressman Albrecht back then. I was dealing with Congressmen Ford, a ruthless son of a bitch. I heard his wife had passed a few months ago. God rest her soul. She didn’t deserve the life she suffered by his hand.

I flash the older woman with graying hair a smile. She can’t help it. Her employer likely makes her speak with this intonation. “Thank you,” I say, because that’s what’s expected of me. “Is Mr. Albrecht available?”

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve shown up at a wealthy client’s home only to wait for their trainer to leave four hours later.

“Oh, yes, he’s waiting for you in his office.” She closes the door behind me as I step into the McMansion and take in the circular staircase, million-dollar chandelier, and marble floors.

Note to self: Stop making house calls.

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