Page 59 of Misrule
“It’s her fucking wedding, Knox,” Mortician said flatly. “I don’t give a fuck if I walk down the fucking aisle in my drawers.”
Grant giggled.
“That isn’t what civilized people do, son,” Knox said.
Mortician shrugged into his cut. “Civilized motherfuckers sure got a lot of fucking rules. Glad my ass so uncivilized.”
“Refinement only comes from years of gentle living and good manners,” Knox retorted.
“Wealth, you mean,” Mortician told him.
“Those weren’tmywords,” he said smugly. “But, yes, wealth.”
Mortician sat next to Grant on the sofa, lit a cigarette, then grinned at Knox. “What is it like to you to be rich?”
Knox drew himself up. “It isn’t easy to explain to someone like you.” He glanced at Grant. “Besides, I made my own way in the world. I didn’t want my father’s money to give me an easy ride.”
“Pure bullshit. Whether you wanted it or not, you got it. You never had to worry about a poor man’s problems.”
“The families we were born into isn’t my fault,” Knox pointed out.
Eyeing him, Mortician blew smoke sideways. “True,” he agreed. “Still, you made your own way after having the luxury of deciding to do so. If you’d wanted to, you could’ve been nothing but a trust fund brat.”
“Never! My father wouldn’t allow me to slack. If I hadn’t followed my own career path, I would’ve had to work in the company.”
Another puff in, then out. “You’re your father’s heir. Shouldn’t you want to learn the business? Unless he has someone else in mind.”
“You don’t understand the workings of trust funds and inheritances.” Knox shook his head. “I don’t have time to explain the intricacies to you.”
Mortician’s amused grin rankled Knox. “Didn’t you investigate us before you ever came to the club?”
Knox would never admit he hadn’t investigated all the members. “And?”
“Bet you a thousand dollars you didn’t investigate me.”
“That is gambling, and I don’t gamble in front of my son.”
“Do you piss in front of him?” Yawning, Mortician leaned back and placed his hands behind his head, not displacing his manbun. “Fuck, man. What the fuck do you do in front of him? He know you got a cock like him?”
“Cover your ears, son,” Knox said in alarm.
His face red with laughter, Grant stuck an index finger in each ear. Knox knew the rascal could still hear, but he’d followed his instructions so that was good enough. “Around Grant, we have penises.”
“Youmight have a penis,” Mortician said. “Igot a cock.”
Delight lit Grant’s eyes, confirming Knox’s suspicions that he could hear.
“I don’t understand you people,” he confessed.
“Us peopledon’t give a fuck, son. I don’t understand you. You say you want the privilege of being under Roxanne roof until the wedding, yet you acting like a stupid motherfucker and not getting your measurements taken. Not because a tux hasn’t been decided on, but because you one uppity motherfucker. Any shop we frequent not good enough for you.”
Embarrassment coursed through Knox, and he turned to Mr. Whittlestone. “I apologize for my friend’s vulgar behavior. I know better than to discuss such things in front of proprietors. My choice to not do business with you is nothing personal.”
Mortician snorted. “It’s very fucking personal. The Whittlestones own this place. Despairingitcasts aspersions onthem.”
“Can I unstop my ears, Dad?” Grant called.
Knox rubbed his temples. He’d had his son sticking fingers in his ears for five minutes to deal with a moron. It had been an exercise in futility, anyway. Mortician was beyond educating and Grant had heard everything. “Sure, son.”
