Page 4 of Damaged Mogul
Confusion flashes in the waiter’s eyes.
I rummage through my bag, pull out my driver’s license, and hand it to the waiter.
He checks it with care.
“Happy Birthday!” he says, meeting my gaze. “I get to serve you your first drink.”
From the corner of my eyes, I notice my father flinch.
He opens his mouth. He closes it.
He does that a few times.
No comments from the peanut gallery.
Still, the unvoiced criticism comes out loud and clear.
“My first drinkin the US.”
The waiter hands me my driver’s license. “Our best champagne coming right up.”
“Thank you.”
The waiter scurries off.
Aware of my father’s stare, I take my sweet time placing my driver’s license in the inside pocket of my bag.
“What the hell was that about?”
I meet his angry, icy blue eyes, reproach shines bright in them.
A war of glares ensues.
He forgot.
I’m dumbfounded.
“It’s my birthday today,” I say after a long beat. “I’m twenty-one.”
Sparks of outrage shoot from his eyes. “Why not come out and announce it’s your damn birthday instead of playing your silly little games? Your childish theatrics are unnecessary.”
Ouch.
I’m stunned, humiliated, and hurt by his vitriolic comment.
“Why didn’t you remind me?”
I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Did you forget your sons’ twenty-first birthdays?”
The corner of his upper lip pulls up, his discontentment evident.
It’s dangerous to poke the bear, especially when you depend financially on said bear.
Fuck it.
I catch sight of the waiter approaching our table, balancing two champagne flutes on a tray, and lift a hand to stop him from taking another step.
He freezes in place.
