Page 41 of Mongrels United
He searched for something to say that would let him deny that.
“Politics,” Grady said, just as gently, “is what gives direction and meaning to your life. You have a say over what life will be like once you’re gone, if you care enough to be heard.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Is that why you have this job?” His voice revealed a touch of strain and he cleared his throat. She was dismantling him, making him feel very small indeed.
“Yes,” Grady said simply. She stirred and tapped the pad. “This is only for me to refer back to. To clarify my thoughts as we talk.”
He pushed out a breath. “This is where you get to scrape out my brain.”
Grady shook her head. “Let’s start by just talking. To begin, tell me where you learned that accumulating money was the right way to go about your life?”
“Learned?” he repeated blankly, for the question had absolutely nothing to do with his father.
“Yes. What makes you think Must-Have is a good idea?”
“I don’t—”
She lifted her hand, the one without the stylus in it, halting his protest. “You might not officially support the movement, but you live the life. Somewhere, somehow you learned that excess is good. Where do you think you got that? Was Hyram a rich man?”
Nash snorted. “We lived in a double slice apartment in the Third Wall. There wasneverenough money…” He paused. “There was never enough money, enoughanything,” he finished softly. He looked up at her. “Nason was spending everything we had on Bellish,” he finished.
Grady nodded. “Most likely,” she agreed.
“Damn, you’re good,” Nash breathed. “I was wrong.Thisis why you’re the Chief of Staff. You know people.”
Her smile was bright. She was laughing silently. “It might be part of it, but I assure you, being Chief of Staff usesallmy skills and then some more after that.” She turned the pad toward her. “Tell me about the slice apartment in the Third Wall. You said it was a double?”
That was the beginning of a long afternoon that was not nearly as arduous and uncomfortable as Nash had expected. Grady continually nudged him into reminiscences about his childhood, then would ask seemingly unrelated questions that would prod him into understanding the adult motivations surrounding those incidences.
One of those eye-openers was figuring out that his never-big-enough clothes were because there was no money, not because his father didn’t care.
“Your father had a Skinwalker’s pension,” Grady explained. “He couldn’t qualify for Basic. If he had, he could have printed the free clothes Basic allows. And he was using all his pension to buy the Bellish. Hyram was a mechanical engineer—it was likely his income that covered food and clothing for you.”
That made Nash squirm. “It got worse, after Hyram disappeared,” he admitted. “He wasn’t there to prop Nason up.”
“Did Nason ever talk about being a Skinwalker?”
“No. Never.”
“Not even if he was very relaxed, say, after a drink?”
“He didn’t drink.”
“Never?”
“Never. Maybe because he didn’t have the money. But even after I emerged, when I was making money of my own, he wouldn’t allow alcohol into the apartment. Why are you smiling?”
Her smile broadened. “He wouldn’t allow alcohol, so you opened a tavern.”
Nash blew out his breath. “I’m a walking cliché…” he muttered.
Grady leaned forward. “It’s not a cliché to be human, Nash.”
Her skin was flawless. Pale. It looked soft and he wanted to touch her cheek, to learn if it was as soft as it looked. Maybe, stroke it.
He sucked in a slow, deep breath to control his reaction to her nearness and was both relieved and disappointment when she sat up straight once more.
“So, no alcohol even when you were an adult,” Grady prompted.
