“I don’t want anything of yours.” I shrug, hoping it will get under his skin. He wants me cowed. He couldn’t do it if he tried. Not after what I’ve been through in life.
“A lie. You’ve had your eye on the jewel of my fortune,” he seethes, and I start to protest, but he cuts me off, “You want my daughter.”
For a moment, I’m taken aback, enough to blurt out,“Adair is not your property.”
It sounds naive, even to me.
“She IS mine, you stupid boy.” His chest is a bellows, pumping air to fuel his hatred, and he takes a moment to right himself, out of breath from his own theatrics. “I know you. Had some of my people look into you. Orphan. Bounced around the foster system. A sealed juvenile record. What exactly did you do, boy?”
Of course, he looked into my past. I’d convinced myself that his indifference to Adair extended to me. But she came home with me for Christmas. She ran to me on Thanksgiving. He might not give a shit about her emotionally, but he’s paying attention to every move she makes. Why else would he put cameras up all over his grounds? Adair is just another possession to be guarded, in his eyes. He can keep her in a case and bring her out for special occasions. “I don’t owe you any answers,” I say, my self-control nearly depleted. If he thinks I won’t hit him because he’s in a wheelchair, he’s sorely mistaken. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is Adair. Now, I’m beginning to think she’s the reason I should punch him.
“I already know what’s in those records, of course,” he continues, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth, I know things are going from bad to ugly. “You stabbed your own father—”
“After he beat my mother to death,” I add in a deadly soft voice, “or was that not in your summary?”
His snake eyes blink, black and beady. There’s not even a shred of sympathy in them. They’re as cold as he is. “One does not bite the hand that feeds, no matter the reason.”
“Lucky for you, huh?” I say with meaning. I’m not the only one hiding sins.
“Luck has nothing to do with it. Money. Connections. Adair doesn’t bite, because she’s been trained. She’s purebred, unlike you.”
The only thing more powerful than the hatred I feel towards this man is the disgust he provokes at every turn. Apparently, Angus MacLaine has never been in the same room as shame.
“I’ve had enough.” He raises a bent finger. His body is obviously as warped as his mind. “You have no idea what this life takes, the sacrifices our family has to make to stay on top. You are unsuitable for such a position. Therefore, you will stop seeing my daughter. At once.” He says it like a bored judge reading the same jury instructions aloud for the thousandth time.
“No.”
He doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he heaves a weary sigh and reaches into his breast pocket to withdraw a checkbook and pen. “How much? A hundred thousand?”
I stare at the checkbook in his hand and process what he’s offering. It takes me longer than it should. “Think what you want about me, but I have more self-respect than that.”
“Two hundred,” he counters, writing my name across the remit to line.
I lean over the desk and look down at the great Angus MacLaine, my white knuckles popping against the wood. “Adair can make her own choices.”
He swallows hard, and the smallest whiff of panic flashes in the corners of his eyes before being quickly tamed. He sniffs again, his lower lip drooping to reveal a gobbet of spit. “You can’t give her the life I can. You may not want to hear it. But you know it’s true. You’re on scholarship, which means you might have a better future ahead of you, but we both know what you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you—”
He waves me away, continuing, “Let me be plain, since you seem to be confusing your self-ideals with reality. YOU. ARE. TRASH. A mutt. A mongrel. You’re nothing to her but a sad, unwanted dog. You might get an education, maybe even a decent job, but you can’t change the blood pumping through your veins.”
Suddenly, I’m back in my old apartment, my hand pulling at the sheet covering my mom’s lifeless body. I see my father, his mustard-stained undershirt, drenched in pit sweat and stale beer, yelling in from the kitchen. I see my sister, her toes poking through holes in the fronts of her shoes, her hair dirty and matted—exactly like animals in some forgotten zoo.
I see Angus MacLaine in front of me, too, but he is telescoped away from me, as if we’re both watching my young self from opposite ends of a hallway. I feel violated. And sick. And then a bottomless rage takes hold of me.
My anger boils, pouring out of me like sweat. I want to wrap my hands around the crepe-like skin of his neck and squeeze.
“I may be a dog,” I say, and, without breaking eye contact, I grab the right edge of the desk and heave as hard as I can. The desk flips over on its end, and the look of sudden, abject terror on Angus MacLaine’s face is balm for my fury. “But that’s still better than a blue-blooded monster who abuses his family. Fuck you, fuck your money, fuck the sad, small cage you pretend is your kingdom.”
He starts to say something in reply, but his voice catches. He clears his throat like a broken trumpet, trying to find something to turn our encounter back in his favor. After another steadying breath, his composure returns, as if he has already forgotten what just happened. Angus drums his fingers on the lacquered arm of his wheelchair, a smug, spiteful grin lighting the shambles of his face. I see myself reflected in his black eyes, and I know why he’s smiling. “Enjoy the rest of the wedding, Sterling Ford.”
I stumble into the hallway, feeling like I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from, because I’m exactly what he said I was. The mixed breed dog no one wants because he never learns, he just forgets and attacks. He wasn’t provoking me to wreck my chances with Adair. He did it to prove he doesn’t have to interfere. I’ll fuck things up all by myself. I’m not sure where to go, but I need to put distance between myself and everyone else, or I’ll only do more damage.
A line of faces wait in the hall, the country club staff standing stock still. I guess disagreements over golf don’t usually get so heated.
“Christ, Sterling. Are you alright?”
I realize one of the faces is Cyrus, who’s coming out of the restroom.
“Sterling?”
I realize I want to punch him, too. I’ve got to get control of myself. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it makes little difference.
“I know this look,” he says. “Follow me.”
I let him guide me down a flight of stairs and a hallway, and we arrive at a pair of double doors with a large sign hanging over them: The Nineteenth Hole. Inside, the room is dark, only the outlines of high tables and chairs silhouetted by the lights outside.
“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” I say, taking one of the stools at the bar, which is right next to the doors. I realize my hands are clenched into fists and force them to loosen. “I should go back up there. Let him know exactly—”
“Whoa, man. That’s not a good idea.” He stoops behind the bar and begins rummaging around. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have it coming. I think everyone has fantasized about killing Angus MacLaine at some point. It’s a Valmont rite of passage.”