Parkhurst was apparently a front for some elite organization made up of wealthy pricks who thought the rules didn’t apply to them. It’s not much of a surprise to discover the Barrons were a part of it.
Her arm goes around me automatically. “Let’s get fucked up and forget about your jackass boss even if he is hot as fuck with a monster cock.”
I spit my beer all over the counter. “Xena!” I hiss, glancing around.
Her arm drops away from me.
“This place isn’t far from the office. Anyone could be listening.” I’m regretting telling her everything that happened that night, because it’s clear she can’t hold shit.
“When you say monster cock, how big are we talking?” Bo asks, grinning salaciously as he leans his elbows on the counter, staring at me.
“Remind me again why I confided in you?” I give Xena the stink eye. It’s only half fake.
“Because I’m your bestest friend and you love me.” She tweaks my nose, and I elbow her in the ribs.
“You’re lucky I love you, because you’re a lousy secret keeper.”
She shrugs. “Keeping secrets only leads to trouble. It’s best to get everything out on the table.”
“There’s a difference between sharing secrets that need to be told and keeping a confidence, Xena.” I arch a brow, sending her a pointed look.
I told her what happened that night in good faith, and I was pissed when I found out she’d told her boyfriends. I know there was no malice in it. She explained she doesn’t like keeping shit from the guys, and a part of me respects and admires her for it. And it’s not like she blabbed to strangers, but I still didn’t appreciate it.
I’m not the type to kiss and tell, but I was furious and upset Christmas night after being an innocent participant in adultery, and I needed to vent.
“You’re right,” she agrees without protest, “and I should’ve explained that I don’t keep secrets from the guys before you confided in me.”
“Well, this is one secret that needs to be kept hidden, because I need this shitty job now more than ever.” I take a long swig of my drink, watching Bo and Xena trade worried expressions.
“How bad is it?” Xena asks, in a softer tone, when I put my beer down.
“Stage four,” I whisper, and I hate how my lower lip wobbles when I’m trying so hard to be strong.
“Shit.” She grabs hold of my hand. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Short of winning the lottery, there isn’t anything that can be done.” I hate admitting it, but it’s the truth. “I’d love to know who came up with the saying ‘money doesn’t buy you happiness’ because I’d like to punch them in the face. What a crock of shit,” I add, angrily picking at the label on my beer. “I guess it was coined by some rich bastard who has no idea what it’s like to not have enough money, because I’ll tell you, if we had money for that experimental drug, and it stopped the cancer from spreading, and it gave Dad a few more years to live, I’d be fucking ecstatic.”
“How much is it?” Bo asks, wiping the counter down and purposely ignoring the guy at his back calling for his attention.
“More than we can afford.”
“We can fundraise,” he suggests. “I know the owner would let us use the bar.” He shoots me a sympathetic look as he walks off to serve the now irate customer.
“And my uncle would let us organize something at the shop,” Xena adds.
“Thank you, and I might take you up on that.” I drink another mouthful of beer.
“We should brainstorm.” She taps her fingers on the counter, looking off into space. “You could stay over at our place Saturday night after the club, and we can put our heads together over breakfast Sunday morning?”
I haven’t been out on a Saturday night in months, and I’m only going because it’s my twenty-second birthday, and Xena, the sneaky cow, went behind my back to Dad to arrange the night out when I politely declined his previous suggestion.
“I’ll see if that’s okay with Mrs. Griffin.” I was planning on coming home even though Dad’s caregiver is already staying the night. If she’s okay staying a couple of hours extra on Sunday morning, I can swing it.
Truth is, I need all the help I can get, and four brains are definitely better than one.
“That asshole Barron should be coughing up for the treatment and all your dad’s medical bills.”
“It happened before he became president,” I say although I’m not defending him, per se. “But you’re right, the company has a lot to answer for.”
Strictly speaking, they didn’t do anything illegal with the information we had to hand at the time. After Dad had his stroke, the doctors believed he might have brain damage. The company grabbed that assumption and ran with it, approaching Dad with an exit offer considering he was now incapable of working.
They gave him a generous severance package and washed their hands of him with a clear conscience.
But they could’ve changed their minds after the test results came back clear of brain injury. Because my dad gave them years and years of his loyal service, and when he needed them to have his back, they kicked him to the curb without a second glance. If he still had his premium medical insurance, the cancer bombshell we’ve just been hit with would be different because he’d be able to enter the trial and he might have a fighting chance. Without it, there is little hope, and it’s just one more reason to hate the offspring of the late CEO.
“Hey, Dad.” I lean down and kiss his cheek. “How are you today?” I plop down on the couch beside him, taking his hands in mine.
“All the better for seeing my sweet girl,” he replies, squeezing my fingers. I hate how frail his touch has become. How lined his face now seems. How gaunt his cheekbones are. And how his clothes hang from his much thinner frame.
Dad had adapted after the stroke, and he was learning to live with it. But now, the cancer bomb has been dropped in his lap, and he’s struggling to stay positive. I hate that I didn’t see it. That we didn’t have the money to go for monthly checkups instead of biannual appointments. Perhaps, they might have caught it earlier. When it could be treated more easily and without resorting to some new experimental drug trial which we’ve been told is his only chance at prolonging his life.
“How was your day?” he adds. “I hope young Charles is treating my princess good.”
I smother a snort. I don’t want Dad worrying, so I’ve told him nothing about the way Charlie Barron treats me. “He’s a good boss,” I lie.
“He was always a good kid,” Dad says. “Troubled, but his heart seemed to be in the right place.”
Oh, Dad. If only you knew.
“You two have a lot in common.”
My mouth falls open. “Like what?” I splutter.
“He’s had to grow up fast too. He’s carrying the burden for his family the same way you are.”
My features soften. “You’re not a burden, Dad. I love you, and I’m right where I want to be.”
Tears fill his eyes, and a lump the size of a bus wedges in my throat.