Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“Bet.” I stood up. “Sometime soon. Not now.”
What I really meant was when hell froze over.
Yeah, that seemed like a good fucking time to spend time with the old sod.
The day after the clock and the car came the real pickle: the glasses. Syllie rarely took them off. He was blind as a bat. When he finally parted ways with them, he put them on his desk and rushed out of his office. I may have asked the stuttering receptionist to call him urgently regarding some papers that had come about the new refinery in Maine. It was a dumb excuse, so I knew I had five minutes, max.
I bolted into his room, pocketed the original glasses, and placed an identical pair with the recording device in their place. It was some magic-ass wireless shit that streamed the recordings live. I rounded Syllie’s desk as he walked back in.
My heart dropped to my asshole. Maybe literally. There was a moment when I wondered if I was going to survive. If not, I dreaded the headline. “Young Heir Leaves Reluctant, Semi-Loving Family and Hot Roommate Behind.”
At least I’d always be remembered for my contributions to society: orgasms, one-liners I borrowed from George Carlin, and starting the bomber-jacket-over-tux-shirt trend at All Saints High.
Song of the day: “Hey, Look, Ma I Made It” by Panic! At the Disco.
“Sonny-boy,” Sylvester greeted me. “What are you doing in my office?”
He sounded chill as fuck. This was how much I didn’t chart as a threat to him. I’d been caught red-handed in his office, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I grabbed the first thing within reach on his desk, a stapler, and started for the door.
“Just wanted to borrow your stapler.” I waved it in my hand for good measure. Oscar-worthy performance, I tell ya.
“Why?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. His face had random features that didn’t really gel. He was lanky and looked like the Caucasian version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
I improvised some more. “Got a little carried away with one of the interns. Ruined her virtue. Also, her pencil skirt.” I exposed my white fangs, hooding my eyes. Syllie grinned back. Wide. After all, I was a “literal fucking joke,” always up for a tumble in the supply closet.
“That’s my boy.” He clapped my back, letting his hand linger there for a second too long. “I won’t tell on you,” he promised earnestly, his hand clutching his heart. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought your da was too harsh on you. You should live a little. Have fun.”
I raised my fist to his. We pounded it. He felt cool. My job here was done.
“Yo, if you wanna get high on gas fumes later, let me know,” I offered out of nowhere, turning to him while still walking out of his office. I thought about that idiot accountant from yesterday.
Syllie laughed. “Maybe, son. Maybe.”
Adults were trash.
Later that day, I was invited to a meeting about the Maine-based refinery Royal Pipelines was supposed to open this year, which was still under construction. Syllie rallied for Da, Cillian, yours truly, and himself to take a quick trip there in the next few months to examine it up close.
“We need to keep our finger on the pulse, get a better understanding of what’s not working. It’ll also give Hunter a chance to feel included.” Syllie spoke brightly, looking around Da’s desk.
My father, who still couldn’t look at the hedonist monster he’d created, said nothing, probably his way of trying to figure out if I was worth the hassle. I took minutes during that meeting, then mailed them to Da and Cillian, knowing there was a one-hundred-percent chance they weren’t opening my goddamn emails.
Hours later, I decided to take my lunch to the public library and cram in some studying time. Eating at the library was prohibited, so I concealed myself behind the autobiography shelves. Nobody fucking cared—not about what dead people did, and not about me.
As I debated whether it was technically possible to kill myself by smashing my head into the economics textbook, I heard a familiar voice three rows down, seeping from the Braille selections like poison.
“…in motion. You’ll have to put things together quickly. I’m shooting for next month, or the one after it. Soon.”
There was a pause. The other person was talking. What were the chances of Syllie going to the library to take a personal call? Good, I realized. The place was dead, and you wouldn’t find any of the Fitzpatrick men in the library unless it was a trendy name for a brothel.
Or so he thought.
“Father and older son pose more threat than the little one, as I mentioned,” he added.
Don’t be so fucking sure.
“Keep me posted. I’ll call soon.”
He killed the call. I threw my sandwich into the trash can, my appetite gone.