Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 109178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Grandpa is waiting in his study right now. I saw him go in there earlier. As I stand here with you hiding behind a column with a bag of Cheetos and a thumping heart, I know he’s full of fury. Waiting for his prey. His office has two big ivory pillars outside of it, like somethin’ you’d see at a gallery in Washington D.C. There’s a big stone lion, a bear, and a bull statue by the tall double gold and white doors. You can’t see them from here, so I’m just filling you in is all. You can feel Grandpa’s presence without even looking into his cold blue eyes.
You may wonder why I’m slipping and sliding around, risking being caught instead of outside in the pool swimming, playing on the home basketball court, in the game room with every video game and gaming system a kid could want, or working out in Grandpa’s big gym? Hell, you may wonder why I’m here at all.
Well, he told my parents he wanted me to stay with him for the summer. In fact, Grandpa has sent for me many times during my life. He’s taken an interest in me since I was a baby. Nobody told me exactly why, and when I asked, I was given a bullshit, absurd answer that I barely remember. Regardless, though he’ll never admit it, he sometimes gets lonely and wants a hunting partner. I’m a pretty good shooter, if I say so myself.
Here’s my theory on why I’m here: Grandpa only trusts family to run the business and be around him on a consistent basis, so here I am. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but this explains at least a part of it. He always asks me about my grades in the private school I’ll be graduating from next year, and wants to know all about my football practices. He sends me presents every month, and calls me on the phone just to see how I’m doing. Sounds nice, right?
Sounds like a great old man… the perfect grandpa. I’m young, but I know I’m not here because he loves me. There I go again with that love stuff. I mean, he might love me, but that’s not the biggest motivation, ya know? Grandpa has to run the chess board. He is a big observer. A people watcher. He’s persistent, too. Just when you think he’s forgotten something… Boom. He’ll get his revenge. I think I’m sort of like that, too. I’m perceptive. Patient. He wants to see how my mind works before he hires me on. Maybe for a very special job? He wants to see what alterations need to be made to my contract when the time comes, and what better way to find out then to have your grandson spend time with you?
My mother, while drunk one night and probably high on too many of her damn anxiety pills, said that Grandpa thinks he’s God. Daddy disagreed. He said,
“No, he doesn’t think he’s God, honey. He thinks he’s the devil, and he’s right. That’s why he’ll never die. Evil lives forever…”
CHAPTER ONE
In the Dog House
TOP DOG – top dog /ˌtäp ˈdôɡ,ˌtäp ˈdäɡ/ noun INFORMAL a person who is successful or dominant in their field.
“Please, all of you enter in single file,” Jasper ordered. Dressed in camouflage with two handguns hanging off his holster belt, the tall, middle-aged man who worked for his grandfather tossed his weight around.
Lennox stood at the front of the line, his arms crossed over his chest as Grandpa’s lap dog patted him down once again. He grunted when the man got close to his groin, fighting the urge to slam his fist into the asshole’s jaw.
“Look, Lennox.” The beady-eyed bastard glared up at him. “I don’t like this anymore than you, boy, but you know how your grandfather feels about weapons in his chambers. You fellows can be slick.”
He refrained from responding out loud. Maybe if dear ol’ Grandad wasn’t such a piece of shit, he wouldn’t have to worry about us trying to take him out.
After Jasper had gone down the line and frisked them all, seemingly good and satisfied, Lennox and his cousins marched into the old man’s study that smelled of the familiarity he’d grown used to: pungent cigar smoke and Moroccan amber. The room was bright and open with its wall-to-wall rows of windows and shades of cream and white, while the old man sitting in the lofty ivory-colored chair embellished with silver studs appeared dark and looming.
Grandpa sat there knuckling the brass lion claws of his chair arms, his face faintly directed towards his desk. Smoke eddied from his lips. A snow-white cowboy hat graced the top of his head, and a thick, wavy silver lock of hair drooped over one of his icy blue eyes. The old man slowly looked up, meeting his gaze with a crooked grin. He pointed to the seven white chairs all lined up in front of his long gold and ivory desk.