“No!” I bark. “My phone is broken. I need a new one.”
She nods. “No problem.” And backs out the door, closing it softly behind her.
The screen fills with the faces of eager reporters, jumping up and down like monkeys, vying for the chance to ask some stupid, pointless question and get an even stupider, more pointless answer. I don’t need to hear what’s being said to know that any response my father gives will be just as full of crap as his speech was.
We’ll make sure she gets all the help she needs …
My one and only beloved daughter whom I love so much …
Blah blah blah. I suddenly feel like throwing up. And it’s definitely not from the monstrous hangover that’s setting up camp in my temples.
In my seventeen years of life I can remember four times that my father has said he loved me … and every single one of them occurred on national television.
But that’s simply how the Larrabee family works. That’s how it’s always worked. For as long as I can remember. It’s all for show. For entertainment. For the benefit of the press. We’re about as genuine as a reality TV show.
And like any good reality show, everyone has a role to play. A character to embody. First and foremost there’s my father, Richard Larrabee, the founder and CEO of Larrabee Media. The world adores him because he’s self-made. Started out with nothing and now he has everything. It’s the classic rags-to-riches, American-dream story—lower class, below-the-poverty-line teen runs away from home, starts a business, and becomes a billionaire—and the press just gobbles it up and begs for more.
My mother was killed in a car crash when I was five. An eighteen-wheeler lost control and hit her head-on. She didn’t stand a chance. I don’t remember much about her, except for a few fleeting and hazy memories. And since nearly every photograph of her disappeared from our house after she died, those fuzzy memories are all I have to go by. But everyone who knew her tells me she was wonderful. Loving, maternal, supportive. Everything a mother should be.
Since her death there’s been a constant revolving door of “Mrs. Larrabees,” each younger and more unbearable than the last. The job requirements for “Mrs. Larrabee” are fairly simple and straightforward: show up for charity events, governors’ balls, society weddings, and openings; stay glued to my father’s arm the entire night, in an evening gown that’s just risqué enough to get people’s attention but not enough to cause a scandal; and act interested and engaged in the conversation around you, even if you don’t understand a word of what’s being said. Do all that and the rest of the time is yours to do with what you want—e.g., spa hopping or traipsing around my father’s private island in the Caribbean.
The women who hold this role traditionally don’t last very long. On average it takes about two to three years for my father to tire of them. Then they take their more-than-generous divorce settlements, complete with European villas, and move on.
Currently the position of stepmother to the Larrabee children is vacant. But for the past few months my father’s been courting a new recruit. Rêve is her name, according to Page Six of the New York Post. Although I’d be willing to bet anything that her birth certificate says something like “Gertrude” or “Ursula.” I haven’t met her yet but I’m sure she’s just as horrendous as the rest of them.
Before my mother died, she had five children. The famous Larrabee siblings. Thank God my dad underwent his little “anti-baby-making procedure” after I was born, otherwise who knows how many half breeds there’d be running around, trying to lay claim to a share of the Larrabee fortune. Four wives in twelve years? You do the math.
I’m the youngest and the only girl. Richard Junior (RJ) is the EVP of business development at Larrabee Media, dutifully fulfilling his obligations as next in line for the throne. He’s all right, I guess, but I hardly know him. He left for college when I was nine and I haven’t seen much of him since then. After him, there are the twins, Hudson and Harrison, who are both finishing up their law degrees at Yale and are expected to graduate first and second in their class, respectively. Then there’s Cooper, the child prodigy who graduated from college when he was only sixteen. He’s been playing Mozart’s Concerto no. 15 for Piano since he was three. Now he plays it backward with his eyes closed just for fun. Coop and I are only two years apart so we were close growing up but ever since he decided to join the Peace Corps and go on some hunger-relief tour around the world, we hardly ever talk anymore. Especially when most of the places he visits don’t even have running water, let alone cell reception. I usually don’t know where he is until I get a postcard in the mail.
And finally there’s me. And I think we all know what my role is in this family.
If you don’t, just tune in to the press conference that’s being aired on Channel 4 right now.
I can’t stand to watch it anymore—even on mute—so I grab a pillow and hold it over my face, pulling it down tight around my ears until I can barely breathe. But somehow it’s not enough. I can still feel his face on the screen. Like he’s watching me. As he carefully fields the reporters’ questions, his grayish-blue eyes seem to be staring through the cameras, through the TV screen, right into this room. Those eyes are famous, you know. World-renowned. They’ve graced the cover of every magazine from Time to Fortune to GQ. And although the press have been known to call my father’s eyes “enchanting,” “alluring,” and sometimes even “sexy,” the only thing I see in them is disappointment.
Not for long though.
Four more days and I’m free. From all of them. Especially him.
Because despite our obvious differences, there is one thing we five Larrabee children have in common.
And that’s the trust fund.
There’s one set up in each of our names in the amount of twenty-five million dollars. But it’s completely untouchable until the day we turn eighteen. Which, for me, is in four days.
I remember when Cooper got his two years ago. He was so blasé about the whole thing. Talking about donating it all to charity or some such nonsense. I, on the other hand, have been dreaming about this day for nearly eighteen years.
Jia, T, and I already have plans to cruise the Mediterranean for the summer. We rented an enormous three-hundred-foot yacht with nine other friends from school to celebrate our graduation. It sets sail in three weeks from Marseilles and I can’t wait to be on it. Three whole months of doing nothing but lounging around during the day, partying at night, and shopping from port to port. Pure heaven. It’s exactly what I need to unwind and decompress from my stressful life. Away from Mendi and my father and everyone. And after that? Who knows? London, Rio, Paris, Fiji … the possibilities are endless. It’s exhilarating to think that soon I’ll be able to pick up and go anywhere. Do anything. I’ll no longer be tied to my father or the empire he controls. My life will finally be mine.
This is the thought that finally gets me out of bed. I head into the bathroom to take a long, extra-hot shower. It feels incredible.
By the time I get out, there’s a new cell phone waiting for me on the nightstand, with all my phone numbers and settings already programmed. I check for any missed calls, silently hoping that after having heard about the accident, Mendi might have felt bad about the things he said in the club last night and called to apologize. But the screen is blank.
I guess it’s really over this time.
I glance at the TV. It looks like my father is wrapping up his press conference. He bids goodbye to the cameras and is ushered offstage by Caroline. His fake smile has already been wiped clean and he’s muttering something that is evidently so unpleasant it makes his lips droop into a scowl. I’ll give you one guess who he’s talking about.
I grip my new phone tightly in my hand and call Jia.
“Hey,” I say brusquely the moment she picks up, “are you still down for shopping today? Because I could really use a new outfit for my birthday.”
MISS INDEPENDENT
The press packed up and left th
e main house a few days ago so, fortunately, when the morning of my long-awaited eighteenth birthday finally arrives, I’m able to get ready in my own bedroom. Which is a huge relief because I have some major prep work to do before I’m scheduled to meet Bruce at one o’clock at his office in Century City.
I bound out of bed at seven-thirty. And for a girl who’s only seen the sunrise on the way home from partying all night at a club that’s saying a lot.
Jia and T helped me pick up the most perfect outfit for today. One that they assured me screams independently wealthy! I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted navy trousers and a cream-colored silk sleeveless blouse with a ruffled trim underneath a tweed cropped Chanel suit jacket. I clasp a pearl choker around my neck, swoop my hair back with a silk headband, and top the whole thing off with a men’s vintage gold Rolex watch that I swiped from my father’s closet.
I figure since he has like twenty of them, it’s not as though he’ll even notice it’s gone.
Jia and T flew to Vegas this morning to finish up the preparations for the birthday party they’re throwing me at the Bellagio tonight so I promised to send pictures once the whole “look” was assembled. I give my cell phone to Horatio, our middle-aged Argentinean butler who’s worked for us since before I was born, and make him take zillions of photos.
“What do you think, Horatio?” I ask, posing in front of the grand marble staircase that spirals through the entry hall. “Do I look like a million bucks?”
“Sí, señorita,” he responds faithfully in his silky Spanish, bowing his head slightly the way he always does when he answers a question.
“What about twenty-five million bucks?”
To this he only smiles. But I take it as another yes.
He hands my cell phone back to me and walks over to a table at the far end of the foyer. “You will be needing a car?” he asks, picking up the house phone and preparing to dial Kingston, our chauffeur.
“No!” I practically scream, diving for the table and pushing down on his hand until the receiver is back in the cradle. “Duh, Horatio. Today I’m an independent woman. I don’t need people my father pays to drive me around.” I glance in the antique gilded mirror hanging on the wall and flash a satisfied smile at my reflection. “I’ll drive myself.”
Horatio hesitates for a moment before saying, “I am to remind you, Miss Larrabee, that your car is currently in an impound lot in Torrance.”
I watch my mouth fall into a sullen frown. “Oh, yeah.”
But then I quickly pep myself back up and refresh my smile. “That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’ll just take the Bentley.”
“Your father’s Bentley?” Horatio asks, raising his eyebrows.
I shoot him an irritated look. “What? It’s not like he ever drives it.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later I pull into the parking garage of Bruce’s building, place Holly in my oversize Birkin bag, toss the keys to the awaiting valet, and prance into the elevator.
People are looking at me—quite strangely actually—but it doesn’t faze me. Being the daughter of Richard Larrabee, you get accustomed to the stares pretty quickly. It used to be only the older, business-y people who would recognize me. You know, subscribers to those serious magazines that always have downer stories on the covers about oil spills and the decline of health care. But ever since I started making the cover of more important magazines like Us Weekly (the first in the Larrabee family to do so, might I add!) I get recognized by everyone.
“Lexi!” Bruce greets me cheerfully the moment I walk through the door of his office. “Happy birthday, kiddo!”
Actually, on second thought, it’s a tad too cheerful. And terribly out of character for Bummer Bruce. What’s he so excited about? That he’s finally getting rid of me? That after today, I’m officially an adult and therefore no longer his responsibility?
Well, to be fair, the feeling is mutual. So I decide to play along. “Hi, Brucey,” I chorus.
He beams and reaches out to scratch Holly’s head. “And hello to you,” he coos in an obnoxious baby voice before returning his attention to me. “You look great, Lex. New outfit?”
Okay, now I’m getting a little weirded out. I mean, I understand his excitement about getting me off his daily watch list, but this is a bit much. His grin literally goes from ear to ear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an expression on his face before. In fact, I’ve seen him do so much scowling lately, I forgot he was even capable of smiling. And since when does Bruce ever notice my outfit, let alone comment on it?
I warily glance down at my blouse and smooth out the hem. “Yes,” I reply guardedly.
“Well, it’s adorable.”
Adorable?
“Thanks,” I mumble, placing my bag with Holly in it on the floor and sliding into the seat across from the desk. I’m careful to keep my eyes locked on Bruce. Just in case the alien inhabiting his body suddenly decides to break free and attack. “Someone’s in a good mood,” I point out.
His grin broadens (if that’s even possible) and he sinks down into his chair and clasps his hands in his lap. “Today’s a good day,” he replies smugly.
I nod, feeling the anticipation rise up inside me again. “It is.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He simply stares at me with that stupid grin on his face while he lightly twirls his desk chair from side to side.
“So,” I prompt, eager to move this thing along and finish packing for Vegas. I can almost feel the check in my hand. See all those beautiful liberating zeros lined up across the page.
“So,” he echoes back unassumingly. As if he doesn’t already know why I’m here. As if this isn’t the single most important day of my entire life.
I fight back a groan. “So, what do I have to do? Just sign a piece of paper to say that I received it or something?”
He raises his eyebrows inquisitively.
“The check,” I remind him, growing impatient.
“Oh right,” he replies, his amused expression never fading. “The check.”
It takes every ounce of strength for me not to roll my eyes and say “Duh!” Instead I offer him a tight-lipped smile.
“Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Okay,” I reply slowly. I don’t really remember Cooper saying anything about the process being complicated. But then again, he was so nonchalant about it. Infuriatingly so. I remember drilling him for hours the moment he got home, demanding to see the check and insisting he divulge every detail of the encounter. But he just kept shrugging and telling me it was no big deal. So I pretty much assumed that I would take a seat, sign a few documents, and that would be it. But then again, Cooper downplays everything. And I suppose when you’re dealing with a check that size, there’s bound to be a few legalities involved.
I glance at my watch. “Well, do you know about how long it’s going to take? I booked a plane to Vegas tonight. Jia and T are throwing me a birthday party.”
Bruce flashes me another smile, although this one is suddenly different. It’s almost condescending. As though he knows something I don’t and it’s going to bring him great pleasure to share it with me. “It might take a while,” is all he says.
I’m not sure why, but there’s something in his tone that sends a shiver down my spine. And when I look into his eyes again, an unexpected feeling of dread suddenly settles into the pit of my stomach.
Something is not right. Something is off. I can’t put my finger on what, exactly, but I can just feel it.
“Bruce.” I pronounce his name vehemently. “What’s going on?”
He leans back in his chair, like he’s getting comfortable for a long movie or something. “Well,” he begins in a light and friendly tone, “your father has made some adjustments to the arrangement.”
“Adjustments,” I hear myself repeat, although my lips are growing numb so I can barely even feel the words form on them. “What kind of adjustments?”
When he doesn’t an
swer me, my heart starts to thud in my chest and the dread in my stomach has now brewed into some kind of lumpy soup. “I’m still getting my check today though,” I press him. “Right?”
Bruce’s mouth twists into a contorted, almost sadistic half smile. “Actually,” he says calmly, his fearless gaze never leaving mine, “there’s been a change of plans.”
BRUCE ALMIGHTY
I feel my body lift from my seat and suddenly I’m on my feet. There’s a burning sensation behind my eyes as they bore down on Bruce, skewering him with my vicious glare. But he seems completely unaffected, looking as content as can be in his little twirling desk chair, with his hands clasped casually on his lap. It makes the fire inside my chest glow with heat.
“What do you mean there’s been a change of plans?” I’m honestly surprised at the sound that’s coming out of my mouth right now. It’s like a low, guttural growl. Similar to something you’d expect to hear from a teen werewolf right before he phases.
Holly must be surprised to hear it too because her head pops out of my bag and she glances around the room with her ears at full alert.
“Sit down, Lexington,” Bruce commands in an authoritative tone, seamlessly transitioning into that father-figure role he loves to play so much.
I cross my arms defiantly over my chest. “No,” I assert without a single waver in my voice. “Not until you tell me exactly what’s going on here.”
Bruce picks his battles, evidently electing out of this one. “Fine.” He surrenders with a shrug. “Your father has had some…”—he pauses, wheeling his hand in a circle, as though trying to reel the right word out of his brain—“… well, concerns, about your behavior lately.”
The heat inside me intensifies but I remain silent.
“And he feels that, given recent events, it would behoove you and the family to delay the distribution of your trust fund.”
“No.” I shake my head adamantly from side to side, refusing to believe that this is real. That this is actually happening to me right now. “He can’t do that.”
52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 3