by M. D. Waters
He snaps his fingers. “That fast.”
“And what makes you think—?”
I cut off with the sudden realization that I don’t know what I’m more pissed about. The threat of him disowning me, or that he’d disown me for Jacob. That he barely knows Jacob, but he’d use him against me. And what if I lose? Will he go through with it? I like the guy, but there’s no way he’s the right man for the job.
I can keep Jacob clear of the CEO spot and get my internship abroad easily, though. It would at least give me a year to pursue my dream and figure out my next step. So for now, at least, the answer is simple.
“When do I start?”
Noah
Bubbles dance up the other side of the tank’s glass and pop at the top. I’ve lost count of how many have passed while I wait. I debate giving the tropical fish—born and raised inside these portable nine-foot tanks—crazy names, like Lionface and Blowcheeks. I may as well be an owner by now.
I walk away from the aquarium, fists jammed in my front pockets, blowing out a breath. Two young boys run around my legs, clipping my knees and laughing. In pursuit, a mother yells their names and is careful not to bump too hard into the strolling cluster of men. Every time the light of an overhead lamp shines in her eyes, rising panic is visible then disappears again when she reaches a patch of shadow.
I frown after the boys. My younger brother, Gabriel, and I used to run away from our stepmother Becky, too. And Rachel after her. Probably Paula after her. Or was Paula after Freda? Who can track Dad’s wives? I can barely track my half brothers, three of whom are off in boarding schools, and two at university becoming men our father can be proud of. The youngest brother is only three and still living at home.
Unlike us boys, my four half sisters live in Richmond’s local WTC. Good ol’ James, doing his civic duty. The proud father of at least one fertile woman so far—Hannah, who’s younger than me by eight years and will “graduate” in September. The other three girls are too young yet to know their fertility status.
Choosing to meet here was a bad idea. The carnival is a big attraction, yes, and we won’t draw unwanted attention, but I could run into just about anyone I know. Why Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Updike couldn’t wait until the caravan landed in New York City next week, I don’t know.
I sit on a long bench, alone except for an old man people watching from the opposite end. He smiles at every passing child. At first glance, this appears voyeuristic and unsettling, but I understand. He’s nostalgic. The old man was genuinely happy once. I wonder if he still is or if his bubble has popped at the top of a full tank.
“Noah.”
The man calling my name stops across from me to lean on the gold handrail outside the aquarium wall. He is tall, balding, and muscled under a tight-fitting black T-shirt. He’s old enough to be my father but puts my fitness regimen to shame. Stark white hair rings the sides and back of his head.
I wade through the crowd to meet him. He squints into the water. The reflection dances on his bald skull.
“You’re late,” I say.
“Couldn’t be helped.”
I put my back to the glass and lean on the rail, folding my arms. Stare at the passersby and into the copse of trees behind the benches without really seeing the details. “What’s this about?”
“You missed your last check-in.”
“So Tanner sent you to check on me?”
“He suspects you’ve finally made a decision.” He straightens. “Is he right?”
So that’s what this is about. Jesus. Every time I turn around, someone’s in my face trying to force their version of my future on me.
Across the short walkway, the old man stares at us.
I push off the railing. “Let’s walk.”
Updike follows me past the aquarium section and into an area where food tents line either side of the walkway. Children act out for fun-house mirrors. The interactive glass contorts their reflections, and they laugh when their images rocket from pudgy masses of goo to thin poles. Squeals erupt when the images then stretch them out. Balloons in every color imaginable hover over bobbing heads. Sweet scents mingle with grease, sweat, and kicked-up dust.
We’re walking past a yellow-and-red-striped virtual fortune-teller tent when I spot someone I recognize: Andrew Burke. His family and mine hang out in the same social circles. He and his son are deep in conversation, and I catch a small bit of it on the way past. The older Burke is waving a dismissive hand. “I’m buying you the girl, and you’ll stick your prick in her if I have to do it myself.”
That had been me seven years ago with my own father. A little more private, though. Poor kid. I’d probably had the same stunned look on my face when Dad told me exactly what he planned for my future following graduation. Fuck, he’s still trying to tell me, and I’m still nodding along, promising to give up my bachelor life. Eventually. These days, twenty-five is more than a little late to get started, even for a man. Women have to start right away since their reproductive years begin to dwindle and end by the time they turn thirty. If they’re lucky.
I shove my hands deep into my jeans pockets. “I can’t keep going like this. I was supposed to take my seat at the table two months ago.”
Updike’s dimpled chin lowers and he watches the ground as we walk. “Thought you didn’t want it.”
“I never said that.”
“So what is it you do want? Because you can’t do both.”
Why not? Aren’t things working the way they are? I get to fight against an establishment I have no respect for, while taking pride in the work I’m doing for a company that’s been in my family for three generations. I want . . . both. But if I have to choose, if that’s why Nate brought me here today, then I choose my family.
“Maybe this is easier for people like you,” I say, slowing to a stop to face him. “Joining the resistance is probably your typical family conversation over in the west. You get to keep all your old friends and check in with parents and siblings. Spend holidays together. Well, it isn’t that easy for me. You’re asking me to disappear from my entire life.”
A group of teenage boys swarms around us, jeering and laughing and bringing our conversation to a halt.
Nate nods for me to follow him off the walkway. When we’re alone again, he says, “You’re a natural leader, Noah. People trust you without question. You’re intelligent, and you think outside the box. I can’t even begin to imagine the sort of changes you’d make with a unit under your command. We need men like you.”
I shake my head. “You sound just like my father.”
“Your father’s a smart man. He knows what he’s got.” He meets my eyes. “But you can’t make a difference from behind a desk monitoring atmosphere cleanup.”
I rake a hand through my hair, the strands slightly tangled from the wind, and turn my back on him. Pace away, then back. I thought I could do this. When I joined up two years ago, I knew what I wanted to do. Stay in long enough to rescue Hannah and the other girls, hand over enough money to keep the resistance running for at least another year or two, then get out. Take my seat next to my father. The business might just be “atmosphere cleanup” to someone like Updike, but it’s my family’s legacy, and we’re damn proud of the work we do.
I probably wouldn’t even be in this situation if I hadn’t been sympathetic to the plight of every woman who’s come in and out of my father’s life. He wears them like a new suit and discards them just as fast. He hurt my mother when he shipped her off and away from Gabe and me, the only children she ever had, and I only recently learned to forgive him.
“You know working with us is the right thing to do,” Nate says.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll fund your operation for a couple years, but I’m out.”
He lengthens and squares his shoulders. “What about your sisters? I thought you wanted to help settle
them into a new life.”
The intonation of this statement catches me up short. “That sounds oddly like an ultimatum.”
He leans close. “You want out? You’re out. And you become a liability I can’t afford. If anyone were to trace you back to us . . . I’ll have to make certain changes to protect my people. You hear what I’m saying? Dates will change. Systems. Locations. Maybe we’ll raid that WTC, but maybe we won’t. Problem is, you won’t know until it’s done. And you won’t be in any position to request answers from me anymore because you won’t even know how to find me. You cut these ties and these ties will be irreparably cut, Noah. We’ll be done for good.”
I just want to give up this double life. I want to focus on my family, work until it’s time to retire, and move to some distant coast where I’ll live in peace and make love to a wife I came by honestly. My sisters—Hannah, Paige, Andrea, and Violet—they were a part of that. I need to make sure they’re taken care of, and leaving their fate to Updike and his crew feels wrong. Like desertion, which would make me no better than my father.
Nate claps a hand on my shoulder, his lips thinned to a frown. “Take some time. I need you in. So no, this isn’t an ultimatum. But you do need to make a choice, and soon.”
I’m both relieved and distressed by the time he’s given me. I want out, but he’s cleverly pulled me back in. Maybe with time I’ll figure something out on my own, because goddamn it, these choices can’t be all I have.
• • •
The restaurant Gabriel chose to celebrate his twenty-third birthday isn’t what I expect. It’s our father’s favorite steakhouse, complete with linen tablecloths, candles, and a personal, and very human, sommelier. Dad appreciates the old-fashioned touch of human interaction over digital, which is a common feature in most restaurants these days.
Given Gabe’s mature dinner choice, I’m happy to find he hasn’t changed too drastically. He hired a young escort to entertain him, laugh at his jokes, and pet his leg under the table. She’s a pretty brunette and doesn’t look a day over twenty. Too young to do what these girls are sometimes asked to do. I don’t care how well paid they are. It’s not only illegal, but an abuse of power I refuse to take part in.
Gabe is already drunk when I reach the table. Tipping back in his chair, he lifts a champagne glass and grins as big as his mouth will allow. “Brother! You made it!”
“Sorry I’m late.” I pull out a vacant seat beside Dad’s wife, Annabelle, who smiles up at me with a large dimple sinking deep in her cheek.
My father hangs an elbow on the back of his seat. He fingers the black linen napkin draped over his knee. “You missed appetizers, but I’m sure your dinner won’t be far behind ours if you hurry.”
Annabelle hands me the glowing touch screen from the center of the table. “I would have ordered for you, but James insisted you’d be here in time.”
“I appreciate the thought,” I tell her.
The topic of contracting our spacecraft to the government continues as if uninterrupted while I punch in my order and request wine service. I need at least two glasses to ease the tension knotting my shoulders and neck. I haven’t been able to get over Updike’s ultimatum since leaving the carnival grounds.
“So, Noah, why are you late for your brother’s celebration?” Dad asks, yanking me out of my head.
I look past Annabelle, whose fingers link over the top of her child-swollen belly. “With a friend.”
Everyone but me leans back as the salad course arrives. “What friend?” Dad asks, then thanks the waiter with a nod and tight smile.
“No one you know.”
He forks a chunk of salad glazed with red vinaigrette. “I know all your friends.”
He always manages to sound so damn sure of himself. As if he truly believes he knows every single person I do. I suppose he could if he were capable of some sort of intellectual osmosis.
“Not all of them,” I say.
Dad stares at me while chewing his bite, taking his time to mull over whatever it is he wants to say. I can already guess. We dance this waltz every month.
“Something you want to ask me?”
He swallows. “Did you keep your appointment today?”
“No,” I say without hesitation. “I told you I wouldn’t. I tell you every month, in fact. You may as well stop wasting your time.”
“A man your age could have had at least two—”
“His sperm doesn’t come with an expiration date,” Gabe says across the table, and his tone is loud enough to gather attention. He suffers the same talks and looks I do; the only difference is that Gabe keeps his appointments. He enjoys the show.
Annabelle coughs lightly into her fist, barely containing a smile.
Gabe beams at us proudly, his arms draped over the backs of the chairs to either side of him. His amber eyes practically glow. Everyone says he’s the spitting image of me now that he’s grown his dark blond hair out, letting the waves he used to despise go free.
Dad narrows his eyes at Gabe before returning his attention to me. “If you don’t want to make the choice yourself, then at least send a private bidder in your place. With the right price, you could fill your bed in two weeks. A month at most.”
I scrub my palms over my face. Where the fuck is that sommelier? Italy? “Christ,” I murmur. “Do we really have to do this now?”
Annabelle lays a hand on my shoulder and I mirror the small smile she gives me. She’s a nice girl, caring beyond measure, and good to my father. Really good. She’s also seven months pregnant with a second son she probably expects to be around long enough to raise.
They all think they’ll be the one James keeps, but I already see the signs. How he turns a shoulder away from her instead of toward. He smiles at her, but the act never reaches his eyes. Warning Annabelle won’t do any good either. I’ve warned others before her, and none have believed me. My father is a great con.
“Speaking of young, available girls,” Gabe begins, then accepts the forked cherry tomato his date offers him. “I thought you planned to bring a date, Noah.”
“I forgot to call the service,” I lie. “Not really in the mood to entertain, anyway.”
Gabe barks a laugh that devours the tinkling sounds of glasses and silverware filling the semi-dark room. “You don’t have to entertain them,” he says, his pale skin turning a nice shade of pink. “They entertain you.”
I bite my tongue and busy my hands with unfolding a napkin over my lap. This is a prime example of why I can’t just run off and disappear. If I give up my place in the company, Gabe is next in line to take over for Dad, and look at him. Wasted before the main course. And his lack of respect for women . . . Is this what he plans to teach our younger brothers when it comes time to divvy up life lessons? One of us has to be an example for them.
Damn it, where is my wine?
Dad picks up the end of a butter knife and taps it against the table. “You look a bit on edge tonight, son. Something on your mind?”
I give him a firm shake of my head. “No. Nothing at all.” If you didn’t count his incessant need to match me to a wife. A first of many, if he had his way.
Dad starts to respond but stops short as movement closes in behind me, which means the sommelier has finally arrived. But I turn to find an acquaintance of my dad’s instead. Marco Underwood. He’s a wife jumper just like Dad. But worse. He’s the scumbag that doesn’t try to hide his intentions when he’s done. At least Dad tries to spare feelings.
“Marco,” Dad exclaims, standing to greet his friend.
The two side by side are a study in opposites. Dad’s the light, Marco the dark. Dad is pale, one hundred percent gray, thin, and very tall. Marco is black, bald, average in height, with a swollen middle. They’re the same age and have known each other for thirty years now, at least.
Marco’s low timbre sounds like it
carries from a deep well in the Earth. “I wish I’d known you would be here. We could have shared a meal tonight.”
“It’s a family celebration.”
Marco looks affronted. “Aren’t I family?”
Dad laughs. “Not yet.”
I blink rapidly, and Gabe has frozen in my peripheral. The truth of what they’re saying hovers in the air, just out of reach, like an unknown shape behind an opaque layer of rice paper. The outline is visible, but I’m sure the details I’m filling in are incorrect. They have to be, because surely Dad wouldn’t do what I think he’s done.
“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” I ask. The damn sommelier appears carrying two choices of red wine he must have personally paired with the meal I ordered. “Not now,” I tell him, waving him off. “Dad?”
Dad grins at everyone as if he’s about to surprise us with news of a new baby or wife or, most likely, grandchild—my brother Carter just married a nice girl. “Everyone, meet Hannah’s first husband.”
I’m out of my chair and glaring before any of my good sense catches on. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
Marco shifts beside me, but I only have eyes for dear old Dad. He raises a hand to warn Marco to stay out of it. The surrounding tables have gone completely silent. Waiters have stopped in their tracks.
“No,” Dad says in a low, level tone. “I suggest you keep your peace, son. This is neither the time nor the place.”
I throw my napkin on the table and look at my brother, who sits in stunned silence. “I’m sorry, Gabe, but I forgot I have something important at the office to take care of.”
He nods and swallows hard, then finally says, “Yeah, sure. Go.”
I feel bad for doing this to him, but when Dad and I get going, it’s not fit for public consumption. I need to get out of here before I really lose my temper.
I kiss Annabelle on the cheek and give Gabe’s date a single nod before shouldering past Marco and Dad. Neither of them tries stopping me, which is best for everyone. I’m too pissed to have this conversation with any amount of civility. I won’t let him force Hannah into a marriage with that man. No, fuck that.