Page 81 of Shadow's Surrender
Shadow:Me a bad influence? No fuckin’ way!
Scarlett:Ur getting blamed for my attitude. :)
Shadow:Fuck, baby, u’ve had an attitude since I met u. ;)
“Please put the phone away. It’s rude,” her mother said as she placed a piece of the gooey cheese on a slice of French bread.
Scarlett:I have to go.
Shadow:Want to go for a ride? 5:30?
Scarlett:Yes!!! Meet u at my place. Bye.
She slid the phone back into her pocket and then speared a shrimp with her fork and put it into her mouth.
“There’s your father,” Pamela said, her eyes brightening.
“Goody,” she said under her breath.
“My two favorite girls,” her dad said. He bent down and brushed his lips across her mother’s cheek.
“Where’s Bruce?” Pamela asked.
“He’s having a drink with Warren and a few of his friends. I’m going to meet up with him and Alan soon.” He looked up at Scarlett. “How’s my little girl doing?”
“Just fine,” she said as she stabbed another shrimp and popped it in her mouth.
“I’ll have a whiskey on ice,” he said to the waiter.
George Mansfield was larger than life, and when he entered a room, his presence commanded attention. He was so unlike her mother, who preferred to stay behind the scenes, thus allowing Scarlett’s dad to shine. Since she was a child, Scarlett remembered her mother telling her that a man needed to feel important, his ego to be constantly stroked, and it was up to the woman in his life to do so. She watched as Mother now withdrew to the background and her dad took the stage—front and center.
“How’s that job of yours going?” He tore off a hunk of French bread, then reached for the butter.
“It’s great—I really love it.” She ignored her mother’s almost inaudible snort.
“It’s good to work. It makes a person feel useful and alive.” His jowls jiggled as he chewed the piece of bread.
“I think fundraising is more work than going to an office,” her mother said, but her dad glanced at his phone instead of acknowledging her comment.
“Do you want the rest of my shrimp, Dad?” Scarlett pushed the large cocktail glass toward him.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?” he asked, already dipping one of the jumbo shrimp in the red sauce.
“I’m not very hungry,” she answered. A finger of nausea poked her stomach. Any moment now, the lion would begin to roar. The suspense ofwhenplayed havoc with her nerves.
“You need to eat more—you look like you lost weight. Do you need a cook?” He squirted lemon over the food.
She laughed, the tension easing up a bit. “I can manage to cook, Dad. I’m actually pretty good at it.”
George stopped for a moment, looked his daughter in the eyes, then resumed eating. “I didn’t know that. You’ll have to invite your mother and me over for dinner one night.”
“We still haven’t seen your place,” her mother said, bitterness lacing her voice.
“I didn’t think you wanted to. I mean, you haven’t called me since I moved.”
“Your mom’s just upset because she misses you.” George wiped his hands with a napkin.
That’s hard to believe.“It’s whatever, Dad. I’d love to have you”—she glanced at her mother sideways—“and Mom over some night. I’ll call you and we can set a date.”
