Page 3 of Bombshell

I slide into the room behind him, resolved to talk as calmly as I can, until I get a better feel for how he sees me. The room is a cheap approximation of something at Windfall, with slightly warped wood coverings on the walls, and thin, industrial grade carpet on the floor. A wood-veneered desk sits squarely in the center of the room, and Angus wheels his way behind it, his lip curling into a sneer as the sharp edge of the desk catches the fabric of his suit near his elbow and nearly ripping it.

“Fuck!” he says, he eyes flailing for someone to complain to, but there is only me. He shifts in his chair and turns a bug-eyed glare on me. “Having a nice time at the wedding, boy?”

Boy? Five seconds in and I’m already fantasizing about hitting him.

“It’s a very nice wedding, sir,” I say, starting with something neutral but respectful. I’d much rather tell him that he needs to treat me with some respect. But I get the sense that he doesn’t take verbal orders. If I want respect, I’m going to have to demand it through actions.

“Been spending a lot of time with my daughter?”

“Yes, sir. She’s very special—”

“Of course she’s special! She’s a MacLaine.” He says it like he can’t believe he has to tell me the sky is blue.

“Right, I—”

“And what do you hope to gain by seeing her?” he asks, his eyebrow raised. Otherwise, his face remains neutral and business-like. It’s his poker face, but a man like him doesn’t gamble. He buys, sells, and takes—that’s what he’s really hiding behind that mask.

This is a negotiation.

“Nothing besides her company,” I say, trying to deflect his suspicions while pretending I’m not afraid of the consequences of my answer. One wrong step and the discussion portion of this chat will be over.

“Bullshit,” he says casually, then sniffs.

He’ll have to do better to unbalance me. “Believe me. Don’t believe me. I can’t change that.”

His dark eyes narrow to slits, studying me like a boa constrictor regarding a mouse, his full attention on me for the first time. He takes stock of my appearance, his eyes raking my expensive tuxedo, my shiny Italian shoes. Does he see the price tags that go along with each? Does he wonder how I paid for them? Does he know she bought them for me?

“I see why she likes you,” he says, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You clean up alright, anyway, and you don’t mind playing the part you’re given, do you?”

A pregnant pause unfolds, both of us refusing to break eye contact.

“Meaning?” I say.

“You know EXACTLY—” his voice roars out of his mouth, moving the air around me and making the hair on my neck stand up, “—what I am talking about! Who paid for that tuxedo you’re wearing? ”

I tried to tell Adair it wasn’t a good idea. And it turns out we were both right. I was right to think her father—who forces everyone at Windfall to live under his surveillance—would not approve. But she was also right. Because she can’t let this ugly toad’s whims control everything. We can’t.

I grit my teeth, trying to calm my temper by reminding myself of her, of the importance of salvaging as much as I can from this conversation. He doesn’t like me. Now. He might not ever like me. But he doesn’t get a say in how she feels about me.

“Adair paid for it,” I say. There’s no point in lying about it. Then, I’ll just be what he wants me to be: a gold digger and a liar.

“Suddenly stupid, boy?” Angus roars again. “No. No. You’re not, though, are you? If you took a swing at me—and I can tell you want to—this would all be over in a moment. Better to play the part you know she wants: the misunderstood pauper, the diamond in the rough. Stick to it, you think, keep yourself under control, and the door to all of this will stay open.” He waves expansively, meaning the wedding, the country club, everything he has that I don’t.

“I don’t want anything of yours.” I shrug, hoping it will get under his skin. He wants me cowed. He couldn’t do it if he tried. Not after what I’ve been through in life.

“A lie. You’ve had your eye on the jewel of my fortune,” he seethes, and I start to protest, but he cuts me off, “You want my daughter.”

For a moment, I’m taken aback, enough to blurt out,“Adair is not your property.”

It sounds naive, even to me.

“She IS mine, you stupid boy.” His chest is a bellows, pumping air to fuel his hatred, and he takes a moment to right himself, out of breath from his own theatrics. “I know you. Had some of my people look into you. Orphan. Bounced around the foster system. A sealed juvenile record. What exactly did you do, boy?”

Of course, he looked into my past. I’d convinced myself that his indifference to Adair extended to me. But she came home with me for Christmas. She ran to me on Thanksgiving. He might not give a shit about her emotionally, but he’s paying attention to every move she makes. Why else would he put cameras up all over his grounds? Adair is just another possession to be guarded, in his eyes. He can keep her in a case and bring her out for special occasions. “I don’t owe you any answers,” I say, my self-control nearly depleted. If he thinks I won’t hit him because he’s in a wheelchair, he’s sorely mistaken. The only reason I haven’t done it yet is Adair. Now, I’m beginning to think she’s the reason I should punch him.

“I already know what’s in those records, of course,” he continues, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth, I know things are going from bad to ugly. “You stabbed your own father—”

“After he beat my mother to death,” I add in a deadly soft voice, “or was that not in your summary?”