F*CK Reality: Take One Read online

  “But you did forget,” he insists.

  “Right, asshole. Let me get off here already.”

  Drew shrugs off my urgency with his own. “Wait. Are we still on for the game tomorrow night?”

  Apparently, the residual alcohol has a lasting effect on my memory. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  Sensing my confusion, he adds, “Tomorrow night. We’re meeting Cody and the guys for poker. You have time to sober up and get rehydrated by then, right?”

  Shit, the game.

  The first Saturday of each month is reserved for poker night. Each player buys in for one hundred dollars and plays until they’ve lost it all. If they choose to stay in, to win their money back, they offer up a bet of another variety.

  These challenges can range from asking the little old lady at the post office if she’d be interested in going to dinner, to running through the aisles at Walmart, throwing random items into strangers’ carts with a predetermined number of pieces you need to sneak in before you’re inevitably caught.

  To outsiders looking in, this pastime sounds both juvenile and ridiculous. To us, though, it’s a pastime we’ve participated in since high school, and one we absolutely refuse to give up.

  “I’ll be there. What time?”

  “What time?” Drew gasps. “Jesus Christ, Brock. It’s the same time every month. Eight. Bring the beer. It’s your turn.”

  “Right.”

  “Call me later,” he insists. “Let me know how bad things go with Daddy Warbucks. Don’t let him ground you, either. Not this weekend.”

  “Fuck you,” I spit. “I’ll call.”

  Before putting the phone down, I chance another look at the clock.

  I’m so screwed.

  Shit.

  As I drive the long winding path leading to my parents’ estate, I’m met with the sight of my bratty kid sister. Tate’s sitting on the steps outside the front door, looking down, and picking something from the toe of her shoe. I can’t see her face, so her mood is anyone’s guess.

  Tate recently turned sixteen. Supposedly, by the time my parents got married, they had decided not to have anymore kids. I mean, they already had perfection in me, so why risk it, right?

  Right.

  Turns out my mother, who has been known to be a little flighty, assumed she was going through early menopause and, taking her own medical advice, figured there was no way she could get pregnant. She was only forty at the time, and obliviously had grossly misdiagnosed herself.

  At first, Martin wasn’t happy about the pending arrival. However, it didn’t take him long to figure out what a blessing it could be to not have to rely on his fourteen-year-old fuck up of a son to someday run his company.

  That was until Tatum Lee Merritt was born.

  My sister came into the world in the exact same manner she spends every day living in it. In short, Tate’s a loud, crying, whining, pain in my ass. But, this said, I love her anyway.

  To be fair, there are times she’s not so nuts; granted, it’s usually when she’s sleeping. She loves who she loves in her own way and does what needs doing in her own time. Once recognizing her strong-willed personality and uncontrollable disposition, we all came to recognize, understand, and appreciate everything about her.

  “Where the hell have you been, Brock?” the little tyrant clips as she remains seated on the stairs. Her hand comes up to shield her eyes from the mid-afternoon sun, probably to ensure she can scold me with those as well.

  “Well good morning, my sweet sister,” I salute.

  “Dad’s pissed. Livid, even,” she enlightens. “He told me I can’t go to the mall today because my asshole of a brother couldn’t get out of bed to take me.”

  Holy fuck.

  Strike two. This is something else I’ve apparently forgotten I was supposed to do.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I question, realizing she’s home on a Thursday afternoon.

  My reasons for not being at work are legit. I took the rest of this week and all of next off for a planned vacation with friends, which was cancelled at the last minute. Tate shouldn’t be here hassling me while I’m dealing with a goddamn hangover.

  “It’s spring break, dumbass,” she curses again. “And now, thanks to you, a whole day of it’s been ruined.”

  I narrow my eyes, always—always—hating my little sister’s filthy, spoiled mouth.

  “Anyway, why do you look like that?” She points, rolling her eyes from my head to my feet, annoyingly judging my ragged appearance.

  “Grown up reasons, Tate,” I vaguely explain.

  Talking to my sister about being a responsible grown-up is the equivalent of her talking to me about a women’s monthly period. She doesn’t want to hear about having responsibilities and stress any more than I want to hear about tampons or cramps.

  I narrow my eyes, not because of the sun’s rays, but because this conversation, coupled with the hangover, is an enlightening shade of hell.

  “Where’s Dad now?”

  Standing, Tate uses the palms of her hands to wipe the dust from her ass. Her shorts are too goddamn short to be wearing outside of the house or to the mall—or at all. Her blonde hair is swept up in a high messy bun, and her pink tank top reveals entirely too much cleavage for my liking.

  Any other day I’d threaten to beat her ass myself if she didn’t walk inside to change. But right now, I’m busy readying myself to get my own ass ripped for missing lunch with Dad. So, lucky for her, she’s off the hook.

  “He’s in his office, but I’d steer clear if I were you,” she tersely recommends. “I hear the weather in France is nice this time of year. You should move there.”

  Last year, my parents decided Tate wouldn’t get the liberties of a car, her license, or legit dating privileges until she turned eighteen. I agreed, not that my two cents mattered, but I was a teenage boy once. My friends and I had one thing on our mind at all times. It didn’t matter where we were or who we were with, it always came down to girls without clothes.

  So, no way. Tate and boys are a cocktail for disaster.

  Because my parents had her so late in life, they’ve regrettably sheltered her. Now that she’s pulling away in order to state her independence, she’s also starting to get into trouble. She’s been caught missing curfew, sneaking out after our parents assume she’s gone to bed, and sneaking boys inside after they’ve resided to theirs.

  Wrapping my arm around her head, I pull her close and deliver a rough knuckle across her scalp. She’s pissed and understandably so. But I hate when she’s pissed at me.

  “I didn’t mean to forget, Tate. I didn’t. Things have been busy at work, and last night I went out with the guys...”

  That’s all I get to say.

  Pushing at my stomach, Tate frees herself and steps back. “Drew and Nick? I got stood up for a ride to the mall because you went out and got wasted with those idiots?”

  Ouch.

  Okay, right. Real facts and true experience may lead one to believe my friends are absolute idiots.

  Drew Gables is a thirty-year-old unemployed wannabe professional golfer who was once an airman in the United States Air Force. When a fall from a building he’d been working on busted up his knee, he was honorably discharged and was happy to be.

  He’s probably lazier than most men our age, and he most likely drinks to excess more than once a week. He doesn’t have a steady girlfriend, only because he won’t put in the effort to keep one. He’d rather go without sex than put any time into a relationship that would last longer than the morning after.

  All this said, Drew doesn’t ask me for money (never), mooch off me (much), or piss me off (okay, sometimes).

  Nick Givens is a little different, but not by a lot. Nick works at an automotive plant in Dallas. He just ended things with his longtime girlfriend, Katie, because she was asking for more than he was willing to give. Overall, he’s a good man, hard worker, and great friend.

  And no matter which
colorful way my sister chooses to describe either of them—friends are friends.

  “Don’t dog the guys, Tate. You have no friends.”

  Her big blue eyes, which mirror my mother’s, widen in surprise. “You did not just say that to me!” she shrieks. “Take it back.”

  Smiling smugly, I walk in front of her on my way to my father’s office.

  “I’ll take you to the mall when I’m done here. You can’t stay mad at me if I still do what I said I would do.”

  “Four hours later?” she snaps. “No one will be there! Everyone went this morning.”

  “Good,” I return, as I imagine her eyes drilling holes into my back. “You’re not dressed to go out, anyway. Change out of that costume and we’ll figure it out when I’m done.”

  I hear her emit a sharp gasp before my name is loudly cursed. The sounds of her stomping echo off the heavy marble floor as she makes her way to her room, most likely not to do as I’ve just instructed.

  Such a pain in the ass.

  Walking up to my dad’s office door, I find it’s closed. Since he works from home, it’s not surprising to find it shut. Normally I’d walk right in, but today I’m walking on eggshells, so I take the extra second to knock.

  He doesn’t answer.

  This isn’t unusual either. Once I’ve hit his shit list in doing whatever I’ve done to have pissed him off, my punishment is to be ignored. To this day, silent treatment—even at my age, given by my life’s role model—still stings.

  After pushing the door open, I step in and stop once I hear him on the phone. I don’t focus on him directly since I can already see with his flushed cheeks, tight jaw, and narrowed eyes, he’s pissed at me.

  I’d be pissed, too.

  “Right. Well, call me once you have her answer. We need this one, George. I trust you’ll get it done.”

  George.

  George McLain is my dad’s right-hand man. For all intents and purposes, it’s a job that should rightfully be mine. The problem is I’ve blown off enough lunch dates, ruined enough meetings, and fucked up enough paperwork that Dad’s stopped trying to mold me into being him. Over the last year, my progress in taking things more seriously has gotten better, but in his eyes, I have a lot left to prove. Missing this lunch has clearly set me back.

  “Sit,” he clips once he disconnects his call. “Good to see you today, Brock. I thought you’d fallen into some self-serving hole and forgotten all about our meeting. Glad to know I was wrong.”

  I don’t respond. If I do, it’ll lead to an even bigger scene than the one unfolding now. I hadn’t thought of our scheduled lunch together today as a meeting. I was off work, he knew that, so I was taking this as a time to catch up, father to son, but much to my dismay, I was mistaken.

  Dad looks to his watch, shakes his head and tsks. “Two hours and forty minutes late,” he tightly observes. “Were you aiming for a new record?”

  My mouth opens to respond, but he lifts his hand between us. His dark hair, graying at the sides, his dark eyes, and his large frame slowly sit back to get comfortable in his black leather chair. He rests his elbows on the chair arms and runs his fingers back and forth over his bottom lip. He’s thinking. This never bodes well for me.

  “Dad, I wanted—”

  “Don’t,” he interrupts, raising his finger in the air to silence me. “Don’t say anything yet.”

  Adjusting my guilt in my seat, I brace. This isn’t like the other times I’ve let him down. Not even close. Normally, he’d blow me off and move forward with whatever I had missed; be it a meeting, a call, a client, whatever ... but this is different.

  He’s as livid as Tate said he was.

  Reaching to his side, he opens his large desk drawer and tugs out what I know to be his best scotch and a single glass. I’m not being offered a drink of his expensive liquor. Any other time I would.

  Another indication that Dad’s fuming.

  “You don’t think much, do you?” he queries.

  I sit in place, saying nothing as he shifts the items on his desk to make room for his drink. It’s well after two o’clock in the afternoon, and he’s hitting the hard stuff.

  “Well, I’ve been doing some thinking for you,” he tells me, setting his glass on the desk and opening the top of the liquor’s carafe.

  The sound of glass hitting glass clinks before the stench of liquor hits the air. I’m assuming he must know I’m hungover, and he’s using this as an opportunity to taunt me.

  Once he realizes I’m not about to interrupt, he questions, “Do you know who George is having dinner with tonight?”

  “No,” I reply, and I don’t.

  I don’t like George, nor do I give two shits who he spends his evenings with.

  “Sabrina Sandoval,” he states. “Do you have any idea who she is?”

  “The model?”

  Sabrina Sandoval is an international supermodel who started her career fashioning lingerie. She’s untouchable to any marketing companies or groups as she doesn’t need them. Yet, George is apparently having dinner with her.

  Fat bastard.

  “Yes, the model,” he confirms. “Do you know why George is having dinner with her?”

  “He’s going to ask her to join Merritt?”

  He shakes his head. I’m wrong, but don’t understand how I could be until he advises, “Because I couldn’t count on you to do it.”

  Fuck. That hurt.

  “Dad, I could’ve...”

  His eyes narrow. “Could’ve what, Brock? Really? Please tell me what you could’ve done.”

  “Dad, I—”

  I’m not able to finish with whatever I would’ve come up with to convince him of anything. Before I can get out so much as an apology, he declares, “Six months. That’s how long you have.”

  I’m confused. “How long I have for what?”

  Leaning back again, he takes his drink with him and clutches it tightly in his hand.

  “You have six months to build a life outside of the one you’re supposedly living in now.”

  “A life?” I question. Maybe he’s already been drinking this afternoon; I just have no idea how much.

  “A life,” he concludes. “At least the start of one. An engagement.”

  Silence deafens the room, and the only sound coming from me is the wheezing I’m struggling to hide.

  “An engagement?”

  Dad continues as if I’m not totally fucking lost. “I’m not saying go out and knock some woman up by the time six months is over, by any means. However, knowing you as I do, you’ll probably do exactly that just to spite me.”

  What the fuck?

  “Dad?”

  “Brock, son, if you haven’t been paying attention, let me spell it out for you. I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

  “An ultimatum for what?”

  Exasperated by my overwhelming surprise, he advances, “You need to find a good woman, settle down, and start a future. Build a life.”

  “I have a life,” I pointlessly explain. It may not be one he approves of, but it’s one I do and that’s what matters.

  Now I’m no longer confused—I’m fucking annoyed.

  Rolling his eyes and setting his glass on top of his desk, he braces his arms there as well. “Believe it or not, what I’m about to say hurts me, but I’m saying it for your own good.”

  Sensing my unease, he drops a bomb I hadn’t seen coming, but should’ve. “How can I trust you to run this company the way I foresee it running, Brock, if you can’t even manage a family?”

  “So, if I don’t do what you’re demanding, you’ll do what?”

  “George is ready,” he states quietly. If I’m not mistaken, I hear guilt. “He’s learned everything I’ve taught him, and he’s applied those lessons in a way I would if I were him.”

  “George,” I repeat to myself.

  George is my age, boasting the same education as I do. He’s a go-getter, though. He’s also my father’s favorite, or for lack of a b
etter term, his pet. My dad says jump, George not only asks how high, he asks how many times.

  Goddamn over achiever.

  “I see you’re thinking, and I’d say slowly but surely, you’re getting my point,” he tells me.

  The cogs of my mind must be whirling in a way he can see, spinning themselves around this bullshit scare tactic.

  “Your mother worries. You’re not living up to your life’s potential, and it’s starting to upset her a great deal.”

  Dad stands, taking his drink with him, and walks to the bay window of his office to look out.

  His voice, laced with sadness and regret, reaches across the room with vague certainty. “I’ve loved you since you were a boy. I’ve always wanted good things for you and me for that matter. But, Brock...” He pauses, takes a drink, then a deep breath. He doesn’t look at me before concluding, “I’ve never been proud of you as a father should be proud of his son.”

  Fucking hell, that hurt, too.

  Angry and searching for cover, I mask my hurt. “Good thing I’m not your natural born son then. That should ease your disappointment a little.”

  He turns in place, and when his eyes meet mine, I find it’s not only me smothered in regret, but both of us—and equally so. We’re frustrated with each other.

  Giving me only a few moments to reason with what he’s doing, Dad leans his tall and broad frame into the wall while holding his emptying glass in front of him.

  “Do you remember the last woman you brought home to meet your mother and I?”

  Oh, that’s not fair.

  Apparently, he doesn’t care to hear my confirmation, so he continues. “Cammie,” he reminds me. “The waitress from Winston’s bar. Was that her name?” Before I can so much as nod in agreement, he asks, “Do you remember how that evening went?”

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  Though I’ve confirmed it, he presses forward with further reminders. “She thought Merritt Media was a company that broadcasted radio channels on the spaceships of NASA.” His lips are tight, and the vein in his temple is bulging with insult.

  Merritt Media provides its clients with a wide variety of marketing avenues. We represent celebrities of all kinds, garnering deals they couldn’t otherwise reach for themselves. My father’s contacts are strong; thus far his reputation is untarnished. I legitimately understand his concern for the future of his company and how my decisions could ultimately affect it. No one trusts a businessman with a woman on his arm who lacks common sense.