Rebel Soul

“Sounds great,” I reply, even though she’s already walking away.

I follow behind her through the immaculate house and out to the backyard. Everything out here, from the travertine tile patio to the oversized pool complete with a waterfall, is a show of status. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time someone dared dip a toe in the crystal blue, perfectly heated water.

Noticing my presence, my father makes a big show, eyeing me and then his watch. “West, how good of you to join us.”

He and my mother both are dressed to the nines, looking more fit to attend a derby than a backyard dinner, and like a good puppet, I’m decked out in my Sunday best as well, bowtie and all. Then again, even a backyard meal is a five-star affair for Roland and Prissy Larson.

“Happy to be here,” I lie dutifully, playing the part of the good son, even though there’s no one here to see the show.

A smug, victorious grin graces my father’s aristocratic features. “Come, sit. We have much to discuss.” He claims his place at the head of the table, not bothering to pull out my mother’s chair. Jackass. I pointedly make up for his lack of chivalry before taking my seat across from her.

Always one for dramatics, he takes his time getting to the point. However, Mother and I know better than to speak before him. Instead, I let my mind wander—to the will, to work, to the women from last night, random thoughts racing by at lightning speed.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime of silence, he speaks, his tone every bit as smug as the smile on his face. “I assume you’ve read the will?”

He’s after a reaction; he so desperately wants to see me mad and miserable so he can feed on my defeat. Fucker is like a demon who subsists on the misery of others.

I’m determined not to give him what he wants—ever. So, with a carefully blank face, I nod. “I have.”

His outward expression remains calm and stony, but the pulsing vein in his forehead is a dead giveaway to his mounting irritation. “And?”

I shrug. “And what? Are you worried about what your grand-name will be? I was thinking Pappy, but I’m sure that’s far too informal for you.” I do a mental fist pump when I see his jaw clench. This entire conversation is like a game of Battleship, and I’m determined to sink him. “You’re probably more of a grandfather though…” I allow my words to casually trail off, as if I’m simply thinking aloud and not pouring gasoline over an already raging inferno.

“Surely you don’t intend—” my father starts, but I quickly cut him off.

“Oh, I absolutely do. In fact, I’ve already begun looking for viable…candidates.”

It’s a rarity, but such a sight to see, when Roland Larson loses his composure, and right now, he’s damn near nuclear. “You mean to tell me you’re going to marry and produce an heir by your next birthday?” he asks, his voice strained as he raises a rocks glass of whiskey to his lips.

I grin, knowing good and well I’m about to tip him over the edge. “Oh, no, Father. I have no intentions of getting married. I guess you should have read the will better. I only need to knock someone up.”

He pitches the crystal tumbler at my head, but I duck, letting it shatter against the brick facade of the house. Crazy motherfucker. “You’ve shamed this family enough! I will not stand for you furthering it with a bastard child!” my father seethes before storming back into the house, undoubtedly heading to his study to re-read the document in question. Too bad he’s not going to like what he finds. My mother scurries after him, ready and willing to bear the brunt of his displeasure.

I remain seated, knowing the first course should be out momentarily. As awful as being here in this house is, the food Mrs. Zelda cooks up makes it almost worth it.

I check my watch, and, sure enough, the minute the second hand hits the top of the hour, the french doors open and a lone server steps out. He places my plate before me, and my mouth waters. “Butternut squash ravioli with rosemary browned butter. Enjoy.”

I turn in my seat to thank the server, but he’s already scurried back into the house, no doubt scared of my father’s wrath. Roland Larson makes it a point to never be friendly with his staff—be it here or at the office, he firmly believes that thanking someone for their services is beneath him if he’s paying them. Like I said…jackass.

With nothing else to do, I dig into the food before me. The aromatic flavors burst across my tongue, and my eyes damn near roll back in my head. How in the hell Mrs. Zelda packs so much flavor into two small pockets of dough is beyond me, but I’m thankful all the same. Idly, I wonder if I could convince her to come work for me instead.