There’s no mistaking the sarcastic bite to the last word. Maybe my assistant is as attracted to me as I am to her.
I board the elevator once the doors slide open. Turning back to face her, I shoot her one of my dimpled smiles. “Have a great afternoon, Isabella.”
“You too,” she drawls with a forced grin. “I hope you have the time of your life.”
***
Why the fuck do I do this to myself? I know better.
“Barrett, are you listening to me?”
I look over the rim of the glass in my hand. It’s perched at my mouth. I’m not a day drinker, but today is a special occasion. I’ve spent the last two hours in a hotel suite with my mother. If that doesn’t call for getting inebriated mid-afternoon, I don’t know what the hell does.
“I’m listening,” I say calmly. “You were talking about Stella Jerkins and her hair extensions.”
“Her wig,” she corrects me with a manicured fingernail wagging in my direction across the table. “The color is dreadful.”
It’s probably a step up from the ruby red mess of curls sitting atop my mother’s head. She wants the world to believe that she’s never donned a wig, yet I know that she has a collection that numbers in the hundreds.
She tips her stylist extra well to keep the secret hidden from her friends back in Chicago.
I empty the last of the alcohol in my glass. I’ve ordered room service multiple times since I arrived since my mother couldn’t decide what to eat for lunch. Each order was punctuated with a glass of whiskey for me. I lost count, but I’d guess it’s up to three or four.
I can still walk a straight line, so I stand readying to raid the mini bar. “I need another drink. Do you want anything, Mother?”
“You should call me Monica.”
I give her a look that can only rival the ones she must get when she walks down the street with that wig on her head. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“I look too young to be your mother.” That’s followed by a nervous laugh from her.
“You were thirty-two when I was born.” I point out waving the empty glass in the air. “That makes you sixty plus.”
“Shush your mouth.” She tosses a linen napkin in my direction. “You may be thirty-four, but you still need to show me respect.”
I respect her. I respect that she held it together when my father couldn’t keep his hands off other women. Monica stuck it out through those affairs because she wanted me to have a stable home life.
It was an innocent mist
ake on her part. I knew what my dad was up to. I overheard the phone conversations he had with his mistresses. I smelled the overly sweet perfume on his clothes when he’d come back to Chicago after his business trips to New York.
“Why are you here?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to ask since she surprised me early this morning with a call that started with the words I wasn’t in the mood to hear. “I’m in Manhattan, son.”
She pops out of the chair she’s been settled in. “Your father called me after all these years. He said you’ve been asking questions. I thought it would always be us against them.”
Them. My half-siblings. They are the three people on this earth that she’s fought to keep me from.
She used guilt as her ammunition. I fell in line for the most part because my efforts to contact my oldest sister were always met with silence. After years of trying, I gave up until now.
“Times have changed.” I glare at her. “A mother shouldn’t expect a sacrifice like that from her only child to satisfy her selfish need to punish his father.”
“You know that he didn’t want you around after that day. It was too hard after what you did.”
A slap in the face wouldn’t sting as much. My dad cut me from his life almost twenty years ago. Monica hopped on that bandwagon and steered it in the direction she wanted it to go.
She alienated me from my family so she could call me her own.
“You should have stood up for me.” I clench the glass in my hand. “I was a fifteen-year-old kid.”