Page 16 of Tickled Pink

From the corner of my eye, I catch the proud smirk on his chin. He’s pissed — rightfully so — but even I know he can’t fault me for the move I just played.

“An injunction, on Christmas Eve?” he asks. “Didn’t think you had it in you, kid.”

I don’t stop. “It was now or never. Someone had to keep your client in jail.”

My father goes quiet, but he stays in line with me toward the elevator. As we reach it, I slap the call button and glance up at the numbers to see how long I need to wait… and how long I have to extend this conversation to make my victory exit.

“Your skills are wasted here, you know.”

I glance at him, amused. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure my boss will think they came in handy today.”

The elevator doors open and I wait as others step off. Unfortunately, the Pandora’s Box that is this conversation means my well-timed exit will have to wait.

My father follows me on and I hit 15.

“Is this really what you want?” he asks me. “To be some junior partner lackey for these people?”

I snort. “I was a junior partner lackey for you, too.”

“And that carried a far heavier weight there than it does here.” He narrows his eyes. “You need to give up this charade, Max. It’s time for you to stop messing around and come home.”

I don’t even blink. “I am home.”

“Your real home.”

“This is my real home.”

He sighs with frustration. “Grow up, Max. You’re killing your mother with this, you know.”

“Really?” I chortle. “Because she seemed fine when I spoke to her three days ago. And last week. And the week before that. And the week before that...”

He fixes his jaw. “Max…”

“Believe me, Dad. The only one I’m killing by being my own man is you.”

The elevator doors close with no one but the two of us inside, and I dig my feet in.

Here we go.

My father turns to face me. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this year has been?” he spits through his teeth. “My only son — my namesake — my legacy — walked out on me.”

I force my eyes to stop rolling. I’ve heard this shit before.

“Maybe your insistence on making everything about you had a little something to do with that,” I say.

“And when I’m dead, it’ll be about you — just like it was all about my father until he was six feet under. That’s how this works, Max. A man serves his father.”

“No,” I say.

“No?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean that when serving a father means abandoning morality, ethics, and compassion in order to collect a bigger paycheck, then he’s no father worth serving.” I stare at him, his eyes icy cold. “It’s Christmas Eve, Dad. Instead of taking a few days off to spend with Mom, you’re here — three-thousand miles away — arguing on behalf of a drug dealer so he can spend a little less time in jail and a little more time cutting you in on profits.”

“I came here on Christmas Eve so I could see my son,” he says.

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