Page 7 of The Fight

I tilt my head. “A country club? What’s going on?”

Don’t get me wrong, we aren’t poor, but we aren’t really wealthy either. We’re comfortable, that’s it.

She smiles. “Don’t ask questions. You’ll see.”

She’s been this way since Dad died—elusive, mysterious, weird—so this isn’t odd behavior, but it still has me scratching my head, wondering what the fuck is going on.

I don’t get a chance to ask any more questions before she floats back out of my room and down the hall.

So much for catching some more z’s. Guess I better start picking out my outfit and taming my hair now.

CHAPTER FIVE

SHAY

Iwalk into the country club, the familiar scent of polished wood and old money hitting me the moment I step through the doors and into the lobby. Everything here is pristine—clean. White marble floors with splashes of gray that look like they’ve taken hours to polish. Thick, brown furniture positioned perfectly. Even the chandelier hanging above us glimmers with a certain wealth to it.

I’ve never really felt at home here. Even as a kid, I knew I didn’t fit into this world, but my dad? He thrives in it. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him—Henry Cornell, the man who’s never lost a case. The man who built his reputation on being untouchable, just like he expects me to be.

“Mr. Cornell, it’s a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight,” the woman behind the concierge desk speaks, drawing my attention to her before she moves from behind it and stops in front of us.

My dad nods and adjusts the front of his suit. “Thank you, Abigail. Would you mind showing us to the table I’ve reserved?”

I notice he doesn’t really know her name—he just did a quick glance at her name tag, but it’s important for people to feel connected to him. It’s the reason he shines in his work. His lookshelp too. He has dark hair like me, but a few gray strands pepper within it, showing his age. His nose is a little wider too, but not enough to notice the difference unless you’re really looking at us. His eyes are the same shape as mine, but instead of blue, they’re a deep umber.

“Of course. Follow me.”

I let my dad take the lead after Abigail as I trail behind. We move right, passing the Royal Ballroom, as they call it, and enter the Garden Room beside it. Normally, I don’t question my dad. He does his thing, and I do mine, all while collecting a hefty “allowance” for staying out of trouble and minding my manners when he, or any significant public figure, is around. But tonight seems odd.

Of course, we have dinners here frequently. It’s my dad’s choice of location when meeting with city officials or other big public figures, but it normally happens in the Royal Ballroom. To me, it’s just another way for him to throw his dick on the table and show everyone just how powerful he is. The Garden Room is more intimate, though. A little smaller, not as dramatic with the decor, and all around somewhat cozy in a sense. All of the things my father does not exude.

Crystal sconces line the walls, and floral artwork hangs perfectly spaced in thick, bronze frames. Everything is splashed in earthy tones with pops of light pastels—light coral and sky blue, just like most things in Florida, trying to bring the beach vibe inside. The chairs are the same as the other room too, but instead of a deep royal blue, they’re a sandy tan.

Abigail leads us to a small, round table somewhat in the center of the room. It doesn’t stand out since there are numerous others positioned around it, but it still feels out of place. Dad normally prefers a back corner for conducting business.

He takes his seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does, and I take the seat to his right.

“I appreciate you coming tonight,” he remarks, pulling his phone from his pocket, not even bothering to look at me.

“Not like I had a choice, Dad.” And I didn’t. This is just part of being the Golden Boy’s son.

He doesn’t bite at my comment. Instead, he just locks his phone and sets it on the table between us. “Our guests should be here any moment now.”

I nod, but my mind moves elsewhere. All day, I haven’t been able to shake the image of the ring girl from last night. Her lips, her touch, the way she stormed out of the locker room like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. And that last thing alone is gnawing at me more than I’d like to admit.

“So, who are we meeting this time?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the thoughts of her.

He straightens his tie, a habit of his whenever he’s about to discuss something he considers important. “You’ll see soon enough. It’s… personal.”

That piques my interest. Dad doesn’t do personal. Everything with him is business, calculated and precise. If he says it’s personal, that means there is more to this than another casual dinner at the club.

Before I can press him for more information, I catch Abigail returning with a couple in tow from the corner of my eye. My dad stands, a rare smile pulling at his lips as he steps forward to greet them. I rise as well, more out of habit than anything, and then I turn my head and seeher.

She’s wearing a black dress that hugs her body in all the right places, the kind that is elegant but has just enough edge to tell you she doesn’t fit in with the country club crowd—and she doesn’t care. The neckline dips low enough to tease but not enough to give anything away. Her hair is up too, different from last night, knotted tightly on top of her head with a few loosecurls spiraling down the sides. She isn’t over-the-top, but fuck. She looks hot.

“Shay,” my dad’s voice cuts through the haze, drawing me back to the present. He gestures to the woman standing beside her, the one I hardly even noticed, who is looking at me with an awkward, forced smile. “I’d like you to meet Sylvia Hemmingway. Sylvia, this is my son, Shay.”

Sylvia is shorter than her, but not by much. She has blue eyes and blonde hair too—just like my mom. It’s odd, really. Because after you lose someone, you always try to find the similarities in other people. Sure, this woman isn’t my mother—never could be—but at a quick glance, it definitely has me doing a double take.

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