Page 18 of Branded
Understanding the abuse.
Pulling back further.
But it was nearly impossible to cut ties with someone who owned a private jet. If I didn’t talk to him once a week, he’d fly out, show up on my porch, and berate me in person.
The calls were easier.
Plus, it made everything in my life seem easier after dealing with the maelstrom that was my father.
“I’m using my techniques,” I said calmly. “And I’m glad that you’re doing well?—”
“You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”
My molars grinding together. My spine straightening. My free hand clenching. But calm, and words were working now, so I was going to keep going with that. “How are you doing, Dad?”
“Terrible,” he grumbled. “I’m too busy and now the company wants to offer me a promotion. I asked them how they expected that I take on more responsibility and they responded by opening their checkbooks.”
“That’s…great.” It sounded like hell for the employees who worked under him, but my father had been with the company for almost twenty years, so what did I know?
Maybe they liked pompous assholes.
And considering they’d kept him around for two decades, I supposed that was true.
He prattled on, telling me about the money (extensive), his new department he was taking over (“a complete mess filled with idiots”), and his golf game (the only meaningful hobby in his opinion).
The prattling and complaining—all loud, all intense, all making my teeth clench together, my spine prickle—cut off precisely ten minutes later.
Ten eternal minutes later.
But my dad had a time limit.
Ten minutes to check in with his children per week.
So, I endured. Managed to get in a few more responses, which I knew my father barely heard, but which were important for me because I needed practice engaging in uncomfortable conversations.
One day, I wanted to be in a situation that would normally trigger me and be able to handle it with aplomb.
That was my dream.
And maybe it was a small one.
But when my father brushed me off the phone as quickly as he’d engaged me—those ten minutes up—and I put my cell down, I knew that I was going to do it someday.
Keep working.
Keep getting better.
Keep trying.
Keep avoiding the type of men who were big and loud and would stifle me, who would prevent all my hard work from meaning anything.
Keep avoiding Conner Smith.
Because he would crush me.
Seven
Smitty
