Page 15 of Vicious Little Snakes
As soon as I enter the room, I see my mom enter the opposite end, from the main house. She’s speaking animatedly on her phone, probably to the event planners. A list is handed to our private chef, Simon, before she turns to notice me. She motions with her head to the plate sitting on the island full of eggs and bacon before returning to her conversation.
“Thanks, Simon,” I say to the person who actually made it.
“Bonne nourriture pour un garçon qui grandit.”Good food for a growing boy.
He knows I don’t speak French, but he’s been trying to teach me for years. So I respond back with the only thing that ever stuck.
“À quelle distance est le bordel?”How far away is the whorehouse?
Simon barks out a laugh, and I grab the bacon, shoving a piece in my mouth as I give a wave. My mom’s pointing a finger as she snaps orders into the phone, but I sneak around the island and nab her hand, spinning her around, and plant a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Bye, killer.”
“Liam, you need more than that—” she complains, covering the phone and smiling, pointing her chin at the plate. “Eat more, darling.”
I give a wink as I make my getaway, holding up the other piece of bacon before descending down the staff stairs hoping to cut past my father’s office without him noticing.
He’s been on my back lately about schools, expectations, and legacy. And by lately, I mean my whole life. This year, however, his lectures feel like they’re on a fucking loop. I don’t have it in me to have another “I know what’s best for you” conversation. He’s too much sometimes. There’s no compromise, only what he sees for me. It’s crazy that nobody ever asks my opinion about my own life.
My feet hit the bottom of the stairs like I’m walking on marshmallows. I’m moving fast but also so quietly that I could seriously become a ninja.Be one with the floor. No sound, Liam.
I cut around the banister so close that my jacket bunches, dragging against the newel post. I’m staring at my father’s office door, and that means that now isn’t the time to take any loud chances. Just in case he’s home.
My shoulders ease once I’m about ten feet away, turning into the hall that leads to the foyer.
I glance over my shoulder, the side of my mouth ticking up—“Fuck yeah.I’m in the clear”—as my chin swings back toward the front doors, victorious, when something shifts out of the corner of my eye, forcing me to do a double take.
Shit.
A voice booms from the library, “Liam. I’m glad I caught you.”
The mountain of a man called my father stands in the doorway wearing his signature navy crewneck sweater, monogrammed with our family crest.
I stand straighter and give a tight nod.
“Dad. I mean, sir,” I say, to his immediate frown. “I didn’t realize you were out of the office this morning.”
I can’t pinpoint when he stopped being my dad and became someone I called “sir.” But that’s where we are, and it feels like another burden I have to carry.
When I was ten, he took me to work with him. I remember being so excited because I couldn’t wait to see what he did and sit at his colossal desk that faced the windows. Ones that had a complete view of the city. It was better than going to Disney World.
He was better.
But like every other ten-year-old, I got bored quickly and started wandering around the office floor. I got turned around and scared, even though Dad had told me to stay close, but thankfully, one of the security guards found me.
As we walked back to my dad’s office, the guard showed me a framed poem by William Ernest Henley—“Invictus.” It was given to my father by the staff during an anniversary party for the company they’d had months prior.
My father is esteemed, revered by everyone, and they’d given it to him out of respect for his leadership. At that moment, he became the greatest man I knew and everything I wanted to be.
He wasmyhero. That’s who he’s always been for me. The one man I have to help me through life’s storms—to lead me.
Until now—now it feels like we’re always at war with each other, and I kind of wish I could go back and not get lost so he’d just be a man. Not a hero. Maybe then I’d have enough fucking backbone to be my own.
“Sorry, sir.” My father smirks at me as my eyes dart to the door and back. “I was just heading out to school.”
“This’ll only take a moment. Good thing I was in the library, or I may have missed you.”
He’s aware that I was trying to make an escape. The amusement in his eyes is almost obnoxious.
