Page 47 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“You forged my name to do it,” Ben says.
“No one questions the golden boy,” Kent snaps. “That’s the point, Ben. You walk around with that last name like it’s armor, and things just fall in place. Name’s on the factory, even thoughyou didn’t do a damn thing to put it there. I give thirty years of my life to this place and what do I get? Benched. Passed over. Stuck babysitting a bleeding-heart brat with a trust fund and a fantasy. I gave this place everything. Time for it to give something back.”
Ben stares at him. Kent has gone past denial and into self-righteousness. It’s partially the booze, but that’s not the whole story. He wants Ben to know everything he’s held back. It feels good to let go after a life of faking it. Ben can sympathize with that, if nothing else.
Ben’s voice doesn’t rise, but there’s a crack in it, low and close. “I trusted you.Dadtrusted you. I thought … You were supposed to be looking out for the plant.”
“I was. I know what you’d do to this place, kiddo,” Kent says, eyes like stone. “I could see the writing on the wall. You want to play CEO, be my guest. But you’re not built for it. Never were, no matter how much your dad doesn’t want to acknowledge it. And when he finally hands you the reins, you’re going to drive the whole thing straight into the ground. Because you don’t have the first goddamn clue how the world really works.”
He pauses, then smiles, slow and cutting.
“You always were your mother’s son,” he says, almost like it’s an afterthought. Almost fond. “Soft. Naive. Floating through life on good intentions and family money. She was the same. Thought the world could be different if she was just sweet enough. Charity balls and thank you cards. Like that’s real work.”
Ben flinches, but Kent doesn’t stop. He leans in, voice thick with contempt, the stink of scotch on his breath. “She was a spoiled brat. And so are you.”
There’s a sound beside Ben. Jackson. Moving, instinctively, protectively, just a little closer.
And that’s when Kent sees it: the phone in Jackson’s hand. The pulsing square of the voice recorder app.
Kent’s expression warps with rage. “You little shit?—”
He lunges.
Jackson tries to backpedal but Kent’s already on him, fast, drunk, wild-eyed, fingers clawing for the phone.
Ben doesn’t think. It’s all instinct as he shoves himself into the middle of it. Kent grabs Ben by the lapels and yanks, a sudden, vicious snap of motion. Ben’s dress shoes skid on the polished floor, and leave the Earth.
He hits the console table at an angle that makes the world go white. Something gives with a sickening crack. Wood, maybe, or bone. Then there’s the heat, flashing through his ribs, his chest, his shoulder. His whole left side is a brushfire of pain.
Ben wheezes, trying to pull in air. All he gets is static.
Above him there’s just vague movement and noise. Kent, bellowing, a slurred, spit-flecked sound, too close, too loud. Jackson, crouched low, shielding Ben, shoving Kent back with one arm.
Someone shouts his name.
Lou. Big and furious and charging in, hauling Kent up by the collar like a man ten years younger. Kent snarls and thrashes, but Lou’s already dragging him back, slamming him into the bookshelf hard enough to make the curios rattle.
Pina’s right behind him, phone to her ear, voice sharp and clipped. “Yes. The Whitaker place over on Ashmere Lane. It’s…fuck….it’s….it’s got the stupid fucking fancy name.”
“Hildebrandt Hall,” Jackson barks, too loud, too frantic, as he drops back into view.
Ben tries a smile, but he’s not sure it has the reassuring effect he intended. “You… paid attention to the tour,” he manages, voice thin and thready.
“Of course I did,” Jackson says, rough and low and a little watery, his hands cradling Ben’s face.
“I think—” Ben’s throat constricts. “I think something’s broken.”
Jackson’s fingers ghost gently over Ben’s chest, horrified but careful. “Okay. That’s okay. We’re getting you help. Just hang on.”
Ben blinks, eyes swimming. “I’m sorry.”
Jackson shakes his head like it hurts to hear. “No. No. Not your fault,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.”
“Sometimes you… just say sorry… because you are sorry people are upset… Jackson.” Ben curls tighter into himself. He doesn’t even know where toputthe pain. It’s everywhere. The room feels a mile wide, loud with the sound of too many voices swelling in the hallway. There’s blood on his palm. Glass in his hair. And the only thing holding him together is the warmth of Jackson’s hands.
And then a new voice cuts through it all.
“Benny?”
