Page 4 of Billionaire and the Barista

“Well maybe you will think this is funny, you’re going to work with your uncle.”

“What? No. Is James moving back to the States?” I had no interest in property development. And I didn’t particularly like my uncle. He was father’s younger brother, and he had an attitude because he lived in Europe. Like fucking so what. He could live anywhere in the world, and he would still be more impressed with himself than anyone else.

“It’s already arranged. You leave in two days. That should give you time to say your good-byes. And pack what you need.”

“You expect me to pack everything up, let everyone know I’m leaving the country, make arrangements to have my bikes and cars shipped overseas? What the hell?”

“You won’t need to ship anything overseas. You don't need a car in Amsterdam.”

“I’m not going to The Netherlands.” I crossed my arms and breathed heavily through my nose.

My father had the gall to sit there and look down his nose at me. He had made a decision, and that was it as far as he was concerned.

“You are going. It’s time to grow up and be a man.”

“I am a man,” I growled.

“You are an old boy. You have to grow up and learn responsibilities. We have coddled you for too long.”

“I won’t go.” It was a simple decision. He couldn’t make me.

“Then you have two days to be out of the house.”

“Mother would never let you,” I wanted to lunge for him.

“She is in complete agreement with me. You need to grow up son. It will either be through family guidance, or on your own. And when I say on your own, I mean without any assistance from us. You leave here with your clothes, and that's it. I paid for all your fancy cars and toys, so technically they are mine.”

Pain and anger shot through my head. It was as if a hot railroad tie was piercing my skull, and my brain was melting like whipped butter. Red fire glowed behind my eyes, and my pulse throbbed in my temples. He had a vice around my balls. Cutting me off was a low blow. I couldn’t imagine that mother would be okay with this.

We stared at each other for a long time. There wasn’t anything else to say. He won and he knew it. I had packing to do. I stormed out of his study, leaving him sitting there in a pool of light in that stupid old man bathrobe.

Normally I would walk quietly up to my room so as not to disturb my mother. This morning, I no longer cared. I stomped as I stormed up to my room. I slammed the door behind me. I glared at my four walls. My mother had insisted on remodeling my room after I graduated college. Any tiny bit of character that it had acquired during those four years was gone. I had no desk, no posters, nothing that hinted at the needs of a college student.

Four and a half years before that, the summer between high school and college, she had remodeled the room to reflect my needs as a college student. High school trophies from sports were removed from display, my gaming posters were taken down, the walls of my youth were painted to reflect a more mature student.

Now they reflected a generic adult presence. This wasn’t my room, and if I opened my eyes, I would realize it never had been. It had been my mother’s showcase to interior decoration that reflected an age, not a person, and certainly not me, her son.

The part I hated the most, the part that burned my soul was that dad was right. I didn’t need to grow up and get the hell out of his house and away from him. I hated that I had a price, and he knew it.

My entire life I was told what I would be doing, what I would be studying. I never formed any of my own plans or dreamed my own dreams because I knew I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

I turned when I heard a soft tapping and then my mother’s voice, “Nathan?”

“Did I wake you up, Mom? I’m sorry.”

“No, I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I guess you spoke to your father?”

“And you agree with him?”

It broke my heart to see her nod. “You need to become the great man I know you are to be. But if you keep partying and being a playboy, I’m afraid you have lost your way.”

“I don’t want to go to Amsterdam.” I sat on my bed and lay back with a flop.

Mom sat next to me and patted my leg.

“I don’t want you to go either, but it’s for the best.”

“He wants to cut me off,” I complained.

“That’s also for the best.”

I sat up and looked at the woman who was my mother. It felt like I didn’t know her. My father had always been a bastard, but Mom had always had my back. Always, until now.

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