Dark Intentions - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,37

food and walks away.

Our entrees haven't arrived yet and I hope that he hasn't left for good. A few moments later, I see Lincoln disappear into the bathroom.

21

Dante

I don't want to follow him, and I'm not intending on apologizing. Of course, I shouldn't tell him what kind of father he should be since I have no intentions of ever being one myself.

Surprisingly, given our mom's propensity to marry, Lincoln and I share the same asshole, who we call dad.

He's arrogant, self-important, spoiled, life of the party, and everyone loves him. New York society worships at his feet, and if he is invited to a dinner party, you know it's going to be a good one.

Our father is the famous Archibald Tanner, a playboy, a womanizer, part owner of Playboy magazine, and a critically renowned and lauded novelist.

Unlike Mom, he came from extreme poverty, grew up on a farm in Ohio, spent all of his youth reading books and studying, to make sure that he never stepped foot or had to work hard in his life again.

There was an article in Vanity Fair a few years back, which said that he lived many lifetimes in one, and that his adventures, and his novels, and his life were something to be admired. I don't know whether the writer of that article was a friend of his, or just an admiring, aspiring novelist with stars in his eyes.

But the article even made his years of drug and alcohol addiction sound like something glamorous and fun to experience. I was pissed and fuming with anger when I read that and saw the cover at all the newspaper stands at the airports.

The managing editor wanted nothing to do with it because he had a big falling out with Dad. Apparently, Archibald Tanner threw a fit after the editor cut out some parts of the article that he’d submitted, called him names, and got himself fired.

When the editor came into the office the following morning, he found little disposable cups filled with urine right outside his door.

As it turned out, Mom had more sway with the owners of the magazine than the editor because, I later found out, that she was the one who got that story about Archibald published in order to improve his image.

Of course, there was no proof that my father had anything to do with the cups, but he was seen in the building, and he had just gone on a loud, obnoxious, entitled rant, trying to get that editor fired.

These are the kinds of stories that never make it into the light of day because they're not glamorous and they're not fun. And no one wants to discuss the depths to which addiction will often lead you, and how little you will care, when you’re down there, about your reputation or anything as consequential.

None of this is, of course, an excuse, and I'm not excusing him at all. I'm just trying to offer different facets of his personality, and explain why Lincoln got so mad at me when I compared him at all to our father.

I knock on the stall door and tell him to open it.

"Go away."

"Look, I wasn't comparing you to him as a man, not at all. I shouldn't have said that,” I say, knowingly. “Okay. But you and I both know that he was a shitty father who worked all the time and eventually partied all the time."

"I don't party," Lincoln says.

He slams the stall door open so quickly that I practically jump out of the way.

"Do you know how many times the firm actually hired hookers to come to our floor and keep all of us entertained, so to speak? Just so that we're happy putting in a hundred hour weeks,” Lincoln demands to know. “Do you know what that's like to be the only guy there who says no?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s not about that. I’m not like that. I have my wife at home and I don't want to cheat on her. Do you know that they don't invite me out anymore? Do you know how much harder it is for me to make my career? You don't fucking know anything.”

He points his finger in my face. I can't remember the last time I've seen him this angry.

"So, don't tell me that I'll be anything like our father. He's the scum of the earth. He never gave a shit about either of us. We could have been the kids of his housekeeper for all