Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,25

and I’m stressed.” And his recent bank loans wouldn’t last forever. Loans that had to be repaid.

His father pulled up to his full height. Even bald with skin sagging over his frail bones, he could be formidable: the Great Wall of Maxwell David the Second. “This will be the last time you suggest using more of my money. The estate will go to your mother. My savings will support her and your sister and your sister’s kids, and their goddamn kids, God willing. I won’t budge on this, Jack. It’s the only peace I have.”

To provide for his family when he’s gone. Guilt and helplessness thickened his throat. Jack understood his father’s vehemence, but the bigger picture haunted him, too. A derelict town with broken windows and mangy dogs, the factory closed, unemployment sucking the life from Whichway. “I won’t mention it again,” he murmured, feeling boxed in.

He wouldn’t suggest selling his assets, either, a solution he’d offered before. His father had kiboshed that as well, red faced and frustrated, telling Jack liquidation was as good as putting up a billboard, advertising their business’s demise.

Maxwell nodded and smiled at his son. “How’s the rehearsing going?”

His father may be formidable, but he excelled at breaking tension. Jack wasn’t sure how he’d say goodbye to him one day. “Good. Hard to find the time, but good.”

“I always loved it, you know. Seeing you on stage. Sorry I’ll miss it this year.” His rheumy eyes misted.

Jack’s eyes burned. So fucking unfair, how disease felled the best of them. Made him want to punch a wall. “So don’t miss it. Let’s tell the board you’re sick. They deserve to know, about that and what Gunther did. They’ll understand and vote to put more money into my research.”

“Jack—” He swallowed, the slow action looking like it pained him. “You know we can’t. If Gunther backstabbed us, anyone could. I’m not willing to risk more secrets being sold off. And we don’t know when our competitors will go public with their new technology. That news on its own would be destructive. That news coupled with my illness would be catastrophic.”

People could panic. Their stock could drop, and every employee owned shares. Jack doubted it would go that far, but David Industries was still his father’s company and he was as obstinate as ever.

“I’ll work harder,” Jack said, his only option. If bullfrogs went months without sleep, merely resting their eyes, surely he could do the same. “I’ll finish the research by next weekend. We’ll announce the breakthrough and come clean about your illness, and you’ll be at the show.”

So help him, God.

“Sure, son. I know you will.” It was a nice sentiment, but that had been a pacifying sure. Not a hopeful sure.

Jack would prove his father wrong and show the board he could lead David Industries and Whichway to success. They didn’t trust Jack the way they trusted his father. They were old bloods who preferred conservative management to projects like Ant Man that had hurt their bottom line. Jack’s more recent success hadn’t erased that screw-up from their minds. They wouldn’t all be pleased to see him at the helm, unless he proved his worth.

“I’m going to visit my office for a bit.” His father turned to leave but paused. “Promise me, Jack, when this is done, you’ll make time for a life. As proud as I am of what I’ve built, I wish I’d spent more nights at home. More time with all of you.”

Maxwell shuffled out, and Jack’s mind drifted to Clementine. Spending time with her felt like a breather of sorts. Like the stirrings of a life. If only things were that simple.

The next evening, Marco stepped out of his truck as Jack pulled up to their regular haunt: Whenever Bar. Friday night beers with Marco was a ritual. One he should have canceled. Working until dawn had left Jack more drained than usual, but he hadn’t been able to shake his father’s words last night: Make time to have a life.

“You look like you need more than a beer.” Marco clapped him on the back, matching his stride.

“You’re as astute as always.” Country music spilled over them as they walked inside.

The watering hole was more saloon than hot spot, the wooden walls and tables as scarred as a gnarled oak tree. The mostly full space hummed with post-work chatter and the snap of colliding pool balls. Perpetual Christmas lights hung over the small stage, the corner used for open mic