lean back against the countertop.
His expression hardens into a grimace. “You aren’t someone. You’re my son.”
Somewhere in there I sense there’s a sentiment I should be unhappy with, but there’s no point in getting into it with my father today. He’s just being his usual dad self.
“Got it. So what’s up?”
He looks around my kitchen that could use some cleaning and sighs. Okay, maybe it could use a sandblasting to dislodge the crusty food stuck on the stove. And the countertops.
“So, is this what you’re planning to do today? Just hang around?” he asks before wincing, like my condo is causing him some terrible pain.
I can’t help but get defensive when he does this. It’s not like it’s rare that this happens either. Lately, it seems like at least once a month, he drops in and examines my place like some kind of disgruntled housekeeper come to heap shame on someone for not keeping it tidy enough.
“Well, I wasn’t even up when you barged in, Dad, so I’d say I’ve accomplished a few things already today,” I snap back, all the while smiling because I really don’t need to get into an argument with my father not a half hour after waking up.
More wincing is followed by him silently taking a drink of water while I wait for the inevitable discussion that’s going to occur. I know my father too well to believe he’s going to be able to leave here without giving me the lecture about how it’s time for me to grow up and settle down.
At twenty-three.
It’s the height of hypocrisy too, if you ask me. I’ve heard the stories of how legendary his twenties were working at Club X and living a life others could only dream about. Money, women, and all the alcohol he could want was his everyday life.
Yet I’m expected to be settled down into a responsible life at my age.
“Do you have any job prospects, Cade? It’s been a year since you graduated from college. You have a degree, you’re a smart guy, and I have to think there are hundreds of companies that would love to have you work for them.”
As he speaks, I anticipate every word that will come out of his mouth next. I’ve heard this speech so many times, I could give it to myself. That would actually be better. It would cut out the middle man and make having to do this with him a thing of the past.
That wouldn’t work for the great Stefan March, though. No, he enjoys coming over here on his monthly tour of my house, sighing disapprovingly as he scans the rooms and mentally ticks off all my household failures, and then giving me his same old dissertation on how I should be working at a job he would have never considered at my age and likely wouldn’t even now.
“Dad, you know the answer, so why do you ask the question? I haven’t found what I want to do yet. I have time. It’s not like being twenty-three and unsure of my future makes me a lost cause. I have money, so I’m not going to be homeless anytime soon. Don’t worry. I got this.”
My father narrows his eyes like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “You got what, Cade?”
I spread my arms out and smile. “This. Life.”
“You’ve got a condo because of your trust fund your mother and I set up. You’ve got that car of yours because of that same trust fund. Don’t you think it’s time to make your own way in life?”
“I am. I’m just not doing it the way you would prescribe for me.”
He acts like that trust fund isn’t exactly like the money he got from his father all those years ago that allowed him and his brothers to start up Club X. Fuck, he’s such a hypocrite!
Taking a step forward, he lets out another frustrated sigh and sets his water bottle on the island that separates us. “Cade, you have the very skills necessary to take over the club. You’d be perfect. I’m not going to be running it forever, and it’s turnkey. Literally, you’d walk in and it would set you up for life. Then you could do whatever you want with it. Change it to be exactly what you want it to be. It’s there for the taking.”
And there’s the pitch that comes right near the end of every one of these monthly discussions. Now it’s my turn to say that’s not what I