10. Hayden

TEN

HAYDEN

Upholding my trust fund has turned into a game of 3D chess. Too many players sit at the table, all requiring different narratives of what specific details they can and cannot know. My father and Jeremy and my friends and Juliana's friends and coworkers and her mother and on and on and onnnnnn...

Luckily, I'm a master at this sort of thing.

Rule #5: A playboy keeps his stories straight.

Which is why I have my plan on lockdown, my mind akin to one of those detective cork boards you'd see while watching Mindhunter or Zodiac, with the red strings connecting the suspects and pushpins and shit. Not quite on a genius level—because I'm no nerd—but something really, really close.

What impressive dots am I connecting, you ask? Well, let's recap.

Juliana thinks I am under my father's wing, when in fact, I am—and plan to stay—far, far away from its shadow. On the other hand, my father believes I'm pursuing my real estate license. Although, he's starting to have his doubts, which is why I invited him to lunch.

Keyword I. Not the other way around, like usual, where he'd take the opportunity to lecture me on my disgraceful lifestyle choices and bleak future. Rather, this time, I'm the one who'll do all the talking, by reciting a well-rehearsed elevator pitch. A proposition, one that'll double-down on the two unique truths I'm stretching to him and Juliana, without requiring me to sacrifice my lifestyle choices.

Because convincing my father that I've suddenly abandoned my chronic degeneracy will take more than a respectable girlfriend. That's just one piece of the puzzle. In the words of Jeremy Brooks, you'll have to be more convincing than that... And I will be, whenever this jackass decides to show up to my favorite sushi joint and hears what I have to say.

I tug at my sleeve, glancing down at my watch.

12:50

Our reservation was for 12:30. He's twenty minutes late to lunch with his own son. That's, on average, five minutes longer than I make all my first dates wait for my arrival.

The audacity of this man.

Heaving a sigh, I rest an elbow atop the sushi bar, finding comfort in the familiar atmosphere.

Metro Maki Lounge has always been my breath of fresh air, with a quaint yet luxurious ambiance. A part of me regrets inviting my father here, as if his presence alone might dull the acacia bar top or wither the faux cherry blossoms weaved in between the birch squares wrapping around the ceiling.

But I was deliberate in my choice, as with my outfit: a pressed pair of navy chinos and a button-down. Formal enough to be taken seriously, but not so much that I come off as some conman. What a shame, really, having taken all this into consideration, only to end up seated beside an empty barstool instead of a perky sidepiece.

"Would you like your usual, Mr. Kingston?" asks the bartender, dressed in a sharp, all-white blazer.

I stifle a sigh, nearly tasting the Sakura martini, if it weren't for the unpleasant grassy flavor already offending my tongue. "That's alright, Kenji. Just matcha today." Don't get me wrong. I'm positive Kenji whips up the perfect matcha latte, but it's far from my usual choice. Look at me, sacrificing my palette for a man who doesn't even bother to—

My back straightens.

Like a sixth sense, I know Warren Kingston has entered the room. Maybe it's the drop in temperature. The flutter in my chest. Or the smog of disappointment radiating from his every pore.

"...a partnership with them would be advantageous, yes, but not the maximum ROI we're looking for..." His voice floats through the air, growing louder and louder. "...leave the option open, until we evaluate other prospects..." I sip on my grassy concoction, as if it contains alcohol that'll soften the anticipation coiling through my blood.

"Talk soon," my father's voice booms behind me. "Goodbye." When his three-piece suit claims the empty seat, I waste no time, clearing my throat, ready to—

He holds up a finger.

My mouth clamps shut. Taking all my effort, I restrain my splintering annoyance, as I stare at the top half of his gray hair and that long digit—a finger I've received since adolescence. With his face buried in his phone, contacts zoom past his screen, until he stops and calls some name I can't read upside down.

And there I sit, thrumming my knuckles against the bar top, picking the sides of my nails, waiting like some forgotten labrador poodle for ten whole minutes. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he spouts off detailed instructions, sprinkling in boring business lingo here and there, effectively shriveling up my ear canals.

Maybe that martini isn't such a bad idea...

"Call me when the bid is finalized. Goodbye."

Finally.

I refocus my attention, finding him pre-occupied yet again. His thumbs tap dance across his screen in a flurry, sending off several texts, before it goes dark. Sinking the phone into his pants pocket, he meets my stare for the first time since arriving.

And says nothing.

My jaw ticks as I search his crystal-blue eyes, which resemble that of a mirror, except the irises in the reflection possess a cold hardness. I let the silence drag on for a few more heartbeats than necessary, while questioning what it is I'm even expecting. An apology? Sorry isn't a part of my father's vocabulary—or my brother's, for that matter.

How am I possibly related to this man?

"Hi, Dad," I mumble into my drink.

"Hayden," he says, reaching for his menu. Apparently, a hello is too much of an inconvenience for him, too.

"Another round of dumplings is on its way." Because I ate the first while I was waiting for you, I don't add.

"Mmm," is all he can muster.

More unbearable silence.

"So, uh... how's work been?"

He flips his menu, eyes roaming down the list of sake rice wines. "You can skip the small talk, Hayden."

"Huh?"

"I presume you didn't ask me to lunch to listen about my work. What is it? Did you overspend your monthly stipend again?"

That was three years ago. Am I never going to hear the end of it?

I loosen some tension, my knuckles leaving behind imprints on my palms. "I just want to catch up with my old pops." His gaze drags onto me, his eyelids heavy. I swallow down a smirk. He hates that nickname.

"Did you, now? Well, if you really must know, Kingston Entertainment received its second quarterly tax return last week. I've outsourced some industry-specialized accountants to move several accounts overseas and expand on our deductions. They've been pouring over federal tax code compliances, looking for loopholes—some even on the state level..."

Oh, GOD. I really shouldn't have asked.

His words drift out into space, as static buzzes throughout my consciousness like an old television. How does he talk like that all day? The man owns a fucking production company, and he'd rather stare at balance sheets than be on movie sets with A-list actors.

I keep a slight smile, nodding every now and then, watching his lips move, until they still into a flat, uninterested line. The buzzing quiets, filled by the soft chatter blanketing the restaurant.

Shit, now it's my turn.

Feeling like some clueless date, I say, "Wow, that's interesting. How do you keep up with all of that?"

He snorts. "By waking up in the a.m."

Dick.

Although it pains me to no end, I continue redirecting the conversation, letting him talk about himself, something he loves to do. While Kenji takes our orders, serves us drinks and appetizers, I suffer through all the details regarding board meetings, annual revenue statements, company stock evaluations, and the latest regulatory changes affecting the entertainment industry. Until Kenji casts me a lifeline, returning with our main course.

My mouth waters at the sight of my impressive dish. California, tiger, and volcano rolls sit artistically in the center beside a colorful assortment of top-grade sashimi. Donning a similar structure, my father's dish favors more tempera and nigiri.

"Enjoy." Kenji nods before disappearing down the bar.

Mixing wasabi into his soy sauce with a pair of chopsticks, my father side-glances my way. "I don't suppose I should ask what you've been up to."

Here comes the bullshit.

I put on a straight face, going straight for a tiger roll. "I've kept busy."

"I bet you have." His tone reeks of sarcasm. "You can spare me the details."

Anger simmers to the surface, enough that I'm surprised my chopsticks don't snap in two. Sure, I'll admit, I'm no shining star in this family, who's never really had his shit figured out. But still... isn't he the least bit curious about my hobbies? My friends? My opinions on, I don't know, anything? Of course not. He's never been, so why would he start today?

So, I banish the little kid in me, who still hopes in vain for an ounce of respect from the man who "raised me" —slap a pair of serious air quotes around that. Biting down on an extra chewy slice of tuna, I adopt an air of confidence blended with just the right amount of nonchalance, preparing to act out the part I came to play.

I shrug. "There's nothing much to say, anyway. I've been keeping to myself recently. My real estate licensing exam is soon, so I'm making sure to put in a decent amount of time studying."

He freezes. Like full-body-turned-to-stone frozen. Even his mouth stops mid-chew.

Not that I blame him, though. The word studying might as well be foreign language on my tongue, never having done the deed for a single minute in my entire academic life. I may have a Business Administration degree sitting inside a glossy Princeton University plaque, but that doesn't mean my name deserves placement across the paper. But hefty checks from esteemed families can buy a lot of things in this world.

The man who writes said checks swallows hard, half-coughing, half-laughing into his napkin. "You expect me to believe that?"

"What's not to believe?"

He rolls his eyes. "You. Studying. Taking an exam. Those three don't mix, and unfortunately for you, I wasn't born yesterday."

My shoulders slouch on a well-practiced sigh, as I push my tiger roll around my plate. "I know, I know. You probably don't believe me, but I'm really trying to apply myself. Granted, I'm not really good at it. I'm thinking of hiring a tutor before I completely flunk the test."

Uncertainty wavers in his eyes, but for the first time in I don't know how long, no scathing comeback slips from his lips. What shocks me even more is when he sets down his chopsticks, leans back, and looks at me. Really looks at me. "So, you're actually taking an interest in real estate, then?"

The hope emerging in his tone has my heart contracting, sparking a sliver of guilt as I shift into the second phase of my grand plan, which I like to call Even More Lies.

I shrug. "I'm just as surprised as you. I wasn't at first. The idea of staging and selling properties didn't sound so appealing, but it wasn't until I looked into buying properties that the interest caught on."

He hums, nodding— nodding, not shaking. Toward me. God, I wish I believed an ounce of what I was saying, that the business of real estate, in any form, wasn't drier than the Sahara in my mind. Then I'd deserve this newfound interest my father's taken in me.

"You're alluding to being a landlord, I presume? Buying up properties and then renting out the spaces."

"Yes, exactly."

Plopping a roll into his mouth, he hums yet again, this time chewing like he actually enjoys the taste. "That's a very lucrative business, especially if you have the capital. And choose the right properties, of course."

"That's what I've been looking into. Familiarizing myself with the city's current market," I say, infusing confidence into my now only partial lies, given my extensive research last night for this very conversation. "I think location matters the most, focusing on up-and-coming areas, like Bushwick in Brooklyn or Astoria in Queens or..."

With every location and minute detail, his eyes sparkle further with what I can only guess to be pride. Holy shit, he's really buying all this. I mean, I planned for it, but... I didn't know if he'd take it this well.

"I, uh..." I clear my throat, avoiding his gaze, in an almost embarrassed way—embarrassed for my past transgressions, specifically. And he eats it up, his eyebrows raising. "I've started saving up for my first property... I don't know if you'd be open to it, but we could go in on one... together?"

The word floats out between us. Together.

The most vital part of my grand scheme, the bridge between the two tales I'm spinning. If I were to go into a property together, then I would seem under my father's wing. And, in turn, coupled with the new, responsible girlfriend, he'd think I had turned my life around, and I'd soon be off his radar with my trust fund no longer in limbo. All without me having to lift a finger or change my lifestyle, because, as every silver-spooned individual knows, money can fix any problem.

Including having to manage your own real estate.

"I'd run the whole property," I lie. "Make it my first priority. Rent out the rooms. An apartment complex, maybe, or a commercial building. Keep things running smoothly... What do you say?"

Absentmindedly, he taps his fingers atop the table, resting his chin in his palm, contemplating the proposition. My heart somersaults, in light of perhaps the first time my father's ever taken me seriously.

"I think..."

He looks me dead in the eyes, his swirling with a rare delight and acceptance. My blood pressure soars down, my mind finally at ease. I pulled it off. I really, really pulled this off...

"I think you can cut the crap now."

My posture straightens. Wait, what???

"Huh?" I feign confusion, frowning deeply.

"I said, you can cut the crap. Do you really think I believed a single word you said?"

"But I—"

"God, you really are hopeless." He laughs, cold and vicious. "I checked in on that online school you're supposedly attending. Yeah, they've never heard of you." My mouth springs open, only for him to interject once more, reading my mind as if he's got a key to its door. "And don't waste your breath on some student confidentiality bullshit. A little donation to their fine arts program proved pretty convincing in bending their rules."

Shame burns my cheeks. But also anger, rooted in a long-standing resentment toward the man who made me into the way I am. If he wants someone to blame for the pit stain upon his family, he should look no further than himself.

"Just do it, already."

"Do what?"

"Pull my trust."

He smiles, full of greed. There's nothing Warren Kingston loves more than having power over someone. That's the true reason he hasn't pulled it already. He couldn't dangle the threat in front of my nose anymore.

"Oh, no... I have something much better in store for you. I planned to tell you at our next family dinner, when you two were both together, but now's a good time."

"And what's that?" I ask, wishing now more than ever I'd chosen something stronger than matcha, as if alcohol might soften the blow.

"An internship. With your brother."