52 Reasons to Hate My Father (6 page)

I turn my head around long enough to catch sight of Luke’s nauseatingly smug expression.

I’m going to kill that guy.

Well, just as soon as I’m finished here.

“What do you want?” my dad asks pointedly.

I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “I
really
need to talk to you. Can we go in your office?”

He shakes his head. “I’m running late to a meeting.”

“But—”

“I’m not changing my mind, Lexington,” my father replies, obviously having already guessed the reason behind my unexpected visit. “You’ll do the fifty-two jobs I’ve selected for you and you’ll complete each one of them to my satisfaction or the trust fund will be reassigned.”

He starts walking. I jog to catch up with him. Holly follows closely at my heels.

“But Daddy,” I try again.

“I’m sorry, Lexington. This is the way it’s going to be.”

“But it’s not fair!” I cry out, not caring that a dozen or so people have poked their heads out of their offices to see what is going on. “Cooper never had to do anything for his money. Or RJ! Or Hudson and Harrison! This is totally sexist!”

My father comes to a sudden halt and turns to face me, the most unpleasant expression plastered across his face.

Okay, maybe the sexist remark was going a bit too far.

“You think this is about
gender
?” he growls in that low, malicious tone that used to give me nightmares as a child. “You think I’m doing this because you’re a
girl
? If anything, I have given you more leeway, more advantages, more
leniency
than any of your brothers. And I can see now what a colossal mistake that was because you have done nothing with any of it except lead a life of gluttony and ingratitude. And up until a few days ago, I was at a complete loss as to how to turn that around. This is my last hope for you, Lexington. My last effort to instill some sense into you. Some values. Some
humanity
.”

I can feel tears stinging my eyes but I fight them back with a few quick blinks. Just as I’ve always done. I haven’t let my father see me cry since I was eight years old and he told me he was going to be in Hong Kong for Christmas and I couldn’t come. And I’m not about to start again now. “I won’t do it,” I vow, but my voice breaks.

“This isn’t a choice, Lexington.”

“You can’t make me do it!” I assert, feeling slightly more confident. “I’ll leave. I’ll run away. My friends and I have plans, you know? I have places to go. I don’t have to stay around here and play poverty camp with a bunch of low-rent, high school dropouts.”

My father’s face remains a blank page but he leans in closer to me—close enough that I can feel his breath on my forehead. The proximity is making my stomach flip so I take an instinctive step back. “You’ll do it,” he promises ominously. “Or you’ll lose everything.”

And with that, my father turns around and continues down the hall, disappearing into a conference room and closing the door behind him.

GROUNDED

I need to get out of here. I need to escape. I can’t handle all this pressure! My flight to Vegas is scheduled for six p.m. but I can’t wait that long. I have to leave now. I need a distraction. I need to be surrounded by friends and noise and commotion. And I can’t think of a better place to do that than Las Vegas.

Plus, I’m absolutely positive that given enough time to think and digest everything that’s happened, my father will inevitably change his mind and this will all be over. It’s obvious he’s just being rash. A total overreaction to last week’s event. All he needs is a little time and space for the reality of his decision to sink in and then he’ll realize how ridiculous and unreasonable he’s being. I know my father. No one can talk him out of a decision except himself. So I need to give him a chance to do that. It’ll probably take him a few hours—maybe even a day—to see the error of his ways. Then I’ll get a phone call from Bruce, who will most likely be wallowing in defeat, grumbling about how the whole thing is called off, how sorry he is for being so rude in his office, not to mention physically
violent
(which was
totally
out of line, by the way) and
how about a lovely send-off party for your cruise as a token of my remorse?
And, of course, I’ll accept. Because I’m forgiving like that.

I take a deep breath and steer my father’s Bentley onto the 10 Freeway. See, I already feel better. How silly it was for me to get riled up like that. Everything will be just fine. It’ll all work out. There’s no need to do anything drastic … like run my father’s car into a cement wall.

I choose not to return home first. Instead, I proceed straight to the Santa Monica airport, where the Larrabee jets are kept. I can’t deal with the house right now. Or Horatio and anyone else who’s there. I’ll just head to Vegas early, pick up some new clothes when I get there, and try to relax until this blows over.

I turn to Holly, who has been staring anxiously at me from the passenger seat, and give her head a quick, reassuring scratch. “Don’t worry, baby,” I tell her in the lullaby voice I reserve only for her. “I’m okay. Thanks for your concern though. It’s nice to know
someone
is looking out for me.”

She seems to be satisfied with this and her body finally relaxes. She curls into a ball on the seat and closes her eyes.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of the Larrabee hangar, scoop Holly from the front seat, and toss my bag over my shoulder. A man in a blue uniform comes running out of the hangar, looking extremely nervous as his eyes dart back and forth up the tarmac.

“Miss Larrabee,” he says apprehensively, as though he has no idea what on earth I’m doing here.

Great, another annoying newbie I’m going to have to hand-hold.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound bright and friendly. I paint on a wide smile. “I’m here for my flight to Vegas.”

He wrings his hands together and glances behind me at the Bentley, which I’ve left running.

“The keys are in the ignition,” I inform him stiffly. “Can you fill up the tank before I get back?”

“But—” he begins, his face twisted in some kind of painful-looking grimace.

“Yes, I know I’m not supposed to take off until six but there’s been a change of plans and I want to go now.”

He shakes his head quickly. To be honest, it looks more like a nervous tic than a negation. “B-b-b-ut … you can’t,” he stammers. “I’m … It’s…”

I roll my eyes and tap my fingers impatiently against the shoulder strap of my bag. What is with this guy? Why is he so jittery? It’s only a stupid schedule change. It happens all the time. It’s not like I’m asking him to call off a war or something.

He’s still bumbling like an idiot so I decide to take control of the situation. “Look,” I say shortly, “is the plane here?”

He nods hurriedly.

“Good. Is there fuel in the tank?”

“Y-y-y-es.”

“Is there a pilot here?”

“Yes, but…”

I flash him an insincere smile and pat him brusquely on the shoulder. “Well, then there you go. Problem solved.”

I step past him and strut toward the hangar. A moment later, I hear the patter of hassled footsteps behind me and suddenly the man is at my side again. I stifle a groan. “Oh, God. What
now
?”

“It’s just that…” He starts to fumble for words again and it takes every ounce of strength in me not to slap him on the back of the head to try to get him to speak fluidly. “Y-y-your father,” he barely manages to choke out.

My heart starts to pound in my chest as I narrow my eyes at the squirrelly man in front of me. “What about my father?” I hiss.

He swallows hard. I can actually see the lump of anxiety move its way down his throat. “He told us you weren’t authorized to fly anywhere.”

HEDGED IN

I’m so angry I could scream. Actually I
have
been screaming. For about the last three hours. I screamed at the brainless worker at the Larrabee airport hangar who wouldn’t let me get on the plane and actually had the nerve to restrain me when I tried to make a run for the jet. I screamed at the ticket agent at the American Airlines counter at LAX who wouldn’t sell me a seat on the next flight to Vegas because she
claimed
that all my credit cards had been declined. This is after I had swallowed my pride and
deigned
to fly commercial, something I haven’t done since … well,
ever
. Then I screamed at the ATM when it spit out a piece of paper declaring that my account had been frozen. I even screamed at some lawyer whose picture was on the back of a bus that happened to stop in front of me at a red light. The ad
swore
he could help me with my legal problems, but after I phoned him and he’d talked to me for a whole five minutes he said there was no way on earth he was going up against Richard Larrabee, especially in a case I didn’t have the slightest chance of winning. Not to mention how was I expecting to
pay
a lawyer when my entire source of income originated from my father’s estate? Or did I really expect my father to shell out the very money that would be used to sue him?

Then he laughed and I screamed some more.

I screech into my driveway, throw the Bentley into park with the car halfway on the pavement and halfway on the grass, and storm into the house. I toss the keys haphazardly on the table in the foyer. They make a loud clanking sound against the polished stone surface. Good. The more noise I can make the better.

“Kingston!” I call at the top of my lungs. My voice echoes across the marble floors and up the spiral staircase.

Kingston appears a moment later. “Yes, Miss Larrabee,” he says obligingly.

“Oh good, you’re here,” I say breathlessly as I start trudging up the stairs. Holly follows closely behind. She requires the momentum of her entire body to make it up each step. After about five, I bend down to pick her up and tuck her under my arm. “I’m just throwing a few things into a bag,” I tell him. “Then I need you to drive me to Vegas.”

There’s a silence at the bottom of the stairs and it takes me a moment to realize that Kingston’s usual swift response, “Of course, miss, I’ll be waiting out front,” has not yet been verbalized.

I slow to a stop but don’t turn around. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I say, in a measured tone, “Kingston, did you not hear me?”

“I did, miss,” comes his response, followed by another sickening lull.

“Then why are you just standing there?” I ask. I still haven’t dared look behind me but I
know
that he hasn’t moved an inch. I can hear him breathing.

“Well…” he begins, his voice wavering. “You see, your father has instructed me not to drive you anywhere.”

Now
I turn around. My eyes cold and piercing.
“What?”
I growl.

He winces against my stare and drops his head, avoiding my gaze.

“Look,” I continue when he doesn’t answer me, “I don’t
care
what my father told you, Kingston. You work for me too. And
I
am telling you to drive me to Vegas.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Larrabee,” he replies sheepishly, “but your father told me he’d fire me if I drove you anywhere.”

I can’t breathe. My lungs feel like they’re trapped inside a box. Then I watch wide-eyed as Kingston sidles up to the foyer table and proceeds to slide the keys to the Bentley off the surface and drop them into the pocket of his suit pants.

“What are you doing?” I ask anxiously.

He still refuses to meet my eye. “Your father has also asked me to collect the keys to any vehicle registered to the Larrabee estate.” His voice is pained, indicating that he’s clearly troubled by the message he’s been asked to relay. But I could really care less about
his
agony right now. It can’t even
begin
to compare to my own.

“Horatio!” I call out. I’m so furious, my body is actually shaking. Like in convulsions. I have to set Holly back down in fear that I might drop her.

Horatio appears from the kitchen. He saunters calmly toward the foot of the stairs, his pace neither quickened nor slowed by my evident impatience. He, on the other hand, has no problem meeting my eye. He stops in front of the banister and looks directly up at me.

“Can you
please
tell me what is going on here?”

His face registers no emotion. Not a smile. Not a scowl. “Your father called,” he pronounces slowly in his silky Argentinean accent. “He regrets to inform you that your credit cards have been canceled, your bank account frozen, and your allowance suspended.” Then with a slight nod of his head he adds, “Until further notice.”

“Further notice?” I scream back. “What is
that
supposed to mean?”

How he can be so gosh-darn calm in the face of such catastrophe is beyond me. “It means,” he replies smoothly, his tone unaffected by my outbursts, “Mr. Larrabee is cutting you off until you agree to his arrangement.”

*   *   *

I’m about
this
close to calling my shrink and suggesting he have my father committed because he’s
clearly
lost his mind. It must be the old age. He’s going to be fifty in a few years and the senility is obviously already starting to settle in. But really, how unfair is it that
I
have to be the one to experience the wrath of his lunacy? Just because I’m the youngest. RJ and Harrison and Hudson never had to deal with this kind of madness. Or even Cooper! The world is a very cruel place.

The sun is starting to set now and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. My voice is hoarse from the screaming, my feet hurt from shuffling around Los Angeles all day, and my spirit is beyond broken. I walk alone in the darkening gardens behind the house. It’s a breathtaking five-thousand-square-foot labyrinth of flawlessly groomed hedges and bright and vibrant blankets of flowers. My mother designed the gardens to be smaller replicas of the ones found at the Château de Villandry in France. Before she died, of course. They’ve been featured at least a dozen times in a variety of home-and-garden magazines. Always pictured with my father posing somewhere in the middle. As though he were personally responsible for the maintenance of such an elaborate landscape, when in reality he’s barely around long enough to appreciate the place, let alone trim hedges. There’s a staff of about ten gardeners who come twice a week to do that. My father just sits back and takes the credit. Nothing new, I suppose.