~~~This is a prequel, spin-off from Ties~~~
Briar Hayes has lived her entire life being polite, never daring to express the crazy and wild thoughts running laps in her head. At almost twenty-five, stuck in the throes of monotony, she finally snaps...
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I choke on the spit pooled in my gaping mouth, prompting me to wanna paint a loogie on his face. That's foul, but I don't care.
"Nut-uh. Nope." I scoot my chair away, screeching it along the floor, gaining a few looks of distaste from the city's workaholics scattered about the restaurant. I get it, I'm abrupt. Noted. But I need space from the tailored-up suit that just took a seat next to me. I shake my head, vehemently.
I like that word, sounds fancy. It reminds me of venom, which is what's brimming in my downcast gaze.
Did this bitch think he was gonna stroll in here, have me be agreeable to whatever this shit is, mockingly call me princess, and that I would what? Sit down and shut up?
Fuck that noise.
Okay, I am still seated, but you get what I mean.
Dad's eyes expand in confusion. Jonathan clenches his jaw, but quickly shifts gears once he realizes that my father's attention is now lowering to his finger touching my wrist. He taps it three times—and I swear I wince with every one—playing it off as a friendly gesture.
We are not friends.
The person in question gives a pat to the top of my hand before slinking his away. Then he has the flipping audacity to speak. "Briar, I assumed this would be a positi—"
"He cannot run your company," I snap at my father, cutting off Jonathan and his bullshit then aim my snarled-lip grimace his way. A positive? Scooze me?
Gross. First off, my mind is reeling from the fact that my parents, or parent, are giving me money. Giving it. For nothing. I mean, I guess they did in the past. But the chides and reprimanding undertones about expenses hold strong in my head. Overpriced uncomfy couch with a stain ring a bell?
"Our company," my dad clarifies. "Briar, what's wrong? I thought you two had a good relationship."
Second, ew. This guy seriously sucks.
"We do," Jonathan responds in a quizzical manner that makes me toss him a get fucked, bud glare. He wears his false innocence with such ease. Damn. I did not see this shit coming from him. Or not until a few weeks ago when he told me to keep my, what was it? To keep my whore mouth shut? I'm not sure it was exactly that, but trust me when I say this so-called slut is going to sing like a proverbial canary.
"We don't have a relationship." I fly to my feet, rigid arms folding in front of my blouse.
Listen, I most def do not want to be a part of this company. I think it's been clear as a bell that real estate is not my endgame, or here's hoping. Wasn't long ago that I claimed this was my final destination. Funny how things change. Funny how people change.
"I meant a working relationship." Ted frowns. Sometimes I first name my parents, only in my head. Occasionally out loud to my mom, only when I'm going for catty. Our eyes level with each other from opposite sides of the table. "He is our top producer. The best fit—"
