The Virginity Pact

18 - eighteen candles

Looks like the virgin queen isn't as pure as she pretended to be. Who's your daddy, H? Baby daddy that is. Two guys in one night, talk about doing the nasty. Or should I just say being nasty.

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"Do you understand the significance of turning 18?" My dad asks, solemn as always.

"I can do whatever the hell I want?"

He frowns, annoyance etched in his features.

"I can't hold your hand anymore, Holden. It's time to be an adult."

I almost groan aloud at where this conversation is going. I roll my eyes, wanting to stand up from where I sit across from my father at the kitchen table and leave.

"I'm not going to snap my fingers and get you out of trouble anymore, so stay out of trouble. And be responsible with your money. You're going to be handling it on your own now," he continues.

You're turning 18 tommorow, son! You're almost a man! I'm proud of you!

No, none of that of course.

"Alright," I say.

"And--"

"I said alright, dad. I got it," I say more sternly, annoyance in my voice. He scowls at me but says nothing.

His phone rings and he answers it, standing up from the table and walking out on the balcony, leaving me alone.

I stand at the sound of two swift knocks at the door and open it quickly.

"John!" I greet with a wide smile. "Come in."

I step aside and allow the man into my home, locking the door behind him.

He follows me to the kitchen table and we take our seats across from each other. John puts on a pair of reading glasses and places a folder on the table in front of him, opening it to the first page.

"So how much is the inheritance?" I ask, getting right down to business. I've speculated, added some numbers, and asked my father, but even he wasn't sure what the amount was.

"12 million."

I almost fall out of my chair. If I was drinking water I'd spit it out--no, I'd choke on it.

My eyebrows raise and a grin spreads across my face involuntarily.

12 million dollars?

Thanks mom.

"Don't look so excited," my lawyer says firmly, his eyes roaming over the paperwork in front of him. "It's set up in a trust fund. You'll get $500,000 a year starting on your birthday tommorow, until you're 21, then you'll be allowed to access the full remaining amount."

"What?" I ask, exasperated. He can't be serious. "Do you understand how much 12 million would help with this project?"

"Listen, I didn't write the will, son."

I groan loudly and put my head in my hands, running my fingers through my hair and interlocking them around the back of my neck.

"Your mother was a smart woman," John continues. "And nobody smart is going to hand a kid 12 million dollars on their 18th birthday."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"I'll be doing fundraisers until I'm 40," I say hopelessly, staring down at the table.

"Take it easy, Frasier; don't stress yourself out. Rome wasnt built in a day. These things take time."

Time and money. Two things I ironically don't have.