Page 33 of The Curveball
“What is wrong with you?” He snaps. “It’s all over the news you were involved in an accident with Griffin Marks, and alcohol was involved.”
“No, that’s not—”
“What have I said, girl?”
Ugh. I hate when he calls me girl. “About what, Dad?”
“Your actions reflect on all of us. Bad press hurts business. Or have you forgotten how I’ve supported you and your brothers with that business?”
I grind my teeth. He speaks to me like I’m a teenager. I don’t understand what it is about his three biological kids, but to him we’ll always be screw ups. We were sent to college to be lawyers, CFOs, or pre-med students.
We emerged as one dropout, one business major who opened an auto shop, and a creative writing major whose father couldn’t even let her get her own agent before he pulled strings, basically buying my way into the publishing scene.
It feels cheap and underhanded, and he will never let me forget how my royalties are thanks to him.
“Where are you? Your mom insists she’s still in California, Cleo had no idea, and I know the building is still under maintenance.”
I swallow, the burn of a headache spreading like a wildfire in my skull. He told my mom and Cleo. Why did they choose to answer the phone when he called this time? Good thing I think my father is secretly afraid of Darren and Carter, or they’d have sniffed their way here already.
“Wren, answer me.”
“I’m staying with Griffin.”
A terrible, icy pause follows. “The Vegas Kings catcher you hit?”
Other way around, but of course it would be my fault. “Yes.”
“No. Not happening. You’ll come here and stay in the guest house.”
“Nope.”
“I see. I suppose you want me to leave the door open for when he’s done playing with you and tosses you out?”
I bristle. Not for the derision toward me, but to my own surprise, it’s brought on by the insinuation Griffin would use me like I was nothing. It’s laughable to think Griffin Marks would be capable of such a thing.
Call it defensiveness over the man who babied me all night, or it could come from desperation to get the dragon to stop breathing down my neck, but the words spill out before I can bite them back.
“I’m not his plaything. He’s my boyfriend.”
That wretched silence returns. The words hang in the empty space, heavy and solid.
When my father speaks it’s almost like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, which is insulting, but I’m more flustered that I’ve told such an insane, outlandish lie like it was a chat about the weather.
“You’re dating Griffin Marks? A man whose SportTracker reported salary was eight figures?”
I knew he was on his way to being a trillionaire.
The lump in my throat feels more like a walnut, but I do what I can to swallow it down. “Yep.” I sound hoarse; I sound like I’m lying. “That’s my man. We’re crazy about each other.”
He scoffs. “Really? When did this happen?”
“Um, a couple months ago.”
My dad clicks his tongue. “Griffin Marks, huh. Okay, we’ll see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not convinced.”