work for the police. Not a joke.
Everyone worshipped him, except the folks over at GTX.
I’d spent years listening to my dad bitch about their head security guy, Mark Tucker, cockblocking him. Whenever GTX had a problem, whether it was the stolen research project from ten years ago that my dad still complained about, or protestors setting up in front of the gates, Mr. Tucker always told my dad they preferred to “handle it internally.” And my dad was stuck—he couldn’t do anything unless GTX called him in or there was reasonable proof of a threat to Wingate.
Sometimes I thought his only goal in life was to beat Tucker and get in those doors on a call to serve and protect.
Huh. Tucker. My alcohol-addled brain was slow in making the connection. I wondered if Mark Tucker was any relation to Ariane. That seemed like something I should know, a fact that someone had probably mentioned at one point or another, but I couldn’t remember for sure. At least not without concentrating on it more, which wasn’t a good idea at the moment, with my dad about to vent steam from his ears.
He crumpled up the newspaper and swept it to the floor before stalking over to get into my face. “You think you can do anything you want and it doesn’t reflect on me, on this family?”
His coffee breath wafted over me, and I struggled not to wince.
“This is it, Zane. You’re a junior now. Time to stop screwing around and get serious.”
Like I hadn’t heard that a thousand times already in the last three months. But a thousand and one, that was the key, clearly. “Thanks, Dad,” I muttered.
“You’re an arrogant little shit,” he spat.
“Because of what I’m wearing?” I asked incredulously. There was only so much damage wearing faded and worn-out clothes could do to a reputation, right?
“You have a piss-poor attitude, and it’s going to catch up with you.” He jabbed a thick finger in my chest. “I swear to God, your brother was nothing like this. Why can’t you be more like him?”
And there it is. The million dollar question of genetics, environment, and disappointed parental expectations: Zane, why aren’t you Quinn, just younger? Then we could have enjoyed Quinn-ness for that much longer.
“Quinn gets it,” my dad said with great satisfaction, as if that should wound me. “He knows what it means to play ball.”
“Yeah, well, Quinn’s also kind of a douche bag,” I muttered. Which was true. He was just like my dad, king of a small hill, and determined to have everyone know about it.
I didn’t blame Quinn for basking in my dad’s approval and making the most of it; hell, I’d have done the same. The man was not easy to please. I’d spent years trying to get even the faintest bit of that light to shine in my direction. It would have been nice if Quinn had at least acknowledged, even just between the two of us, that we weren’t exactly on a level playing field; but that wasn’t him.
To be fair, though, my big brother could have used his advantage and spent his time torturing me pretty much without consequence. Instead, he’d basically ignored me, as if being inadequate might be contagious. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if that wasn’t worse.
My dad’s eyes bulged in a way that I hadn’t seen since he was my PeeWee football coach and crazed by my complete lack of talent for the game. “What did you say about Quinn?”
“Nothing.” This conversation—if you could call it that—was definitely reaching an end. I reached over and yanked up the lever on the toaster just as Trey leaned on the horn outside, loud and long. Thank God.
I snagged my half-scorched, half-stale bread from the toaster and spun away from my dad. “Gotta go,” I said as I headed for the back door. It’s been fun , I wanted to add, but I knew there was only so far I could push him before he snapped and decided to “teach” me something. My dad was of the “tough lessons need a tough teacher” school of thought. We had a
Everyone worshipped him, except the folks over at GTX.
I’d spent years listening to my dad bitch about their head security guy, Mark Tucker, cockblocking him. Whenever GTX had a problem, whether it was the stolen research project from ten years ago that my dad still complained about, or protestors setting up in front of the gates, Mr. Tucker always told my dad they preferred to “handle it internally.” And my dad was stuck—he couldn’t do anything unless GTX called him in or there was reasonable proof of a threat to Wingate.
Sometimes I thought his only goal in life was to beat Tucker and get in those doors on a call to serve and protect.
Huh. Tucker. My alcohol-addled brain was slow in making the connection. I wondered if Mark Tucker was any relation to Ariane. That seemed like something I should know, a fact that someone had probably mentioned at one point or another, but I couldn’t remember for sure. At least not without concentrating on it more, which wasn’t a good idea at the moment, with my dad about to vent steam from his ears.
He crumpled up the newspaper and swept it to the floor before stalking over to get into my face. “You think you can do anything you want and it doesn’t reflect on me, on this family?”
His coffee breath wafted over me, and I struggled not to wince.
“This is it, Zane. You’re a junior now. Time to stop screwing around and get serious.”
Like I hadn’t heard that a thousand times already in the last three months. But a thousand and one, that was the key, clearly. “Thanks, Dad,” I muttered.
“You’re an arrogant little shit,” he spat.
“Because of what I’m wearing?” I asked incredulously. There was only so much damage wearing faded and worn-out clothes could do to a reputation, right?
“You have a piss-poor attitude, and it’s going to catch up with you.” He jabbed a thick finger in my chest. “I swear to God, your brother was nothing like this. Why can’t you be more like him?”
And there it is. The million dollar question of genetics, environment, and disappointed parental expectations: Zane, why aren’t you Quinn, just younger? Then we could have enjoyed Quinn-ness for that much longer.
“Quinn gets it,” my dad said with great satisfaction, as if that should wound me. “He knows what it means to play ball.”
“Yeah, well, Quinn’s also kind of a douche bag,” I muttered. Which was true. He was just like my dad, king of a small hill, and determined to have everyone know about it.
I didn’t blame Quinn for basking in my dad’s approval and making the most of it; hell, I’d have done the same. The man was not easy to please. I’d spent years trying to get even the faintest bit of that light to shine in my direction. It would have been nice if Quinn had at least acknowledged, even just between the two of us, that we weren’t exactly on a level playing field; but that wasn’t him.
To be fair, though, my big brother could have used his advantage and spent his time torturing me pretty much without consequence. Instead, he’d basically ignored me, as if being inadequate might be contagious. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if that wasn’t worse.
My dad’s eyes bulged in a way that I hadn’t seen since he was my PeeWee football coach and crazed by my complete lack of talent for the game. “What did you say about Quinn?”
“Nothing.” This conversation—if you could call it that—was definitely reaching an end. I reached over and yanked up the lever on the toaster just as Trey leaned on the horn outside, loud and long. Thank God.
I snagged my half-scorched, half-stale bread from the toaster and spun away from my dad. “Gotta go,” I said as I headed for the back door. It’s been fun , I wanted to add, but I knew there was only so far I could push him before he snapped and decided to “teach” me something. My dad was of the “tough lessons need a tough teacher” school of thought. We had a
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