Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“I’m not here for excuses, kiddo. You want to screw around and play stupid? Fine and dandy. But there’s no way I’m letting you guys do it here with fireworks on dry grass. Have you ever heard of wildfires? Do you want to start one?”
Oh God, I sound like my dad. When did I learn to lecture?
When did I become so boring and uptight?
“What are you gonna do? Call the cops?” the girl challenges. She hasn’t sat, but her face seems paler now, and I get the first hint of fear in her eyes.
I think I have a plan.
First, I lock the door and head past them to the welcome basket on the kitchen island—which I didn’t notice much when I first came in. But there, lo and behold, is a help line typed neatly on a card.
Let’s be real, the police are probably stretched thin out here and have better things to do with their time. And considering these guys are babies who look like they’re about to piss themselves, I don’t think it’s worth scaring their souls out and potentially slapping them with a juvie record.
Kids are idiots.
It’s an age-old fact.
When I was their age, I was the same way. Now that I’m coming down from the shock of the rabid racoon slash prowler being three clueless teens, I’m slightly less tempted to cuss them into next week.
This is precisely the sort of crap I might’ve pulled if I’d ever had the freedom to do it.
“No police. You’re welcome,” I tell them coldly, fingering the info card and the number printed across it. “But I do want your names so I can tell the rental company, Higher Ends, and they can get in touch with your parents.”
From the devastation on the kids’ faces—especially Colt’s—that might be the worst threat I could make.
Awesome.
2
BAD BEE-HAVIOR (ARCHER)
This kid will be the death of me.
Fatherhood, that’s something I signed up for wholeheartedly a long damn time ago, back when I was a different person. My priorities were different then, fumbling around after startup ideas in loud bars after work.
The second we found out we were having Colton, though, I was all in.
I have been ever since.
I knew playtime was over. I needed to man the fuck up and be the kind of dad who has his shit together to give his son the best crack at life possible, and I’ve been busting ass to make that happen.
I’m still keeping that promise, I think, even if it’s won me a lot of grief and a few grey hairs.
Long hours at the company, building up a money machine and a legacy that will unlock his dreams? Check.
The best education money can buy in the Kansas City metro? Check.
Parent-teacher meetings, homework help, extra classes, taking trips out to feed his curiosities? Fucking check.
When he was really little, every time I wasn’t at the office, I was with him.
Free time? I forgot the meaning of the word.
Back then, I remember thinking it might get easier one day. When he was older, more mature, maybe I could finally have a break. He’d grow into himself by his teens and be more independent. More responsible. Less clueless, especially with how smart he is.
Ha.
Turns out, I’m the guy with clueless stamped on his forehead.
And it’s the one night this week when I thought I’d get a quiet evening at home to crack open a thick porter and spend the evening scouting Higher Ends’ next acquisition in the crowded luxury rental space we’ve muscled our way into.
Then life happened.
My boy reminds me you don’t get to sleep on being dad.
I grit my teeth as I narrow my eyes at the road.
I’m not pissed that he showed up at our newest property and set off a few fireworks, though I’ll still ground him for a week just for that.
The worst part is, Colton fucking lied to me.
He said he was hanging out at his friend’s house to work on a chemistry project tonight.
It was believable when he’s become part mad scientist, already doing college work well beyond his grade level in math and science.
Fireworks aren’t chemistry.
And fuck, I’d really gotten into figuring out where we can expand this glamping line—its success has triggered a whole new direction for our company if we want to invest more. I’ve mapped out some new land we could build on, thinking about our branding, and I was about to crack open my beer when the assistant called.
A reported break-in at our premier cabin, Solitude.
And the intruder is my own son.
Quiet evening, obliterated.
All I could do was be happy I hadn’t started drinking because now I’ve got to personally haul ass up there and handle this myself. No way can I hand something like this off to an employee.
My own flesh and blood did this, and then he bullshitted me right to my face.