Melinda Lorenzo - Bad Reputation

“Whoa.”

A soft hand accompanied the word, and it tried to yank the key ring from my shaky grasp. I managed to hold on. Barely. I squinted at the woman attached to the grip. Dark hair framed a familiar face, and the effects of alcohol weren’t enough to block out the pain any longer.

“Amber! I know you,” I slurred.

“And I know you, Joey. If you get in that car, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“What’s it matter to you?” I demanded harshly, drunkenly.

“We’re friends. Or at least we were before—”

I cut her off. “I don’t like to talk about that.”

“I won’t make you talk about it. If you give me the keys.”

“No.”

“Where you going, anyway?”

“Home.”

“Is it close?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’ll drive myself.” I hiccuped. “Thank you very much.”

With an exasperated sigh, Amber reached forward and reached for my keys again.

“Can’t catch me!” I shouted gleefully.

I dove sideways, tripped over a bush and landed on my ass. My keys sailed from my hand about three feet away.

“Whoops.”

I struggled to grab them, but one of Amber’s high-heeled boots kicked them out of my reach. When I looked up, there were three Ambers glaring down at me. That, or the alcohol was seriously inhibiting my ability to see properly.

“S’matter with everybody?” I asked.

“Everybody?”

“All three of you.”

She grabbed the keys from the ground and rolled her eyes. “Joey, we were friends once, right?”

“Once,” I agreed. “With one of you, anyway.”

“Then please. Let me take you home.”

After a moment, I shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat. In seconds, we were on the road, and the familiar rumbling of my diesel engine lulled me into a drunken sleep.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the sun was beating through my windshield relentlessly, and my head was throbbing. I was also in an all-too-familiar place—a full four-hundred miles from where I’d been the night before.

Amber was nowhere to be seen.

What the hell? I thought.

I was home.

Actually home. The home I’d fled from three-and-a-half years ago.

I opened the truck door and gagged out the rest of whatever I’d consumed the night before. When I righted myself, I stared up at the ominously cheerful house where I’d grown up. I stepped out onto the concrete and took a reluctant step toward the door.

Coming home should be a good thing. It shouldn’t be a reflection of the guilt, anger and other shitty things that have happened in your life. Even so, as I let myself into my parents’ house and dragged my feet all the way to my dad’s home office, those were the only things I could think about.

My dad barely blinked as I collapsed into the chair across from him.

I watched him, waiting for the self-righteous rage I knew was there, just under the surface. I’d spent my whole life trying to live up to the expectations that went along with being his son. I had lived up to them until everything had gone to shit five years earlier. The man was a corporate mogul, and a financial guru, and a tough-as-nails father. I knew what he wanted from me, and it wasn’t another excuse.

I wished I’d had time to brace myself for his disappointment on the long drive here.

What’s the matter, Joey? I pictured him saying. You run out of girls to string along?

I bristled at the imaginary accusation, just as if he’d actually said the words. I felt tense, waiting for it to come.

We’ve been through enough. You being here…it will just add something else for us to worry about .

My shoulders drooped, and I slipped farther down into the stiff chair that faced him. My dad still kept silent. He sipped his ever-present rye and Coke and looked at me without expression. I wondered if he’d found some new kind of Zen, maybe the result of a concoction of pills and a heavy dose of Irishing everything from coffee to water.

“Dad, I think I need this.”

They weren’t the words I’d been thinking, or even anything close. As I watched him, though, I realized that coming home was exactly what I did need. Maybe it was the only thing that could save me from what I was becoming. I cringed inwardly as the memory of the unknown girl wrapped around me came to mind.

“Please,” I said softly.

Then my father smiled a self-satisfied smile, and the man I’d grown up with was back. I realized he’d just been waiting for me to beg for his help, for me to admit that I needed him. As far back as I could remember, he had this desire to hold every card, to have all the power. Even when he did have it, that wasn’t quite enough. He also wanted an acknowledgment of that power.

“You’ll be working for it, Joey,” he told me.

I knew he was thinking about the thousands of dollars he’d forked out for over three years of therapy, and about the fact that I’d insisted on finishing my degree out of town to distance myself from the very place I was coming back to now. I was thinking about both, myself.

Waste of time, waste of money , was my sudden conclusion.

My dad wasn’t in the habit of wasting either of those things. He reached into the desk and pulled out a leather folder. He slapped it down in front of me.

“These are my conditions, Joey,” he said coolly, and took another sip of his drink.

I didn’t even know what was inside it, and I already wanted to throw it back in his face. I made myself push down the urge.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A contract.”

“For work? Dad, you know I’m a reliable employee. I’ve been working for you since I was sixteen.”

“It’s not about reliability. It’s about accountability. And more than that, it’s about credibility,” my father informed me. “And it’s about you not winding up…” He paused, cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. “I need some assurance. These are the conditions of me allowing you to work for Fox Enterprises, and the conditions for me allowing you to live here.”

A sneer built up on my face, and I grabbed the leather-bound contract and lifted it in front of me to cover my expression. As I read through the contract, I was glad my dad couldn’t see my expression.

Some of it was businesslike and made sense.

If you were employing a total stranger .

He wanted me to commit to twenty hours of work per week, on a flexible schedule around school. He wanted me to book my vacations three months in advance and to wear a suit to the office.

Fine.

It was the second half of the paperwork that infuriated me. I let the contract slide down into my lap and I stared at him from across the desk.

“Is this a joke?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Not in the slightest.”

No more than seven alcoholic beverages in a month. No revolving door of women. An 11:00 p.m. curfew on weeknights and a midnight one on weekends.

My father shrugged unapologetically. “You can’t blame me for keeping tabs on you.”

Of course I could. Had he forgotten I was a twenty-two-year-old man? I stared at him, and he read my face perfectly.

“When you’ve shown me that you are an adult, I will consider some flexibility,” he said.

I wanted—badly—to push back.

“I need the sixth of every month off” was all I said. “Other than that, I’ll do whatever needs to be done, Dad.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Fine. A day off, every month. Hell, make it thirty-six hours. It starts at midnight on the sixth, and it ends at noon on the eighth. I don’t want to know what you’re doing during that time, and I don’t want it to interfere with your work. If you do what you’re supposed to do, and abide by my rules, I’ll continue to pay for your education, and I’ll let you live here.”