52 Reasons to Hate My Father (2 page)

I can feel my face grow hot with rage. Did she really call me a spoiled brat?

“Excuse me,” I demand.

“Un moment,”
she says to the caller, then takes a deep breath, pulls the phone away from her mouth, and plasters on an artificial smile. “Yes?”

“What exactly do you do for my father?”

She is clearly annoyed by my interruption but fights to hide it. “I am his new head publicist.”

“Well,” I begin, before smoothly transitioning into flawless French to say, “Maybe if you had done all your research, you would have known that this ‘spoiled brat’ spent half of her childhood in France.”

Then I shut my eyes to her stunned expression, pull my hair back over my face, and grumble, “Just wake me up when we get there, okay?”

ALL IN THE FAMILY

My father has a permanent suite at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Supposedly it’s so he has a place to entertain business associates when they come to LA. But I know that’s total crap. The suite is so he doesn’t have to sleep at the house. Everyone knows sleeping over somewhere requires a certain level of intimacy. I don’t care whether you’re in a romantic relationship or a family relationship, sleeping is an intimate act. Waking up in the morning is personal. Sharing breakfast is for families. And regardless of what the newspapers might call us, the Larrabees are certainly
not
a family.

In my father’s mind, making brief, fleeting appearances at our primary home in Bel Air is just enough to call himself a resident. But, of course, it’s never long enough to actually get involved in any aspect of my life. Back when I was a kid, I was still naïve enough to try to get the most out of his rare visits, racing to the front door with drawings I had made in art class or dressed in my latest ballet ensemble ready to bust out whatever new dance move I had learned. I was always desperate for his approval. Starving for those empty, one-word appraisals that I would hungrily gobble up and store in my cheeks like a chipmunk who didn’t know when it would be able to eat again.

Now I know better. I don’t waste my time. And when my dad is “scheduled” for a visit (yes, they’re almost
always
scheduled), I try to make myself as scarce as possible.

“Your father is on his way from New York,” I’m informed by a familiar male voice as soon as I walk into the suite and collapse onto the silk-wrapped chaise longue in the living room.

Like I said,
almost
always scheduled.

“Thanks for the warning,” I reply snidely.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Bruce snarls, stalking over from the table in the dining room and looking down at me with a menacing stare. “You really screwed up this time, Lexi. Do you realize you could have
killed
someone? Including yourself.”

I roll onto my side so I don’t have to look at him. “Oh, come off it,
Bruce
. I’ve been through hell tonight. Can’t you let up for one second?”

Bruce is my father’s personal lawyer. As opposed to one of his corporate goons. He handles all of my father’s estates, income, wills, trust funds, and, most important, family business (that would be me right now). The truth is, ever since my mother died when I was five, I’ve spent more time with Bruce than with my own father. The unfortunate result being that he often tries to treat me like a daughter. Meaning, he seems to get some kind of perverse pleasure out of reprimanding me. As though it’s not really in his job description but he’s inwardly congratulating himself for going above and beyond the call of duty.

“You
crashed
your
car
into a convenience store, Lexi!” he bellows. “Need I remind you of the significance of such an event?”

“You mean, do you need to remind me of how my mother died?” I ask disdainfully. “No, I think I’ve got that covered, thanks.”

He lowers his voice to an angry hiss. “You put this family in serious jeopardy tonight.”

I groan and roll my eyes. “You say that like you’re
part
of this family.”

“I am!” he shoots back indignantly. “I look out for the family’s best interests. At all times. Your father, your brothers, and you. I am
personally
vested in this family’s well-being. And
that,
Lexington Larrabee, is more than I can say for
you
.”

I spin back around to face him so fast that the room doesn’t stop rotating right away. But I’m too busy screaming to even notice. “You have absolutely
no
idea what it’s like to be part of this family!” The boiling anger inside me is exacerbating my headache at an alarming rate but I don’t care. The emotion has taken over now and once that happens, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. “You have no idea what it’s like to be tucked into bed and kissed goodnight
every
night by someone who’s being
paid
to do it. You can’t even imagine what it feels like to receive your high school diploma, look out into the crowd, and see Larrabee Media’s latest Harvard recruit in the front row fumbling to get a brand-new camcorder out of the box so that he can record a video that your father will never even watch. And until you pass out in a gas station bathroom and wake up in a hospital room with a stranger
hired
to hold your hand and tell you that everything is going to be fine, I don’t want to
ever
hear you claim to be part of
this
family.”

I can see in his eyes that he’s lost the battle. Or at least he’s decided to hoist up the white flag and leave it be for now. I turn back around and press my face into the fabric of the chaise, finding minor relief in the feel of its cool, satiny surface against my skin.

*   *   *

The doorbell of the suite hasn’t stopped ringing since I got here. There’s a flurry of activity, mostly relating to the cover-up that’s in the works for tonight’s “incident.” That’s how the minions have started referring to it. And as much as I hate all the noise and commotion, I don’t complain, in fear that they might pack up and move their base camp to a conference room downstairs and then I’ll be left alone in this giant suite.

At half past three in the morning, the door opens and a bellhop enters pushing a cart stacked with suitcases and boxes of my stuff from home. Holly, my brown and white papillon, is perched contentedly on top of my Louis Vuitton train case, enjoying her chauffeured ride through the lavish, gold-trimmed hallways of the hotel. Upon seeing me, her little tail starts wagging and she lets out a cheerful bark and leaps from the cart directly into my lap.

I hold her tightly and coo into her tall, butterfly-shaped ears, rubbing my nose in the soft fur of her neck. I rescued Holly from a busted puppy mill three years ago. She was a mess when I first got her, refusing to come anywhere near me for almost six months. But now we’re inseparable. And despite what you might see or read in the tabloids, she’s not just another fashion accessory for me. She’s my world. My lifeline.

In fact, simply having her here with me now instantly shifts my mood. It’s amazing how she’s able to do that. People can be so annoying sometimes. With all their stupid opinions and hidden agendas. But dogs? Dogs don’t have any agendas. They’re as honest and open and devoted as you can get. And that’s why they’ll always cheer you up. They’ll always love you. No matter how badly you screw up. No matter where you happen to crash your Mercedes convertible.

Thankfully, I manage to find a bottle of ibuprofen in my train case. I shake a handful into my palm and down them with a swig of the Italian mineral water that’s sitting on the coffee table, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Oh, gross!” I gag. “I can’t believe my father drinks this crap.” Without even turning around, I yell out to no one in particular, “Can someone bring me some Voss, please?”

The water arrives less than a minute later, as if there’s a Voss vending machine stashed in the shower stall or something. I gulp it down eagerly and then pour some into the bottle’s oversize cylindrical cap and offer it to Holly.

Bruce exits the master bedroom where he was making a call and announces to everyone that the Captain has landed and is boarding the chopper now. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the Captain is my father. He insists everyone use these stupid code names for everything. The Nest is our main house, the Landing Pad is this place, the Apple Core is our Park Avenue town house in Manhattan, and Bruce, my father’s go-to man for practically everything, is known simply as the Lieutenant. There’s a whole list somewhere. It’s updated monthly and sent out by e-mail. I haven’t seen one for years though. Ever since I discovered how to use my spam filter.

As people start buzzing around the room in preparation for the Captain’s grand entrance, I execute some prep work of my own. After downing the remainder of the water, I fire off a text message to Jia and T, my two best friends in the whole world, and implore them to get here ASAP for moral support. Then I head into the bathroom to check my face.

My reflection actually frightens me to the point where I swear I’m having one of those body-swapping experiences that you see in the movies. I don’t even look like myself. My mascara is smudged to oblivion, my hair is flattened against one side of my head, and my eyes are the color of pinot noir, with more bags under them than the bellhop wheeled in on his cart ten minutes ago.

I turn on the faucet, dip my hand under the tap, and carefully rub my fingertip from my eyelashes to my cheekbone, smearing my mascara even more so that it now runs down my face in long tear-like streaks.

I smile at my handiwork.

Perfect.

Then I switch off the light, shuffle back into the living room, and sink into my chaise longue to await my father’s arrival.

COME AND GONE

Jia and T are the first to arrive. They must have been close by when they received my text. Bruce watches reproachfully as they sashay through the door, gasp dramatically upon seeing my disheveled state, and dash over to me, spewing rapid words of sympathy and disbelief like two overeager fountains. He catches my eye and gives me a look of disdain but I promptly ignore it, turning my attention back to my
real
support team.

“Oh my God, Lex,” Jia exclaims, kneeling on the floor next to the chaise. “We heard the news on Twitter on the way home from the club. We couldn’t believe it!”

“We told Klein to turn the car around straightaway!” T explains breathlessly in her flawless Queen’s English accent.

Jia’s dark brown eyes glisten with tears before her head collapses against my stomach. “We thought you were dead!”

With a laugh, I reach out and touch a spirally lock of her short caramel-colored hair. “I’m fine, you guys. Thanks for coming.”

Jia, T, and I have been best friends since the first year of prep school. “The troublesome trio,” as the teachers quickly came to call us. Jia is the daughter of basketball legend Devin Jones, who used to play for the Lakers and now owns like a hundred car dealerships, movie theaters, and T.G.I. Friday’s restaurants. Not that she’d ever be caught eating at one.

T’s mom used to be a member of this really famous British girl band that had a bunch of platinum albums in the early nineties. Her dad was a guitar player who toured with them but T hardly sees him anymore because when the band broke up and T’s mom quickly blew through all her album royalties, she ended up moving from London to LA to marry the president of this huge software corporation and she brought T with her. Now T lives in Malibu in this crazy, environmentally conscious Smart Home with a refrigerator that talks to you when you run out of milk and a thermostat that automatically adjusts to your body temperature.

“Oh my God,” Jia says, lifting her head back up. The bronzer on her smooth mocha skin shimmers under the track lighting of the hotel suite. “You’ll never guess what Mendi did after you left.”

“
Never
guess.” T confirms with a nod of her head.

“Wait,” I say, biting my lip in anticipation. “Let me try. Give me a hint.”

But before they can answer, Bruce clears his throat so loudly and obnoxiously you would think he had an entire chicken wing wedged in there. The girls look up at him expectantly while I just roll my eyes and groan. “What is it, Bruce?”

I can see his left cheek twitching. It means he’s gnawing on the inside of his mouth again. He does that when he’s attempting to hold something back. My guess is it’s probably another outburst.

He takes a deep breath and then in an even, yet tense voice says, “While we’re all grateful for Jia and Tessa’s—”

“T.” She’s quick to correct him.

The twitching begins again but after a few seconds, it’s dispelled by a tight-lipped smile in her direction. “Jia and
T
’s support,” he amends. “Given the imminence of your father’s arrival, I suggest they wait downstairs in the lobby.”

The girls start to rise, but I grab hold of Jia’s arm and yank her back down. “No!” I cry, narrowing my eyes at Bruce. “These are my friends—my
family
,” I add, knowing how much it’ll piss him off. “They stay.”

“It’s all right, love,” T soothes, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “You should have some alone time with your dad.”

“Ha!” I let out an indignant snort and gesture to the roomful of people. “Yeah. Me, my father, and all of our closest friends. We’re one big happy family.”

But T just offers me a meager smile in response as she lets my hand drop with a thud against the side of the chaise. “We’ll be right downstairs,” she says.

I watch helplessly as my friends—my life rafts—sail out the door, before turning my angry glare back on Bruce. I’m ready to really let him have it this time but unfortunately I’m not given the opportunity. The entire room is suddenly silenced by the sound of the door opening again.

I don’t need to pull myself up to know that it’s my father who has just walked into the room. I can see it on the faces of his doting employees. I can hear it in the unmistakable sound of his imposing footsteps. In the way the door clicks obediently closed behind him. In the reverent silence that follows. After seventeen years of living with Richard Larrabee as a father, you learn to recognize the sound of his entrance. And of his exit.