Page 11 of Buckin' Around

I am assuming Riley’s presence is the reason for the brief reprieve from the parental’s nitpicking our lives apart.

I like her already.

Why couldn’t Stacey have thought of this strategy, oh, I don’t know, like fifteen years ago? Imagine the emotional damage and childhood trauma we both could have avoided if we’d simply thought of bringing a guest to dinner.

Watching my folks strain to be polite at their weekly inquisition is almost worth the awkwardness that has Riley’s gaze stuck to her plate. Literally.

I try to break the ice coating the heirloom hardwood table that separates us all by an equal distance. “So, Riley, how many leprechauns have you spotted in your lifetime?”

The second her eyes snap up to me, I add in a wink.

Cringe, I know. The things you do to lighten the mood.

Mom straightens, lips pursing as her gaze turns positively stony, locking onto me like a well-trained sniper. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Spencer, the most asinine dribble comes out of your mouth.” She turns to Riley, whose eyes have widened. “Ignore him. You don’t have to answer that; you’re our guest.”

Which roughly translates to Riley being held much, much higher in their opinion than their actual children. Or any of our family, come to think of it.

I distinctly remember both my parents disowning my uncle after he divorced a woman they had considered an advantageous match.

My parents’ regency mindset is going to bite them in the ass one day.

We eat in mostly silence until the main meal runs its course.

“Spencer, you’re with me in the drawing room.” Dad rises, not paying me a glance.

I know a summons when I see one.

Oh goodie, this ought to be fun.

I suck in a fortifying breath and follow. I’m barely over the threshold to the drawing room when he starts in on me. “I had a very upset Mrs. Princeton on the line yesterday. Do I need to remind you that, as manager of Silver Elite, you need to ensure your patrons are happy?”

He drops into a studded leather chair, reaching for his cigar box.

Because of course he does. He’s the epitome of clichés. Always has been.

I wander to the opposite chair and sink into it, my focus wandering to the lit hearth. My gaze sticks to the flames that dance at its center, throwing their amber hue over the dimly lit room.

“She’s fine. Besides, I doubt I can give her what she wants.”

My father leans forward, the cigar pinched between his fingers as he studies my face. “You do whatever it takes to make a business successful, Spencer.”

“Yeah, until it’s banging cougars with a penchant for guys a third of their age.”

“You think this is a joke?” His words are low, his brows drawn.

“I am not sleeping with that old hag just so you can keep her money in the bank.”

His fist slams down on the armrest.

“Show some goddamn respect. That ‘old hag’ is a founding member of the stables. You will give her what she wants. Or you’ll find yourself out of a job, son. Besides, from what your sister tells me, you have no problem chasing tail on the circuit. One old lady should be easy for you. After all, what are those charming looks for, if not getting this family what we want?”

I choke on my last breath as it gets caught in my throat.

He is seriously asking me to fuck the old bitch? Me, his only son. For a membership fee?

Bile rises in my throat.

“Wipe that horrified look off your face, Spencer. Lockwoods do what it takes. You’re no exception. Now, say goodnight to your mother before you leave. And stay away from Stacey’s new friend. The invitation to jump into anyone’s pants doesn’t extend to her.”