Page 14 of Break Point

“Sorry,” Walker grunts out, shooting up from the couch only to pace around the room while he rubs obsessively at the back of his neck. He seems to soothe himself after a few seconds and eventually holds out a fist for me to bump.

“You all right, man?” I thought I had problems. Walker’s a mess.

He waves a hand at me.

“Yeah, it’s just this bio class. I already dropped this thing once.” He’s shoving his feet into his sneakers, probably to head out for a run. Walker’s a great guy, and one hell of a running back, but he has a habit of running when shit gets hard—both literally and figuratively.

“Walk, man. The semester just started. Give it time. I’m sure it’ll be easier this time,” Ashton says.

Walker nods and utters a quick “yeah” before heading out the door. I flop down onto the sofa to take his place and click the controller to start a new race against Ashton. I’m terrible at video games, but I like to do something with my hands when Ashton and I talk. It helps me concentrate. The crossed wires of ADHD at work.

“You think that was really about bio?” I ask.

I feel Ashton shrug next to me. My best friend’s superpower is his ability to keep other people’s shit out of his realm. He’s protective of his peace. I, on the other hand, tend to open the gates to all the chaos. And my father is the king of chaos. If I had half of Ashton’s willpower, I’d ignore my father’s call right now. But I don’t. So I answer.

“Yes, Father,” I say in a smug tone. I may feel compelled to indulge my controlling dad, but I’m going to be passive aggressive whenever the opportunity presents.

“I need you to let your sister know the business card has been hacked,” my father says, not even bothering to scoff at my overly formal greeting.

I purposely spin out my kart in the video game so Ashton can win, then toss the controller on the empty sofa cushion after I stand. Ashton restarts the game to play solo, and I make my way to my bedroom so I have somewhere to crash after my dad exhausts me.

“She’s your daughter, Jacob. Why don’t you call her?” He didn’t flinch at the use of father, which means I need to ratchet up my game.

“Don’t play games, Bryson. I’m looking at a fraud alert on my phone. It looks like some punk hacked the business card and paid their tuition. I’ve already called the bank to put a hold on the charge, but your sister needs to find out what happened. You know she’s not good at finances, so if you could please step in so she doesn’t sink her business before this insane idea of hers even gets out of the gate . . .”

I toe my door shut and sit on the edge of my mattress, rubbing my right temple while I hold my phone to my other ear. My dad took so many shots at my sister in that statement, it takes me a few seconds to mentally wind things back to the part where he said he canceled Jaden’s tuition payment.

“What if she meant to make that charge, Dad?” I’ll give him the bit about stopping the games. I need to focus now.

“For some . . . Jaden Johnson? Pffft, I doubt that,” he says, stumbling his way through Jaden’s clearly phonetic name as if it’s Latin.

“Yeah, but you don’t know that. Maybe it’s someone she’s working with. Like a contract employee.” I happen to know that’s the case, but I’ve been Jacob Moss’s son long enough to know it’s best to word confessions like hypotheses in the event he decides to tear them to shreds.

“Preposterous. Your sister’s not that stupid. She knows that would wreak havoc on the books when it comes time to reconcile and file. At least, I would hope she learned something in all those finance classes I paid for at that artsy business school she insisted on going to.”

It only took him a minute to bring up my sister’s degree from the Seattle School of Tech Design and Entrepreneurship. My father doesn’t like anything that feels remotely modern. He’s an oilman. And a cattleman. And a landman. “Earthly tangibles,” he always says, “are where legitimate money is made. Tech is fleeting.” I’ve learned not to point out the irony that he’s the biggest donor to Texas Tech University. He merely went there to play football.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say, having played emotional chess with the man enough times to recognize when he’s got checkmate.

“Good.” Of course he doesn’t say “thanks.”

He ends the call before any actual conversation, and I’m relieved rather than disappointed. I stopped enjoying talking football with the man when I was in high school, when everything I did on the field quit being about a game and started to become about his legacy. I snag a hoodie from the back of my desk chair and slip it on as I head back out the door to rush to the finance office I just came from. It closes soon, so I set off in a steady run rather than hop into my truck. It’s quicker to cut through the preserve path by foot than to hunt for a parking spot near the admin buildings.

By the time my hand lands on the polished handle for the finance office, the same woman who took Jaden’s payment is walking toward it with the key to lock up poised in her hand. The instant disappointment that dims her eyes makes me feel bad, but I open the door anyway and try to catch my breath quickly so I can turn on the charm.

“Hey, I’m so sorry,” I plead, holding up one hand to buy some time while I push my other fist into the side stitch forming in my right oblique. I may need to step up my cardio. I thought I was in preseason shape, but that mile-and-a-half sprint kicked my ass.

I glance at the embossed name tag on the woman’s lapel, then quickly revert my eyes back to her face.

“Thank you for letting me slip in last second, Nicole. I promise this won’t take long.” I, in fact, can’t promise that. I have no idea how long this will take. But sometimes calling someone by their name and giving them a false promise buys just enough grace.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Nicole says, her deep-maroon lips bunched up in judgment. She just touched that lipstick up, I bet. Probably for happy hour, or maybe a date. It’s a Saturday, and here I am dragging out her least favorite part of it.

“Right, I’ll get to it. I was in here with someone about thirty minutes ago. Her name is Jaden Johnson.”

Nicole’s lashes flicker with recognition. I wonder if she got an earful from my dad before he called me. My gut says she did.

“Is she your girlfriend or something?” Nicole’s tone is less amused, if it ever was.