Read Online 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by Jessica Brody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Brody
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That would only require energy I don’t have.
“You know what,” he eventually says after a few more seconds of incomprehensible ranting (although technically it could have been longer—I think I dozed off there for a minute), “I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in.” He suddenly sounds all decisive and boastful, as though he’s been having a long, heated debate with himself and is pleased that he’s finally won. “Consequences are more effective than concepts and it’s about time you started learning some.”
“That’s the spirit, Brucey,” I mutter dazedly, managing to muster a weak fist pump.
He ignores my goading tone and continues with authority. “Your first job starts today. And you’re not getting out of it just because you’re an overindulged, spoiled brat who refuses to take responsibility for her actions. At least not anymore. Those days are over, Lexington. You’re still going to work today. And you’ll complete a full five days on the job. We’re not postponing.”
I blow on a feather from my headband that has fallen limply over my face. “No problem.”
I hear Bruce’s pacing slow to a stop. I open one eye to see what’s going on. He’s now seated behind his desk, jabbing at a button on his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Spiegelmann?” His assistant’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Is he here?” Bruce asks.
“Yes, he’s just arrived.”
“Good. Send him in.”
I sit up, struggling to hold back the bile that’s burbling up from my stomach, and glance suspiciously from Bruce to the phone. “Who?” I demand, praying to God it’s not my father. I really don’t think I could deal with him right now. “Who are you sending in?”
The answer comes a second later when Bruce’s office door swings open and a young man in a stuffy dark gray suit carrying a leather briefcase strides pompously into the room. Despite my foggy head and blurred vision, I recognize his pretty-boy face and conventional preppy haircut immediately.
“Lexington, this is Luke Carver. An intern at Larrabee Media.”
“Oh, God,” I say with a loud groan, collapsing back onto my side. “Not you again.”
It’s that annoying, arrogant jerk I had the displeasure of meeting at my father’s office yesterday. The one who had the nerve to restrict me from seeing him.
He gives me a long, disapproving once-over. “Nice to see you again, Lexington.”
“Oh, good,” Bruce says delightedly. “You two have already met.”
“Unfortunately,” I mumble, turning my glare on Bruce. “What is he doing here?”
Bruce rises to his feet and gives Luke a light pat on the shoulder. “She’s your problem now,” he says unsympathetically, and then stalks out the door.
I launch back up to a seated position and watch, wide-eyed, as Bruce disappears down the hallway without even so much as a goodbye. “Bruce!” I call out exasperatedly. “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”
But he doesn’t come back and now I’m left alone in his big office with this half-wit. I turn my angry glare on him. “Can someone please tell me what is going on around here?”
Luke stands like a statue, both hands in front of him, clasped tightly around the handle of his briefcase. “Your father,” he begins stiffly, “has placed me in charge of this particular…”—he struggles for the word—“… project.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been assigned to report back on your progress as you tackle your various jobs.”
I push my sunglasses up over my crooked wig, squinting against all sorts of unwanted light. “Excuse me? Are you telling me you’ve been assigned to babysit me?”
Luke does not look especially pleased at my choice of words but he hides his discontent with a tight-lipped smile. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a liaison. Between you and your father. I’m here to make sure you complete each of your fifty-two occupations to your father’s
“You know what,” he eventually says after a few more seconds of incomprehensible ranting (although technically it could have been longer—I think I dozed off there for a minute), “I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in.” He suddenly sounds all decisive and boastful, as though he’s been having a long, heated debate with himself and is pleased that he’s finally won. “Consequences are more effective than concepts and it’s about time you started learning some.”
“That’s the spirit, Brucey,” I mutter dazedly, managing to muster a weak fist pump.
He ignores my goading tone and continues with authority. “Your first job starts today. And you’re not getting out of it just because you’re an overindulged, spoiled brat who refuses to take responsibility for her actions. At least not anymore. Those days are over, Lexington. You’re still going to work today. And you’ll complete a full five days on the job. We’re not postponing.”
I blow on a feather from my headband that has fallen limply over my face. “No problem.”
I hear Bruce’s pacing slow to a stop. I open one eye to see what’s going on. He’s now seated behind his desk, jabbing at a button on his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Spiegelmann?” His assistant’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Is he here?” Bruce asks.
“Yes, he’s just arrived.”
“Good. Send him in.”
I sit up, struggling to hold back the bile that’s burbling up from my stomach, and glance suspiciously from Bruce to the phone. “Who?” I demand, praying to God it’s not my father. I really don’t think I could deal with him right now. “Who are you sending in?”
The answer comes a second later when Bruce’s office door swings open and a young man in a stuffy dark gray suit carrying a leather briefcase strides pompously into the room. Despite my foggy head and blurred vision, I recognize his pretty-boy face and conventional preppy haircut immediately.
“Lexington, this is Luke Carver. An intern at Larrabee Media.”
“Oh, God,” I say with a loud groan, collapsing back onto my side. “Not you again.”
It’s that annoying, arrogant jerk I had the displeasure of meeting at my father’s office yesterday. The one who had the nerve to restrict me from seeing him.
He gives me a long, disapproving once-over. “Nice to see you again, Lexington.”
“Oh, good,” Bruce says delightedly. “You two have already met.”
“Unfortunately,” I mumble, turning my glare on Bruce. “What is he doing here?”
Bruce rises to his feet and gives Luke a light pat on the shoulder. “She’s your problem now,” he says unsympathetically, and then stalks out the door.
I launch back up to a seated position and watch, wide-eyed, as Bruce disappears down the hallway without even so much as a goodbye. “Bruce!” I call out exasperatedly. “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”
But he doesn’t come back and now I’m left alone in his big office with this half-wit. I turn my angry glare on him. “Can someone please tell me what is going on around here?”
Luke stands like a statue, both hands in front of him, clasped tightly around the handle of his briefcase. “Your father,” he begins stiffly, “has placed me in charge of this particular…”—he struggles for the word—“… project.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been assigned to report back on your progress as you tackle your various jobs.”
I push my sunglasses up over my crooked wig, squinting against all sorts of unwanted light. “Excuse me? Are you telling me you’ve been assigned to babysit me?”
Luke does not look especially pleased at my choice of words but he hides his discontent with a tight-lipped smile. “I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a liaison. Between you and your father. I’m here to make sure you complete each of your fifty-two occupations to your father’s
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