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I smiled, slapping his shoulder. “Thanks, big, bro. You know to keep this between us.”
He rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Zander, relax,” my father huffed.
I sipped my cola.
“Owen, did you figure out your major yet?”
He slid a forkful of shrimp fried rice into his mouth, peeked at me, then back at dad. “Architecture.”
Shit, what the fuck was he doing?
My father’s smile widened. “Good.”
Still trying to please our father. He shouldn’t. Dad didn’t give a shit about us.
“Zan, are you excited to attend Princeton?”
“Yes. And I know what my major will be.” I smirked, shoveling a forkful of shrimp fried rice into my mouth, savoring the taste.
“Spit it out, Zander.”
“I’ll study business then law.”
His blue eyes turned dark and his jaw ticked.
Yup, this was the best birthday. The look on his face was classic. There was no way I’d tell him I’d study architecture. One day I came home and my mom had hung all my drawings. She found them in the bottom drawer of my desk. I was furious. My dad didn’t need to know I still drew. My skills were better than my brothers. See my father didn’t want to play catch with us he wanted to help us develop our drawing skills.
“You don’t remember what we discussed, Zan?”
He sat forearms resting on the long rectangular table, glaring at me.
“Yes. You want Owen and I to run the firm. I’m majoring in business. Owen can draw. I’ll handle the day-to-day operations.”
He flashed a fake smile. “We’ll discuss at another time, Zander.”
An hour later we stood outside the six-car garage.
My dad’s hand rested on my shoulder. He mashed the garage door opener with the other hand. “I hope you like it.”
The middle door rose. My eyes bulged and my mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe it! It’s a triple black Lamborghini Murciélago.”
My father gripped my shoulder, pulling me close. “Don’t stop smiling. You are the best architect of this family. You don’t have to major in architecture, but you will enroll in architecture classes and pass them. That will pacify me, son.” He placed emphasis on son.
You see even though Thatcher wasn’t around often, he still knew how to control me. On second thought, this became the worst birthday all over again.
The following day, my trainer Boris joined me in our home gym. I’ve taken martial arts classes since I was little. Mixed martial arts fighting piqued my interest.
My leg flew through the air aiming for Boris’s head.
He smiled. “You’re good. When do you plan to fight?”
“Not sure. But I want to be ready. Today, I called you over because I needed to workout a little aggression.” I danced around the ring.
He arched a brow. “Your father?”
“Yup.”
