But my father hesitates a second too long, and Gaige pushes himself away from the table. "That's exactly what he's saying," he says. "Come on, Delaney. This is a great opportunity for you. When else in your life are you going to get a chance to babysit the famous train wreck, Gaige O'Neal?"
Gaige doesn't say anything else, just storms out of the room, and I'm left sitting there at the table with my father, the air in the room tense.
"Dad," I start. "Am I just going to be a glorified babysitter? Surely someone else would be better for that than his own stepsister. Like his manager or something."
"I didn't want Gaige to take it that way," he says. "But…"
"But it's true." I don't even bother to hide my groan. "Come on, dad…"
"Gaige is going to do wonders as the face of Marlowe Oil. We're too uncool; we need someone exactly like him to make oil young and hot. Oil isn't sexy now."
"But Gaige is unpredictable."
"He's like a horse that needs broken," Beau says. "He needs to be kept from pulling stupid stunts like the one that got his leg messed up, and from picking up the wrong girls in Japan."
"I shouldn't be the one to –"
"I would very much like if you would do this. Give it some thought. You're not leaving immediately. It won't be until the end of next month. You both have a while to get used to the idea."
I would very much like if you would do this. There's a reason my father has gotten where he has in life. He has a way of issuing demands without making them sound like demands. His requests are never actually requests. They're orders. It's actually rather Japanese of him; I wonder if he knows that.
"Dad, you can't think that I'm going to be the one to keep him in line overseas," I protest.
"That's exactly what I need you to do," Beau says. "I have full confidence in you. I can't trust anyone else. You've always had a way with him, and he's always listened to you."
"What?" My voice is high pitched now. "That's not true. I haven't even seen him in years. We only spent two summers together after you and Anja got married. I hardly know him."
Beau shrugs. "He respects you."
I almost burst out laughing, but I know my father would be terribly offended. "I hardly think that's true. Gaige doesn't respect anyone."
"You'll keep him out of trouble," Beau rises from his seat and comes around to my side of the table, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving it a squeeze. He kisses me on the top of the head the way he used to do when I was young. "I trust you. And I'm glad you're home. I think I might just be the proudest father in the world, getting the chance to work with his daughter."
"Damn, you really know how to work people, Dad." I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is babysit Gaige, and yet here I am acting as if it's a foregone conclusion already.
"I know you'll do the right thing, Delaney," he says, before he leaves.
Fuck, I'm pissed off. I came back to live here after the accident because I needed to recover from surgery. Two surgeries and two months later, my tibia is no longer in a million pieces. And at least I can get around, even if it's in this goddamned boot that leaves me limping like an idiot. But I'm ready to get the fuck out of this place. It's been a lame couple of months, definitely not as filled with booze and girls and parties as I'd thought a few months of mandatory rest would be.
But that's not what's irritating me right now. That's the background, but what's pissing me off is this deal with my stepfather. I generally don't mind him. Even though he's a cowboy boot-wearing, born-and-bred Texan, he's not a bad guy. He's not a drunk, or a wife-beater, or a gambler. The guy's biggest vices are hunting, cigar smoking, and buying insanely expensive scotch. And talking about Texas.
But he tries to do right by me. This deal is a lot of money, and it's Beau's company. He's concerned about my "brand" – of course, he's also concerned about Marlowe Oil's brand. That's where I come in – I can make big oil "cool and approachable" for millennials who don't trust big corporations.
If it were anyone else but Beau, I'd have said no to the whole "face of the company" thing. I don't want to tour Japan and smile pretty for the cameras, just like I didn't want to do that bullshit photo shoot with the models either. Sure, three hot blondes made it less painful, but I'm a racer.
I want to race. I miss the rush of adrenaline, sitting on the bench for the past two months. No amount of working out can match the rush I get going a hundred and fifty miles an hour on the back of a bike. You can't replicate that shit doing anything else in the world.
Except maybe when you're fucking.
But hell, good sex like that, the life-altering kind that mimics the rush of racing? That shit happens once in a lifetime, maybe.
I think that's the way it would have been for me and Delaney. I've thought about that a lot. More than a lot. Fuck, I've jerked off to her memory a thousand times. We never got quite that far.