Imperative Fate by Paige Johnson Read Free Book Online Page B

Friday night, do you remember that much, Daddy?”
    “An elephant never forgets red affairs,” Mr. Moss proclaimed firmly, smirking self-assured. He extended a hand.
    In the dim light of the foyer, he appeared barely old enough to father Ellie. Or perhaps he looked more like a mature man playing dress-up. His dingy gold, subtle curls silhouetted his strong profile like a cape. Lissome when he stepped further into the room, towards the lamps’ skirts to take my hand, my theories disintegrated as sandstorms. His tailored suit and long-legged stature couldn’t hide bulging muscle and graying root.
    With slight effort, he crushed the tiny bones in my hand. “Oh. You’ve a firmer handshake than your father already, Dahlia.” He quipped, “He shakes just like a fish.”
    I blushed, praying my false coat covered the natural. Politically, what can Anthony do right? I asked myself. 
    Mr. Moss said I could call him by his first name, Skylar. I chose not to because I’d go on and on about Good Will Hunting and Minnie Driver, but the option was there. He then asked if my father is on board with H.R. 2015, and I just stared at his steady eyes, brain blank.
    “I’m only joking,” he admitted after giving me spout to fidget. Clearly, that one went over my head.
    But not Ellie’s head; she tittered from behind, pacifying both her guests like a geisha.
    I decided I didn’t want to be part of nerdy inside games when Ellie Anne slipped from her pointed feet, beginning to gush about the time she and I had been having, gusting out my jitters like a beer before prom night. She recommended we sit down to the meal she made before it goes cold.
    Naturally, Mr. Moss took the head of the table after draping his suit jacket over the chair. “Dahlia,” he besought calmly, unfastening his bowtie, “you’re getting along with El well, aren’t you?”
    “Inseparable, really,” his daughter chimed from the kitchen.  
    Posture as presidential as any Kennedy, I solemnly agreed. I folded my hands, but quickly had they disbanded as I thought it appeared too snobbish. “We haven’t stopped conversing since Anthony’s fundraiser,” I enunciated properly.
    Mr. Moss quirked an astute brow. “You call your father by his first name?” They lowered as though he disapproved. “How peculiar.”
    “I think you’ll find Dahlia to be perfectly peculiar, Daddy,” said Miss Transcendentalist, putting his plate before him, smiling as big as the steak she prepared. 
    My discomfort manifested itself in scratching away my nail polish and cracking down on the bottom line of my teeth. I made a mental note to thank her for that unsult later. After Ellie Anne kissed her father on the cheek, provided me my portion, and took the seat nearest him, I could barely look at the two of them. Utter aliens.
    I heard her scoot her chair further in as Mr. Moss uncorked a wine bottle. The pour was audible for far too long. I dared tear vision from my hands. He filled a glass for Ellie, the same brand I drank the previous night if I’m not mistaken. I was astonished. I know a cup of fermented grapes isn’t that bad, but Ellie’s five years from legality, he her father, a man of the law. C’mon!
    She thanked him softly and took a kiss to the forehead. qct
    “I’d offer you some, my dear,” he said, serving his eyes to signify he was addressing me, “but the taste is a dubious proposition in the threshold of Mr. Connors, Anthony as you would have it, I’m sure.” Though his timbre was indubitably polite, the latter resonated unpleasantly. It sat, perched strangely on his tongue for too long. “I have it so my daughter is to delight in it, in my company, rather than experiment when she is not.”
    Everybody wants to believe Ellie Anne is a good, flawless girl, but of course she is not. She drinks in secret and mopes in augmented purgatory. From across the table, the guilty smiled with a plea in her eyes: Please leave him to believe that, Dahlia Connors.