Free 52 Reasons to Hate My Father by Jessica Brody Page A

legs up underneath me, tucking my hands under my cheek, and attempting to doze off again. If I can just get a few minutes of sleep, I’ll be fine.
    But it soon becomes evident that this is a lost cause because Luke suddenly decides to treat the brake like it’s the snare pedal on a Rock Band drum kit. Every time my eyes start to drift closed, the car wrenches forward and back and I’m jolted awake like a crash test dummy hitting a brick wall. Then I look over at him with pure hatred in my eyes and he simply smiles, shrugs, and goes, “Sorry,” in this really high-pitched, singsongy voice. And I swear I see him laugh under his breath.
    He starts jabbering again. “I’ll expect regular status reports from you. This is a job and you’ll treat it as such.”
    “Regular what ?” I ask, pressing both index fingers against my forehead.
    “Status reports. Summarizing what you’ve done at each job, what you’ve learned, and any insights that you’ve had.”
    “So what do you want me to do?” I say with a sarcastic snort. “Fax them to you?”
    “I don’t care what format you present them in, as long as the information is there.”
    I sigh and push my head back into the headrest. “I don’t remember that being part of the original arrangement.”
    “Well,” Luke says coldly, “it is now. And if you fail to comply, I’ll report back to your father that you’re being uncooperative.”
    I groan. Leave it to my father to hire someone to communicate with me on his behalf. Because God forbid he actually has to talk to me himself. Oh no, he has to pay a “liaison.” A freaking liaison ! I mean, sure he’s been doing it for years, through hundreds of different people—Horatio, Bruce, Kingston, whatever eager new publicist he’s sent to clean up my latest mess—but until now, he’s never given it an official title. He’s never actually called a duck a duck.
    Although calling this Luke person a duck is far too kind. He’s more like a bug. A cockroach. And if he didn’t hold my financial future in his grubby little hands, I’d just as soon squash him underneath my Christian Louboutin heel.
    “Where are you taking me?” I ask, looking out the window at the familiar landscape. Until now I hadn’t even noticed where we were going. It appears we’ve landed in a neighborhood of Brentwood.
    “To your first job assignment,” Luke replies rigidly. “I’ll be driving you to all of your jobs and picking you up at the end of the day.”
    “Thanks, but I have a car.”
    “Hmm.” Luke pretends to contemplate. “That’s not what CNN is reporting.”
    “I have a driver ,” I amend.
    “Well, it looks like you won’t be needing him for this. It’s my job to make sure you show up on time every morning so I’ll be taking you.”
    Oh, God. Can this day possibly get any worse?
    And right then, as if the universe is answering my unspoken question with a smug, self-satisfied chuckle, Luke pulls into the driveway of a large Tudor-style mansion and parks the car. I see a short, blond-haired woman standing out front, dressed in a pale-blue-and-white-striped, calf-length uniform with short sleeves and a crisp white collar. In one hand she holds a red compartmentalized bucket filled with various plastic bottles of unidentifiable liquids. In the other she holds a second uniform, identical to her own.
    Luke walks around the hood of the car, opens my door, and beckons for me to get out but I don’t move. Instead I grip the edge of the seat so hard I think my nails might actually be puncturing the ugly gray fabric.
    The harsh-looking woman with the tight blond bun and dark sallow bags under her eyes elongates her neck and briskly approaches the car. She thrusts the red bucket toward me, like she’s the chief of some indigenous tribe making a peace offering to the strange newcomer. Like I’m actually supposed to take it and start jumping for joy, throwing my arms around her neck and thanking her for such a thoughtful