Free Takeover by Diana Dwayne Page B

don’t really think that this is appropriate conversation. The fact of the matter is that our Rose is home now, and I don’t think we need to go any further than that with this conversation. Why can’t we all just sit back and enjoy each other’s company?”
    My dad is a child of the sixties. It’s not that he was involved in any sort of activism or anything like that; he was born in the sixties. He’s always seemed to be a little perturbed at the fact that he didn’t get to drop acid with Hendrix. Mix that with a love of contact sports and that’s my dad.
    Sarah laughs. It’s a hideous sound that I can only equate to nails being run over a chalkboard. Of course, the nails going over the chalkboard wouldn’t belong to her; they’d be from a hand that she’s recently severed.
    “What do you think about all of this, Simon?” Mark asks, not so much in hopes of an answer, more for the joy of watching his youngest brother squirm at having to say something in front of his family while he’s so clearly baked.
    “I don’t,” he starts then looks at Beth. “Well, you can’t think that Rose would ever hurt anybody. She just doesn’t have it in her.”
    “What,” Sarah says, largely out of context, “and you do?”
    “Not like you,” Simon says. His eyes quickly go wide as he realizes that he’s let something slip. Now he’s going to spend the next five to ten minutes tripping out about whether or not we heard him. He shrivels into himself as Beth comforts him in a tone so quiet it doesn’t really look like she’s talking. I know why my dad is okay with Simon smoking pot, but my mom? I don’t know, maybe she really is that naïve.
    Sarah just laughs. Her objective has been achieved.
    James comes back with a half-empty beer in his hand. “So, how are we all doing out here? Does anyone want dessert?”
    Mark shoots him a quick look, and before his eyes are back on me, James is already heading back into the kitchen in search of something stronger. I chuckle to myself. My poor baby.
    “You think it’s funny?” Mark asks. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get you an interview with Rory McDaniel? Sure, the guy was an asshole, but he was one of the biggest guys in the business.”
    “I’m sorry to have put you out by working for a man who got murdered,” I respond, hoping that James gets my telepathic message that I want him to bring me a beer on his way back; if he ever does come back.
    “Well,” Mark says, “the next job’s all on you, sis. I’m not sticking my neck out like that again. Do you have any idea what it was like going to the office today with everyone thinking that my little sister killed Rory McDaniel?”
    “It must have been so hard for you,” I respond with a double helping of patronization. “It must have been like being in jail where every one of your moves was scrutinized, feeling so imprisoned, but exposed. Oh wait! That was me,” I say, looking longingly toward the kitchen door. I’m not great at sending messages telepathically; although I’m sure Sarah could give me a few pointers in regard to the dark arts. I just keep thinking, “James. Bring me a beer with no less than two shots of something hard in it.” I’m not quite sure why I’m making the voice in my head sound spooky, but there it is.
    “Yeah,” Mark says, “sorry about that.”
    “Not your fault,” I respond as James finally comes back through the kitchen door, holding two beers. At first I’m shocked, and to be honest a little impressed with my psychic abilities, but it quickly becomes apparent that he’s just finishing his first beer and moving on to his second.
    “You wouldn’t believe what’s happening out there in B.W. right now.” B.W. is his ridiculous way of saying, “The Business World.”
    “Yeah?” I ask, only partially interested as I’ve moved from telepathy to body language, but James isn’t getting it.
    “Yeah,” Mark responds. “One of the companies that me