Page 8 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)
My spreadsheets are beautiful, and I bet someone out there would jerk off to them. But I’ve verbally sparred with Ash enough to know when to cut it off.
“Ashley. John David,” Mom says from the corner of the room, glaring at both of us. “Be cordial.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Come sit down. Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom says, waving us toward the dining room.
Right as we pass by the entryway, Waylon’s best friends Jada and Jeremiah step up to the glass door. Jada’s eyes narrow at me for some reason, but I soon realize she’s actually looking at Ash behind me. But her smile brightens and she says hello to everyone, giving out hugs.
We make our way over to the kitchen to help Mom bring the dishes to the table, then herd all the dogs aside from Sadie (who’s calm enough to sit in Bianca’s lap without trying to eat everyone’s food) onto the porch outside the dining room.
Bubba whines, pressing his nose to the glass.
Lady must do the same thing all the time because there’s a dog-height nose smudge across all the glass panes.
We awkwardly shuffle around for the ideal seating arrangement. I end up across from Ash and in between Bianca and Jada.
Mom settles at one end of the table, and Dad, as if he sensed food was on the table, ambles in to sit on the other end.
We load up our plates with all of Mom’s best dishes, plus some strong punch that Ash or Rose must have made.
As usual, no one speaks for the first five minutes while we shovel down food.
“I’m so glad to see all of y’all here,” Mom says, buttering a piece of cornbread. “We haven’t had a family dinner in so long.”
“You got another one of those things on your hands?” Dad asks Ash, completely ignoring Mom.
“A tattoo?” Ash looks at Dad like he’s asked him if he’s human. “Yes, I did.”
I look at his tattoo. He has them up and down his arms and across his chest, with this new addition on his hand. It’s well done, which I can only tell because some of his tattoos used to be incredibly bad. Thankfully he’s had the sense to get the bad ones covered with better ones.
“You’re definitely not going to get a job with that thing.” Dad takes a long drink of his bourbon.
“Good thing I have a job already. I’m not just fucking around —”
“Language, Ashley,” Mom says.
“I’m not just fucking around doing nothing,” Ash says again, ignoring Mom. “We tour. Record albums.”
“As long as you don’t end up freeloading back here.” Dad reaches for another piece of cornbread.
“Honey, please. We’re trying to eat,” Mom says to Dad. Dad just grumbles.
We have this conversation every family dinner when Ash is here, as if he hasn’t been in his band since his early twenties.
Ash and I aren’t friends, but Dad’s insistence that Ash doesn’t have a job is exhausting.
I think Ash would rather die than live off of anyone else, especially our parents.
Then again, Dad doesn’t like music at all—he’s the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t like anything.
“Anyway,” Mom says, overly bright. “Bianca, how was your meeting with the wedding planner?”
Bianca’s family is famous in the music industry, and they’re more than happy to foot the bill for what sounds like an extravagant wedding.
“It was great.” Bianca smiles, glancing at Waylon. “We nailed down the vibe we want and we’re finding a venue. It’ll probably be in New York, though.”
“Upstate,” Waylon adds. “It’ll be more private. Lots of trees.”
“That sounds so romantic. It’s going to be gorgeous,” Jada says with a dreamy smile. Ash lets out the tiniest huff, just loudly enough for me to hear.
“And what about your groomsmen?” Mom asks, looking to me.
Wes just chose Waylon for his best man, which cut out a lot of nonsense. Just because Waylon and I get along doesn’t mean I want this somewhat meaningless title.
“Jeremiah and Wes,” Waylon says, handing Bianca a roll. “Sorry, Ash and JD.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Ash says with a snort. “I’ll live without being a part of the wedding.”
Waylon and Bianca shrug him off, but Jada glares at Ash. Ash glares back.
“I’m sure it’ll be amazing and beautiful regardless. I’m just glad you’re together.” Mom beams.
She loves Bianca. Probably because she was trying to get Waylon to settle down for ages, but also because they really do mesh well with each other.
“You have that meeting with sales, JD?” Dad asks. It’s like he’s been in his own world this entire conversation and he’s deciding to pull us into his world every once in a while.
“Yeah. And I scheduled a follow-up,” I say. “I’m going to work on some of the projections when I get home.”
“Sweetheart, shouldn’t you rest?” Mom asks. “It’s Sunday.”
“I’m fine, Mom. It needs to be done.” I stab a green bean. “Better to do it when I won’t be interrupted.”
“It’s fine, Delia.” Dad pushes back from the table and goes to the bar cart.
“We shouldn’t talk shop at the table, then.” Mom dabs at her mouth with the cloth napkins she pulled out for the occasion.
“I just needed to know.” He pours himself another drink. “He’s right—he’s going to run the whole damn thing when I retire, and I want it done the right way. He’s the best one to do it.”
I hate the pride that diffuses through my chest at his words, even as Ash lets out a pained sigh. Dad doesn’t give compliments freely, so working to get even a tiny one like that is an addiction I can’t quite break.
But the other part of what he said lingers in my head. He wants it done “the right way”—his way. It can’t be his way forever, as much as doing things his way gives me the shreds of approval I wish I didn’t need.