They Sold Me For Rice

Chapter 3: The Dinner Table of Vultures

The chicken was perfect.

That was the cruel part. Lucas lifted the first bite to his mouth and the skin crackled between his teeth, salty and golden, and for one second he forgot where he was. He forgot the table, the faces, the knife-edge of the thing he was carrying. He just chewed, and swallowed, and had to stare hard at his plate to keep his eyes from stinging.

"Slow down, man," Derek said, smirking over the rim of his glass. "It's not going anywhere. You eat like you haven't seen food in months."

Lucas set his fork down gently.

Six months, he thought. Six months of cold beans and rainwater. And you ate stew while I bled on the floor.

"Long week at work," he said. "Skipped lunch."

"You skip lunch too much," Diane said, passing him the potatoes. "That's why you're so thin. A man needs to take care of himself."

She said it with such warmth. Lucas almost admired it, the way you can admire a well-made trap.

He took the potatoes. He said thank you. He ate, and listened, and let the conversation wash over him like water over stone.

They talked about nothing. Richard's golf game. A neighbour's new car. Derek's latest business idea, something about importing phone accessories that would definitely make him rich this time. Vanessa laughed in all the right places, her hand resting on the back of Lucas's chair, her fingers brushing his shoulder now and then.

Each touch made his skin crawl.

He did not flinch. That took everything he had. He held still and let her touch him and kept his face soft, and somewhere behind his ribs a small cold voice kept repeating the same thing. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

This was the part he had never understood in his first life. How could they sit there, so comfortable, so pleased with themselves? They were not monsters in the way he had pictured monsters. They did not snarl. They did not plot in dark rooms. They simply wanted things, and he was the thing that gave them what they wanted, so they kept him close and kept him sweet, the way you keep a good tool oiled.

It was almost worse that way.

"Lucas." Richard tapped his glass with a knife. The table quieted. "Before we cut the cake, I'd like to say a few words."

Here it comes, Lucas thought.

"Fifty five years old," Richard began, leaning back in his chair with the easy grandeur of a man who had practiced this speech in the mirror. "And what do I have to be grateful for? A beautiful wife. Two wonderful children. And a son in law who is, frankly, more reliable than my own son."

"Hey," Derek said.

"Sit down, Derek, it's a compliment to him, not an insult to you." Richard raised his glass toward Lucas. "To Lucas. He's the glue of this family."

"To Lucas," Diane echoed.

"To Lucas," Vanessa said softly, and looked at him with shining eyes.

Glasses chimed. Lucas lifted his own and drank, and the wine tasted like iron.

The glue of this family. He turned the words over in his mind. Glue was the thing you used to hold broken pieces together. Nobody ever thanked it, and nobody ever noticed when it dried out and cracked.

The cake came. Candles, a clumsy chorus of happy birthday, Richard waving his hand in mock embarrassment. Lucas clapped along. Then plates were passed, forks clinked, and Richard cleared his throat in a way Lucas recognised instantly.

It was the throat clear that always came before a request.

"Lucas," Richard said, in a voice so casual it was almost sleepy. "I wonder if I could have a quiet word with you after dessert. A small matter."

There it was.

In the last life, Lucas had followed him into the study without a second thought. He remembered the room, the leather chair, the smell of old cigars. Richard sitting behind the desk with his hands folded, saying he had made one little mistake with some investments, nothing serious, just a temporary cash flow problem. And Lucas, who had nothing to spare, had gone home and opened his savings account.

That had been the beginning of the end for his money. Not the first time. Not the last.

"Of course," he said now, and was surprised at how steady it came out. "But why not here? We're all family."

A tiny pause. Diane's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Derek glanced at his father.

"It's nothing to bother everyone with," Richard said, still smiling.

"Then it won't bother anyone." Lucas picked up his coffee and took a calm sip. "Go ahead, Richard. I'm listening."

For the length of a heartbeat, something shifted in the old man's face. Not anger. Calculation. He had not expected resistance, not even this small, polite kind, and he was weighing how to handle it.

Then he laughed and spread his hands.

"Well, all right. Why not? No secrets in this family." He leaned forward. "The thing is, I borrowed some money a while back. A business arrangement. Short term, high return. And the return has been a little slower than the man promised."

"How much?" Lucas asked.

"Twenty thousand."

Silence. Somebody's spoon touched a plate.

"I'm not asking for a gift," Richard added quickly. "A loan. I'll pay you back by next quarter, with interest if you want. It's just that the lender is getting impatient, and I would hate for any trouble to come to this house. You understand."

Trouble. A polite word for the kind of men who broke fingers.

Lucas understood. He understood so completely that he could have recited the rest of the speech himself. The apology. The promise. The slight tremble in the voice that said, I'm an old man, I'm counting on you.

He looked around the table.

Diane was studying her cake with great interest. Derek was texting under the tablecloth, pretending not to listen. And Vanessa had turned to him with her big, damp, hopeful eyes, and laid a hand over his.

"Lucas," she said softly. "It's my father."

Her thumb stroked his knuckles. It was a lovely gesture, tender and practiced.

He remembered another hand, the same hand, wrapped around his wrist as the lantern flame shivered. I never wanted any of this.

Twenty thousand dollars. Nearly two thirds of everything he owned. And in ninety two days it would not matter either way, because money would turn into paper and rice would turn into gold. But right now, tonight, it mattered more than anything. It was the difference between a fortress and a bare field. Between a full warehouse and an empty one.

Between living and being bait.

He carefully slid his hand out from under hers and set it on the table.

Every face turned toward him. They were waiting for the usual answer, the quick yes, the soft I'll take care of it. The sound of the glue obeying.

Lucas set down his cup.

"I'll think about it," he said.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Derek's phone slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor.

In five years of marriage, Lucas Grey had never once said those words.