Rough Edge

by Jen Talty

  Snagging the frying pan, he fired up the stove. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could handle plain scrambled eggs and bacon. The bacon sizzled, and the grease jumped out of the pan and smacked his arm. He welcomed the sting because it replaced the warm, fuzzy feelings that stirred deep in his soul.

  He understood love, but other than his mother, he’d never really experienced it. Sure, the men and women he worked with he had strong feelings for. Hell, he’d die for any one of them.

  But the kind of love that Maddog and Jolie had? Or Shamus and his wife? That kind of love was a concept that Clayton didn’t believe he’d ever experienced, and that was fine by him. Love complicated things, and he liked his life nice and simple. No strings and if he ever got bored with the Brotherhood, he could up and leave.

  He laughed as he flipped the bacon and added in the eggs. He’d been with the Brotherhood Protectors for ten years now, and he still wasn’t bored. Not even close.

  After putting all the food on two different plates, he set them on the table and flipped open his laptop. His mail icon bounced. One message from Hank. He clicked on it.

  Hey Clayton,

  We got a hit on the partial plate. A holding company owns it and get this; the holding company is owned by Stanley Adams. I’ve attached some information on Stanley, his wife, their business, and some of their latest deals. This man has a lot of enemies, and he’s been threatened before. But what’s even more disturbing is he had dealings with Maxwell Busgy.

  Call if you need anything.

  Hank.

  Clayton searched his memory regarding his one phone call with Sage’s father. Had he told them where he planned on taking Sage? No. The only people who knew were Hank and the rest of the team, and they wouldn’t give up Clayton’s location. Even so, it might be a good idea to head to a different campground.

  He scanned the rest of his emails, but there was nothing that needed his attention now. He clicked on the first attachment, which was a picture of Maxwell standing in front of a building with his arm draped over Stanley’s shoulder. Shit.

  “Hey, Siri, call Hank Patterson.”

  The phone rang once. “I take it you got my email.”

  “I thought I knew every business associate Maxwell had.” Clayton had a bad feeling in the pit of his gut when it came to Sage’s father. His mother might not be winning any mother of the year awards, but she did her best to keep Clayton protected from the insanity of being on the streets.

  “We both know that Maxwell had more than one legit business along with partners. On the surface, Stanley looks clean.”

  His mother used to tell him that almost nothing was as it seemed. One of her many life lessons, which included keeping his emotions bottled up inside. If you must cry, do it in the shower. Or late at night when you’re all alone. She would tell him that showing any sign of weakness would permit people to take advantage of him.

  The last time he cried had been the day he buried his mother, but it hadn’t been at the cemetery. Nope. That would have upset his mother. So, he waited until he was in the privacy of his hotel room. That night, he cried for what seemed like hours.

  To this day, he wasn’t sure what he missed because, for most of his youth, he’d been raised by a group of hookers and their friends. His mother spent more time turning tricks than she did spending time with him. And then when things turned for the better, she spent all her time escorting Maxwell and his cronies around.

  Then along came Frost after Maxwell had beaten her so badly, she ended up in the hospital. That had been the beginning of a new life.

  Clayton had been fourteen. He thought that he’d get more time with his mom, but she jumped right into working at a shelter and eventually opening her own educational center. And Clayton still spent most of his time with prostitutes.

  “Smells delicious out here.” Sage sashayed across the floor, smelling of pine and wearing a pair of his boxers and one of his white V-neck shirts, tied at her hip. Her long, wet hair left damp spots in places that needed to be covered.

  He cleared his throat as he pulled back the chair next to him and shoved a hot cup of what he hoped was better tasting coffee across the table. “How was your shower?’

  “Fine, but how the hell do you fit inside that tiny little thing?”

  “Very carefully,” he said with a slight laugh.

  “Wow. You have a nice smile. You should do it more often.”

  “I don’t usually have much to smile at.” His cheeks started to hurt from grinning wider than he’d done since he was a small boy. “But you seem to bring it out in me.”

  She reached out and traced her finger across his cheek. “Now, all we have to do is work on how you talk to people, and there might be hope for you after all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The tone of your voice is distant. That’s not who you are. You’re tender and kind.”

  He groaned. “It’s never a good idea to do this, but I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you yesterday from across the ballroom.” He cupped her chin, tilting her head.

  She pressed her finger against his lips. “You aren’t going to kiss me right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “First reason is that I’m starving. But the more important reason is I want to know why you have a picture of my father with Maxwell Busgy displayed on your screen?” She tapped the computer and gave him a twisted smile.

  “Are you sure you’ve never met him?” Clayton figured it was for the best she put the brakes on. She was his client, and while many of his buddies meet their spouses in similar situations, he wasn’t looking for anything but a fling.

  And she wasn’t fling material.

  She shook her head at the same time as she bit down on her lower lip.

  He hated it when people lied to him, but for now, he wasn’t going to push.

  “Since I was ten, I’ve lived in boarding schools and summer camps, only coming home for Christmas. I went to college in New York City and worked summers up there. I’ve only moved back to the area in the last few years, and I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone either of my parents works with.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.” Clayton scratched the side of his face. Her childhood sounded empty and sad, and the lines that etched deep in her forehead as she spoke about it let him know that she too felt a hole in her heart and a void in her soul. “Have you ever worked for your father? Remotely or in person? Even if it was only for a short time.”

  “Nope. My father told me that I needed to go out and make my own way in the world, although I don’t think he wanted me to create a foundation, and he wouldn’t have given me a job if I begged. He’s decided his world isn’t for me.”

  “I’m surprised. Most parents want their children to follow in their footsteps.”

  “Did your mother want you to follow in hers?” she asked with an arched brow, which she quickly retracted. “That was rude.”

  “I won’t argue with you on that point, especially since I’m very proud of what my mother accomplished in her last years on this earth.” Not once had Clayton been ashamed of being the son of a whore, and that was still true. But it didn’t mean that comments like that didn’t stab him in the heart. “Your mother is a successful lawyer and works with your dad, so I suspect his reasoning for keeping you from the family business is either because he’s doing something illegal or he thinks you’re incompetent.”

  “I hate to admit it, but he thinks I’m incapable of most things.” She waved her finger near his face. “You think my dad’s a criminal, don’t you?”

  “It’s looking that way.” He contemplated how much he should tell her about what Hank dug up, but he needed more time to process the information. “What about your mother? Does she support you?”

  “About the same as my dad. They aren’t warm, fuzzy parents.”

  “I guess not,” he mumbled. His mother always showed him affection, showering him with hugs and kisses, but even that didn�
��t make up for the fact that he could go days without seeing her, especially as a young man since many of her johns were wealthy businessmen who took her away for a week or two. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged, stabbing her eggs with a fork.

  “Why haven’t you ever been to the Alley Home?”

  She dropped her utensil and coughed.

  “Have you been to any shelter or disaster zone you’ve raised funds for?” he asked, knowing full well she hadn’t.

  “No. I haven’t, and I take it you want to know why?”

  “What you do is great, but it’s not any different from writing a check. Money only gives people so much. Without a caring staff who are willing to go the extra mile, all the money in the world isn’t going to solve the problems. You could bring awareness just by showing up.”

  She popped a piece of bacon in her mouth and stared at the ceiling. “I get what you’re saying because I feel like my father thinks everything should be handled with donating money versus doing anything about it. But to answer your question, I don’t go because I honestly don’t have the time. But I do send my staff, and they report back. That’s how I know where I want to put my energy.”

  Something in the way she avoided eye contact told him she was hiding her real reason, but he wasn’t about to call her on it, just yet.

  She shifted in her seat, tucking her feet under her butt. “My turn to ask a personal question. Have you ever been with a prostitute?”

  He snapped his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to know that?” It hadn’t been the first time someone had asked him that question, but it always took him off guard.

  “Before I was shipped off to my first boarding school, I heard my parents fighting, which they didn’t often do, but my mother mentioned something about some whore my dad had been with, and if she ever found out again, she’d ruin him.”

  “That’s a lot for a sheltered little girl to deal with.” He reached out and pushed her damp hair over her shoulder, gently running his fingers across her soft neck. “Do you know if your father still has a taste for hookers?”

  “You say that so flippantly, which confuses me since your mother was…” She let out a long sigh. “I keep putting my foot in my mouth, don’t I?”

  He patted her knee. “Most people do.”

  “When I first started my foundation, I told myself I wouldn’t help prostitutes because of my father. I know he’s cheated on my mom many times.”

  “That sucks. I’m sorry,” he said with tightness in his throat. When he’d first met Sage, he struggled between the woman he knew her to be and the rich young lady who had yet to experience life.

  Only, he’d been wrong. She had a shit-ton of experiences that tore at her heart and perhaps hardened her a tad, but it also left her misguided and full of fear, which surprised him.

  “Are you asking me if I’ve been with a hooker to understand your father?”

  She nodded.

  He appreciated her honesty and wished he had the answers she was looking for. “I’ve never paid a woman for sex, but I don’t judge the women who sell themselves. I do, however, resent the men who abuse them. Finding employment that pays the bills for many of these women isn’t an option. They do what they have to in order to survive.”

  “Not all of them. I did my research on your mother, and she became a high-priced call girl—”

  “Babe, I’m going to stop you there,” he said, running his hand up her arm. “Men might have paid a hefty sum for her, but she didn’t get most of that money. She didn’t get to keep the gifts. Those all went to Maxwell. He controlled her until she found a way to steal from him, and even then, for whatever reason, she couldn’t leave him.”

  “But not all women have pimps or whatever you call them. I’ve read articles about madams and other people who run brothels.”

  “Brothels are legal in some places in Nevada, and they are generally a very different beast, but for the most part, there is always someone who controls the prostitutes, and they often end up beaten, broken, or dead.”

  She opened her mouth, but he quickly shushed her.

  “If you’re going to say they deserved it or was asking for it, I’m going—”

  “You really think that low of me that I would think anyone deserves that? Of course, they don’t. I’m just telling you why I have an issue with prostitution and why I haven’t gone to many shelters.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not why you don’t go. I remember all the food, water, and necessities you managed to fund for the hurricane that hit the Panhandle last summer, but there wasn’t a single picture of you at the disaster area.”

  “So? Why do I have to be there?”

  “You don’t, but at least be honest with why you don’t go.”

  “Oh, and you have an opinion on the matter, don’t you?”

  He might as well speak his peace. “As a matter of fact, I do.” The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her feelings in any way, but she didn’t need him to coddle her or try to placate the situation. She needed to face the truth of her reality. “If you go, it will make it too real, just like why you don’t want to be in the same room with a prostitute and deep down, you know once you start doing that, you’re the kind of person who gets her hands dirty, and that scares you.”

  She sucked in her lower lip and bit down on it.

  “You care deeply, but you’re terrified if you get too close to anyone or anything, you’ll get hurt because that’s what your parents showed you, so you remain detached, even though you go one step further than your parents. You raise money instead of writing a check, but you refuse to get into the trenches because if you do, it means you’ll see your life differently. Your parents differently.” He tapped the small space between her breasts. “You have a big heart, but you’ve pressed it down into the depths of your soul, keeping you from really seeing and feeling for the people you are trying to help. Again, that would make it too real, and sadly, your parents only showed you that money means you care, only they don’t care at all.”

  She shook her head and laughed. It wasn’t a ha ha laugh, but it wasn’t sarcastic either. It sounded more like his words struck a chord, and she was about to let reality bubble to the surface. “And did your mother care about you? I’m sorry, but I struggle with your mother’s life choices, especially after she started the Alley Home.”

  He shrugged. “I’m no different. My mom might have been warm and loving, always showering me with hugs and kisses, but she never had time for me. She had to go out and make money so that I could have a better chance. And she gave me that, but it did come at a price.” His heart beat erratically.

  She tapped his chest. “That price was what it did to you, and don’t tell me that you didn’t struggle because of what your mother did.”

  “When you put it like that, I can’t deny it,” he said, slumping back in the chair. The picture of Maxwell and Stanley mocked him from his computer screen. For the first few months he’d known Maxwell, Clayton thought the world of the man. He had nice clothes, and he always came bearing gifts. He paid the rent, gave them food, and then once he had gained their trust, he beat his mother into submission and held them both hostage.

  Had Clayton known his mother spent three years stealing almost two million dollars from Maxwell, he might have played his cards differently as a young man, but it didn’t matter anymore. His mom used most of the money for a good cause and left the rest to Clayton; only he hadn’t touched a dime.

  Where Sage grew up in a world where money solved problems, Clayton grew up in a world where money created issues.

  “I care very much about all the people who come through the Alley Home.” He focused on his pulse beating in his ears. It seemed to continue to increase, causing a tightness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it brought an array of emotions he normally stifled without thinking about it.

  “Everyone can tell y
ou care, and you do so much, but it’s obvious that you resent some of us who care differently.” She heaved in a deep breath. “I know. I do the same thing; only it’s masked in a smile while handing over a fat check to some other charity organization as I tell myself I’m better than my parents.”

  He waved his finger in the air. “We’re different in that department. I never tell myself I’m better than my mother, because I know I’m not. I’m not better than anyone, but since I’m asking you to be honest with yourself, I should do the same.”

  “And what’s your truth?”

  “My mother was a decent woman. She didn’t make the best choices in life, but she did the best she could with what she had, and I appreciate that. She’s not the reason I come off as if the money that’s given to the Alley Home isn’t enough. I’m that way because of who my biological father is.”

  “I read somewhere that you have no idea who your father is.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

  “I take it your mother told you who your father was?” Sage stood and cleared the table.

  He took the laptop and moved to the sofa. Glancing over the top of the computer, he watched her move about the kitchen. She carried herself with more confidence than most young women he knew, but ever since he first struck up a conversation with her, he felt a kinship he didn’t understand.

  He hadn’t even felt like that with his mother, who he had the utmost respect for, even if deep down he hadn’t agreed with many of her life choices.

  “She told me she had no idea, but I know that’s a lie,” he admitted for the first time out loud.

  Sage tossed a dish rag over her shoulder and leaned against the kitchen sink. “Do you have a relationship with the man you think is your father?”

  Now that was a loaded question and one he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer truthfully. If Maxwell was indeed his biological father, then what did that mean for Clayton?