“We owe him.”
“You owe him?”
“We owe him. Everything we have—this house, your clothing, tuition, your car—is in part thanks to Paul. The IRS could have seized my records, fined me, or forced me out of my business. Paul stopped that from happening.”
I still wasn’t sure how Super Paul had stopped the government from fining my father until he was penniless, but none of that was my fault. My father framed issues that way, as if I was partly to blame. Heaven forbid he bear the weight alone.
When my parents divorced, he’d played the blame game nightly. It’s not your fault your mother left. It’s our fault. I share half the blame for working tirelessly to give my girls everything their hearts desired.
That was the story my father had to tell himself so he could sleep at night. I knew now he was solely responsible for his work hours and for pushing my mother away.
“Wouldn’t you agree you have a good life? Nice things? Privilege, Natasha, comes at a price.”
I didn’t answer. I knew I had it good.
“What if I cut you off—stopped paying for your schooling mere months before you graduate? What if I sold your car—that would be detrimental to your future, wouldn’t it?”
I gaped at him, stunned. This was the first time he’d ever blatantly threatened me.
“Wouldn’t it.” His voice was low and cold, those two words a command and not a question.
“Y-yes. It would,” I admitted. I was a breath away from graduating college. I couldn’t afford tuition and live on my own. I considered going to my mother and just as quickly dismissed it. She lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment two hours away. Since the divorce we’d found our way back to each other—we met for lunch every once in a while—but even if I went to her for sanctuary, she wouldn’t have the money for my education. She’d walked away without my father’s money in the divorce. I later learned it was because she wanted to make sure I had all I needed.
Guilt crowded my chest.
“You understand my predicament. I can’t very well continue paying for the nice things you have while you’re under the influence of a criminal, can I?”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “We’re not hanging out. We’re working.”
“Unsupervised in Caden Wilson’s bedroom.”
I shot out of my chair. “I’m not sleeping with Cade!”
I snatched up the box and marched into the foyer, steam billowing from my ears. I hated how guilty I must have sounded.
“Natasha!” My father’s shout echoed off the high ceiling.
Reluctantly, I turned to face him.
“I expect very little from you. This is not a big ask.” He plunged his hands into his pants pockets. “Should I write the check for your tuition and your car payment, or are you dropping out and leaving the BMW here?”
The car I could live without. Though I was told it was a birthday gift, not yet another marionette string with which he tried to control me. The tuition, however, I needed. College was expensive. The money Paul gave me to work with Cade wasn’t enough to live on and my internship at the rehab center was unpaid. Moving back home to live with my father was out of the question. If the options were swallow my pride or endure my dad, well…the choice was obvious.
“You will not see him again.” My father inclined his chin. I waited for him to demand I concede, but he didn’t. “You’re dismissed.”
I didn’t linger.
At home I collected my mail and carried it, along with my hard-won package, into my apartment. My place was a short five-minute commute from my father’s house—aka, the Montgomery Mausoleum. I mentally noted during that short drive to change any and all shipping addresses to my new apartment.
I dropped the envelopes on the counter and walked through my tidy third-floor apartment to the bedroom of my dreams. It was enormous, and with the en suite bathroom, took up nearly half the floor plan. My bed was dressed in a dove gray comforter, pale pink throw pillows, and flanked by a padded gray headboard. My dresser, wardrobe, and vanity were antiques, beautiful alabaster white, and the same furniture from my youth.
I sliced through the packing tape on the box using a metal nail file and settled on the bed to examine the contents. I’d ordered three books: Stuttering Therapy, A Therapist’s Guide to Better Speech, and Bad Boy Bodyguard.
The novel, with a shirtless, tattooed male model on the cover, was one I’d bought on a whim. The unsmiling mouth and the tattoos decorating the cover model’s sculpted arms reminded me of a certain uncooperative patient-slash-hobbyist-mechanic.
I stroked the cover with my thumb and considered my father’s threats. Would Morton Montgomery really pull the rug out from under me if I continued seeing Cade? If I stopped our fruitless therapy sessions, I would have more time to dedicate on my schoolwork and the internship.
I picked up one of the speech books I ordered and felt a surge of determination. Cade had spoken today. More than once. He’d also moved himself out of the house. He was close to a significant change. If he was able to speak again, he could go back to college. Pursue law school. Fulfill his dream of becoming an attorney. If I quit on him now, would he backtrack?
I refused to give up when we were this close.
As much as he’d like to believe it, Morton Montgomery didn’t rule the world. It wasn’t any of his business what I did or who I spent my time with. Plus, if Paul didn’t rat me out, how would my father know?
I tucked the romance book into my nightstand drawer and selected one of the other books instead. Then I kicked off my shoes, propped my head on a pillow, and started reading about how, exactly, to help Cade relearn to speak.
Chapter Four
Cade
“How’s she coming along?”
I was bent over Devlin’s SUV when he asked. Rather than answer, I snapped my fingers and pointed at the toolbox.
“Socket?”
I nodded. He slapped the metal into my palm. I ducked back under the hood.
“She looks about the same is why I’m asking,” he said.
Like his car would look any different on the outside after I fixed its insides? I was proof that the outside could look the same whether or not the insides were in working order.
I finished up and dropped the hood with a bang. Then my gaze went to my girl. My 1969 powder blue Chevrolet Camaro. She was not a new Blue; no car could replace Blue. But she was a classic. And by “classic” I mean she was full of rust holes and needed a new alternator. Basically, she needed a whole lot of love and money.
Don’t we all.
“Do you have her running yet?” Dev, hands in his pockets, strolled over to the Camaro.
“Yeah.” I liked that word. It came out clean most of the time. No tricky consonant at the end or the beginning.
“You work tonight?”
I nodded, cleaning my hands on an orange rag.
“See you there.” He rounded his car and climbed behind the wheel. Elbow resting on the open window, he said, “Thanks for the assist. Dinner’s on me tonight.”
I tipped my chin as he pulled out of the driveway. My eyes went to my new-slash-old car Paul bought me for my birthday a few months back. It was a peace offering. He felt guilty about draining my bank account when he’d been neck-deep in gambling. He’d been going to Gamblers Anonymous since my accident, which made me hate him a lot less. The car ran. Didn’t sound pretty, but she ran. I hadn’t named her yet. I was afraid I’d be attached too soon.
I didn’t have to work for a few more hours, and there was no Tasha coming over to bother and/or sexually frustrate me, so I decided to work on my nameless car. I cranked up the radio in the garage to drown out the neighbor’s lawnmower buzzing across the street. When I rolled beneath the Chevy, my thoughts returned to that night on Alley Road.
Street racing wasn’t legal. So, it was a bit pot/kettle for me to give Paul crap for gambling illegally. In my defense (Your Honor), the big difference between Paul and me was that I won more mo
ney than I lost.
I liked everything about a street race. The low rumble that shook my balls when I revved the engine, the scent of burning rubber when I peeled away from the starting line. The adventure. The risk. Hot, loud, enthralling, and over in seconds. College classes were the opposite. They were dull and dragged on for eternity.
Cars had always been a part of me. Before I met my ex, I planned on becoming a mechanic, but Brooke didn’t want to marry a blue-collar guy. She made sure I understood that any man of hers couldn’t show up at a dinner party with grease under his fingernails. I loved her, so I traded in my tools for textbooks.
I chose poorly.
Anyway. That night on Alley Road I had the race under control. Until Blue slid on an invisible sheet of black ice. I spun the wheel to the right and lost control, tires sliding, headlights from the other cars blinding me. My precious Audi crashed into a fire hydrant and sent me on one fucked-up ride. I dropped out of college, moved home with Dad, and ruined any chances of becoming an audiobook narrator.
My body healed. My tongue didn’t follow suit.
I pushed out from under the Camaro, suddenly claustrophobic. I couldn’t remember much about the accident. The ambulance came and took me to the hospital where doctors performed surgery and bandaged me up.
Tasha had been there when I opened my eyes that next morning. Second person I saw, after my father. Her blond head and sympathetic blue eyes filled with concern reminded me of an angel. For a second I thought I was dead. My eyes met hers and I was suddenly short of breath.
Though that could’ve been the two cracked ribs. Hard to say.
She’d shown up for me when my “friends” had run for the hills. That might be pot/kettle too, considering I might’ve bolted from the scene of the crime had I been in their shoes. I narrowed my eyes and reconsidered. If I’d watched my friend crash his car and found him slumped over the steering wheel, blood oozing out of his head, I’d have stayed to make sure he was okay.
Tasha and I had that in common.
So, she’d hung out in my hospital room and had explained things to my dad in a way he understood, which made me like her more than I should. Life was simpler when she hated me. When I knew there was no chance she’d go to bed with me. Now there was a chance, but only because she saw me as fragile. Helpless. I never harbored a nurse/patient fantasy. That didn’t do it for me.
Worse, lately I’d been admiring more than her physical attributes. I could forgive myself if all I noticed were her bright blue eyes, the swells of her breasts, or her luscious hips. Now, though, I noticed the sadness that seemed to settle over her when she was quiet. The determination in the pleat between her eyebrows. The way she genuinely wanted to help people.
Which was dangerous to the nth degree. I’d fallen for a rich girl once before and that hadn’t ended well. What could I possibly offer Tasha Montgomery now? My future as a mute mechanic was dim. Though I supposed that was a step up from my regal station as busboy at Oak & Sage. Hell, I cleaned up after people like her.
I kept wondering if my goal of bedding Tasha had been my warped way of making up for failing with Brooke. Which, admittedly, would have been a total dick move. I was sort of glad she’d shot me down. But I’d found solace in her since then, which was messed up. Instead of using her for sex, I was using her to feel more like my old self.
Not that I was my old self. When I spoke, I sounded like a skipping vinyl record. Not ideal for taking pre-law classes, you know?
I slid back under the car. At least if it asked a question, my tools could answer.
I had no idea how long I’d been under the car. A few hours, I figured. I was in a zone. It had been a while since I’d been immersed in a project. Long-term or otherwise. Now that my days weren’t filled with studying and my evenings were devoid of drinking beer with my friends, I had a lot of time on my hands.
One more small adjustment, then I could scoot out, take a shower, and head to work. Or at least I thought I had time, until I heard my dad’s raised voice.
“Cade!”
“W-wait,” I said, trying to finish up.
“Cade!” He sounded frantic, but I wasn’t answering him again. When he palmed my tennis shoe, I pushed out from under the chassis.
“You left your phone in the house. Devlin called twice. You’re late.”
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“Do you need me to drive you? What were you doing under there, anyway? The car ran fine until you started messing with it.”
But I wasn’t listening. I tossed my tools into the red toolbox and yanked off my T-shirt as I ran upstairs to my new room.
“Let me know if you need a ride!” he called after me.
Dammit. I did. Which was unfortunate. The new guy with the new job his brother hired him to do needed his dad to drive him there as if he were a delinquent fourteen-year-old.
Shit!
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and spun the shower knob. I could spare thirty seconds, maybe. I was making each one count.
Tasha
My last patient for the day was taking his sweet time. And flirting with me. He gripped the poles on either side of his body as he took another shaky step. “You’re sure, beautiful?”
I grinned. “I’m flattered, Mr. Newman. But I don’t date my patients.”
Nor did I date men who were forty-five years older than me, but I suspected he already knew that. He’d taken a nasty spill thanks to a testy knee—“from the army,” he’d told me—and had broken his hip. His recovery was slow going, but he’d insisted his time was well spent with me. I felt the same way. Greg Newman was positive, funny, and the most respectful man in my life. I liked spending time with him too. He didn’t let little things stop him. He didn’t even let big things stop him.
Unlike a certain someone who had been fighting me every step of the way. I told myself I was being unfair. Cade had only been in recovery for a few months. Healing took time.
“Is there someone else?” Mr. Newman asked with mock concern.
“There’s no one else.” I encouraged him to take another step.
“I can tell.” Wobbling a little, he put one foot in front of the other. “You have a man on your mind.” He harrumphed. “A younger man, I’ll bet. I don’t blame you. Everything on me is falling apart. I couldn’t keep up with someone young and active.”
“You’re doing great. Better than most of the younger men I know.” One in particular. “These days, younger guys can’t hold their own the way you mature men can.”
He lifted his bushy eyebrows. “‘Mature’ is a nice way to say ‘geriatric.’”
I laughed.
Once his session was complete, my supervisor Veronica called me into her office. I was half worried I’d committed some infraction of which I was not aware. It was hard being a perfectionist.
“Close the door.” Her expression was bland, her skin flawless and smooth. I really needed to ask her what kind of moisturizer she used, but now wasn’t the time. Veronica was friendly, encouraging, and patient. She was also one of the most gorgeous women I’d ever seen. Like Beyoncé, but slimmer, her face more placid than fierce. “Have a seat.”
Uh-oh. This was starting to sound bad.
I eased into the chair across from her desk. A small cactus with a bright orange bloom sat cheerily on one corner.
“Tasha.”
I looked at her.
“I’d like to offer you a permanent position here after you graduate. If you’d like to accept it.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Veronica’s face broke into a smile. “Full-time employment would mean earning a paycheck. I talked to my boss and we agreed to make it retroactive on today’s date.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. A full-time position would mean an actual salary. Then I could relax about finding a job. I could stay here, in a facility I loved. It would mean less dependence on my father. I could pay my own way and he would no longer have a reason to lord his money
over me.
I grinned, the possibilities stretching out in front of me into an infinite skyline.
“I take it that is a ‘yes,’” Veronica said with a soft chuckle.
“Yes. I’m sorry. Yes, yes!” Unable to sit still, I pushed myself from the chair and held out a hand. She shook it as I thanked her profusely. I appreciated her overlooking my gross overuse of the words “so much.”
At my locker, I collected my things, still grinning at my good fortune. I decided to buy a bottle of wine to celebrate. No! Sparkling wine. I wasn’t missing the chance to shoot the cork off my balcony. But the idea of celebrating alone didn’t appeal.
I could go to Oak & Sage. Share my good news with Rena while enjoying a sparkling, bubbly beverage. She was working tonight, which meant I’d be drinking alone, but she’d be there. And hanging out with her would be better than toasting my new job alone. My new permanent job.
And going there has nothing to do with the fact that Cade might be there? That you haven’t seen him in almost a week?
Nope. Nothing at all.
Mr. Newman occupied my mind on the short drive to the restaurant. His body might have some additional mileage, but at least he could hold up his end of a conversation. At least he smiled. At least he tried. If Cade would try, he might surprise himself.
I parked in the lot at Oak & Sage and walked in feeling fluttery and excited to share my good news with someone—Rena for sure, and maybe Cade…if he was here.
Not that I was here to see him.
I took a deep breath and pulled open the front door, nodding at the hostess as I scanned the immediate area. Totally not looking for Cade.
From behind the bar, Rena waved me over. She set a glass of beer in front of a customer and then crossed over to me as I hopped onto a stool.
“Hey! This is a nice surprise.”
“I have news,” I blurted out, unable to contain myself.
“Do tell.” Her eyes rounded with interest.
“The rehabilitation center offered to hire me, and I accepted!” The moment the words left my mouth, Rena and I let out matching happy shrieks. Best friends were the best, weren’t they?
Craving Caden (Lost Boys Book 2) Page 3