by Penny Reid
I couldn’t respond because my throat was clogged with an unidentified emotion. We held each other’s stare for a long moment and I watched his anger dissipate, most of the tension releasing from his shoulders.
“Respect, right? Why can’t that be the end of it?” He leaned forward, his gaze softer, but far from the sexy eyes he’d been giving me earlier. “And who we are now is pretty fucking awesome. So let’s not try to color this mutual respect—or stain it, or whatever—with the things we’ve done in our past that we’re maybe not so proud of, okay?”
I nodded, not convinced but knowing now was not the time to argue. Maybe, at some point, I’d try to reintroduce the issue. But now was clearly not the time.
“Good.” He exhaled a breath that sounded enormously relieved. “So, let’s get back to this guy, your dad’s lawyer. Eugene? What’s he keep calling about?”
Chapter Eight
Tried as an Adult: A situation in which a juvenile offender is tried as if he or she were an adult. Where specific protections exist for juvenile offenders (such as suppression of an offender's name or picture or a closed courtroom where the proceedings are not made public), these protections may be waived.
—Young, M. C., & Gainsborough, J. (2000). Prosecuting juveniles in adult court: An assessment of trends and consequences.
**Dan**
She didn’t want to answer my question.
I could tell by how she was messing with the buttons at her wrist. So I tried something different.
“He bothering you?”
“No. Not at all.” She rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. “I mean, yes. He’s currently bothering me because he won’t stop calling and texting, but no. He doesn’t bother me as a general rule. He’s great. In fact, he’s the one who warned me about my cousin and advised me to get married as soon as possible.”
She stared off into space, looking like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. That didn’t sit right with me. No one should have the weight of the world on their shoulders, and Kat feeling this way made me agitated, restless. I wanted to do something.
I’d never put much thought into what her life was like, or what kind of stress she’d been dealing with, having the family she did. I’d figured, no use counting her particular grains of sand. In my experience, all families were stressful. It didn’t matter if they were big or small, rich or poor, it’s all the same struggle, right?
Looking at her now, I wondered if I’d been wrong.
“What’s the rush? If you don’t mind my asking.” I took a bite of the turkey sandwich. It was good, but I was too preoccupied with important stuff to appreciate the nostalgia.
Her eyes came up, focused on some point over my shoulder. “My father isn’t doing well, physically, and my cousin, Caleb—the CEO of Caravel—approached the family lawyers about obtaining guardianship over my person and property.”
“What? Like adopting you?”
“No.” She sighed. It might’ve been the hundredth time she’d sighed since meeting me for lunch. I’d stopped counting after thirteen. “Caleb is not a good person. If you marry me, he’ll try to make your life difficult. He’ll threaten everyone you care about, your family.”
“Pshaw. He doesn’t scare me. He’s older than us, but he looks like the sort that still trips over his umbilical cord, you know? Needs everything spelled out with alphabet soup, doesn’t get the picture unless it’s finger-painted. I’ve known a lot of guys like that, fucktrumpet shitbags. Now if he were like Alex,”—I made a show of shivering—“then I might be worried. Too wicked smart for his own good, that kid isn’t right.”
She picked up her grilled cheese but didn’t take a bite. Kat had this face when she was fighting a smile and I loved it. Her eyes were bright, like I’d said something hilarious but, for whatever reason, she didn’t want to laugh. Just made me want to see her laugh even more.
Clearing her throat, she said, “To answer your original question, he wants to have me declared mentally incompetent and committed so he can control my shares in Caravel Pharmaceuticals once my father passes away.”
“Committed?” I recoiled at that. “You mean put in a mental hospital?”
“That’s right. Which is why I need to be married. If I’m married, then my spouse has priority of guardianship if I’m determined to be mentally incompetent.” She took a small, careful bite of her sandwich, and then chewed super slowly.
I’d never seen anyone take so much care eating a sandwich. It was a little weird, but also cute.
“How can he do that? You’re not crazy.”
She winced a little at the word “crazy,” placing her sandwich back on the tray and wiping her hands with a napkin. Her hair fell forward while she concentrated on wiping her hands. After a moment, she tucked the length of it behind her ears and lifted her chin, her chocolate eyes distant again. I swear, it was like this woman had an on/off switch for her emotions.
“One of the reasons I ran away from home was because my father planned on committing me when I was fifteen.”
“Why?”
“I wanted his attention. I’d tried being the perfect daughter, getting straight A’s, keeping my head down at school and avoiding all trouble—which was everywhere, and which basically made me a pariah—but each time I saw him, maybe once every other year, it was like . . .” Her eyes grew distant.
“Like what?”
She blinked, as though she was coming out of a trance. “Like he was waiting for me to show signs of schizophrenia. Like he was assessing my mental fitness. If I did anything at all suspect—an involuntary twitch, twisting my fingers, blinking too many times—he’d call in a specialist. Sometimes I wondered if he wanted me to be like her. So, eventually, I did what he expected. I was volatile, emotional. I did stupid things. One of those stupid things was fake a suicide attempt.”
I nodded, completely understanding why a dumb kid of fifteen would do something so drastic to get the attention of someone like Zachariah Tyson.
I also didn’t like seeing her eyes this way, like she needed to distance herself from me, from whatever freak-out she thought I would have, before she could talk about her past.
“Well.” I picked up my sandwich, took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then said, “This is some heavy shit.”
Her lips hitched higher on one side, her gaze warming.
“Fucking angsty, emo, adolescent dumbass logic.” I took another bite of my sandwich to hide my grin, because now she was grinning.
“Yep.” Then she rained on her own good mood by adding, “That basically sums me up.”
“Nah.” I swallowed a gulp of soda, returning the turkey sandwich to the platter and reached for the cheese steak. “But if you want to take responsibility for your father being a suck-ass parent, ignoring you, and dealing with a cry for help by ignoring his kid some more,”—I shrugged—“then I guess that’s your choice. Just like it’s my choice to write your father off as a heartless prick.”
She stared at me, looking a little confused and a lot irritated. “You don’t know my father. He was—he is—a great man.”
I shook my head, because this fucking guy.
I knew about this guy. I’d known a little about him before Kat had asked me to marry her and I’d researched him a lot over the last week. He’d developed a drug or cure for something, something big and profitable, though I’d forgotten what. And he’d donated a lot of money to a lot of charities. All the pictures of him cutting ribbons and holding other people’s babies, he always looked so superior and deserving.
As far as I was concerned, he deserved jack fucking squat, and he certainly didn’t deserve Kat’s loyalty.
“No, he might’ve been a great scientist and philanthropist, but he was definitely a shitty man.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, like it was important to her that I kiss the ass of this wankface’s legacy. Fuck that.
Thankfully, her cell vibrated again in her hand, drawing her attention away fr
om my words.
She sighed.
“Eugene?” I guessed.
“Yes,” she growled.
I hid another smile behind my sandwich. Let the record show, Kit-Kat was wicked sexy when she growled. She was wicked sexy all the time. Maybe I should’ve had more respect for her struggle, for this difficult time she was going through, and shouldn’t have been noticing how her bottom lip pushed out when she lifted her chin, or how her eyes—even when cold and detached—were the most gorgeous fucking eyes I’d ever seen.
Yeah. Good luck not noticing, Danny boy. Just pray to all the angels and saints that she doesn’t bend over to pick something up.
I almost choked on my bite of sandwich just thinking about it. But then, as usual when I started thinking about her this way, Kat’s declaration from that morning in Vegas echoed through my mind.
“I’ve never been good at monogamy,” she’d said.
I’d decided a long time ago that, just like how my Aunt Becks’s choices weren’t my business, as long as nobody was getting hurt, other people doing what made them happy shouldn’t concern me. It wasn’t my place to judge, or even have an opinion. My aunt had found a lifestyle that made her happy. Why should I throw shit at her parade?
That said . . . I really fucking hated it that Kat was polyamorous.
You’re such an asshole.
“He’s not going to let this go,” Kat muttered, rubbing her forehead again.
“Let what go?” I’d forgotten what we were talking about. I’d been too preoccupied lamenting Kat’s lifestyle choices and what it meant for my dick.
Not for the first time since she’d asked me last week, I was having dumbass thoughts about maybe, possibly, this whole marriage thing working out for us. For example, let’s say, hypothetically, if there were some way I could keep her all to myself while we were married, even if at first it remained platonic between us—
Wait a second, IF it remains platonic? Of course it’s going to remain platonic. She asked you to marry her, Daniel. Not feed the kitty.
She needed help, not more complications. I knew this.
However—for example, let’s say, hypothetically—if one day her kitty is hungry, I’ll be there to feed it.
See? I’m an asshole.
But at least I’m an honest asshole.
“Don’t worry about it.” She glowered at her phone, leaning forward while she typed out a message.
My attention dropped to the screen and—if I squinted, which I did—I could make out the last few texts.
Eugene: Did he sign the postnup?
Eugene: As a reminder, it’s in your email inbox. An informal signature is fine. We can execute a more formal version with witnesses the next time you’re in Boston.
Kat: I’m not asking him. Stop texting me.
I snatched her phone before she could hit send on the last text.
“Hey!” She reached for her cell, but I held it out and to the side.
A postnup.
Again, another thing I should’ve anticipated. Why the hell hadn’t I thought about that?
“You gotta be kidding me with this. Of course I’m signing a postnup, Kat. Are you serious? You weren’t going to ask me?”
“Dan—”
“You think anyone will believe you have all your marbles if you don’t insist on some kind of marriage contract?” While I spoke I gave her my back and deleted the text she hadn’t sent. Then I hammered out a response to this Eugene guy.
Kat: Hey. This is Dan. Send me the thing. I’ll sign it. Here’s my email.
I felt her eyes on me, the weight and heat of her displeasure, and fuck me, that was sexy too. When I turned back to her and held out her phone, she grabbed it. Then she read the message I’d just sent. Then her eyes turned into little swords of fury.
“You will not sign it.”
I snorted, laughing a little. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“Dan,”—she leaned forward and grabbed my wrist, looking stern and a little scary—“what if Caleb uses it as evidence that you’re not fit to be my guardian? That I don’t trust you?”
“You think your lawyer guy would have me sign something if it negated the marriage or exposed you to criticism? No. He’s the expert. He wouldn’t be calling you every five minutes if it weren’t important. We both know the real reason you don’t want to ask me to sign a postnup is the same reason you offered to pay me.”
She was still uneasy, and though her hand remained on my wrist, her grip lessened. “It doesn’t seem fair. I’m asking so much of you, and you get nothing out of this.”
Oh Kit-Kat, if you only knew.
“Look,”—I covered her fingers with mine—“you don’t seem to understand the situation here, so I’m going to mansplain it to you.”
She huffed a surprised laugh, which grew as she tucked her lips between her teeth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She stared at me, her eyes glassy with humor, but also desperation.
“You got something like, a gabillion dollars, right?”
She stared at me, her laughter tapering.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Well, I don’t have a gabillion dollars. So, to protect your ass . . . sets, it’s a really fucking good idea to get a contract, a postnup.” I could see she was still skeptical, so I added, “Plus, I need to protect my own ass . . . sets.”
“From me?” Her gorgeous eyes grew thoughtful. “But I owe you everything—”
“I have Wally, don’t I?” Of course Wally was the first thing I thought of, because he was rarely far from my mind. “You think I want you taking Wally if we divorce?”
The uncertainty behind her stare told me she wasn’t convinced about the contract, and her words confirmed it. “It doesn’t seem right. You won’t let me give you anything in return. Please. Please let me pay you, or . . . or anything you want. Please.”
She’d leaned forward, her stunning face just a few inches from mine—maybe six, or eight at the most—and I caught a whiff of something that smelled like coconut. Her perfume? Nah. More likely her shampoo or lotion. My sisters’ perfume always smelled like flowers, but their lotions usually smelled like food.
Faced with Kat’s pleading eyes, and her smelling like something I would eat, I had a selfish thought.
“There is one thing.”
I wasn’t a good person. But in this moment, I was really okay with that.
“What? What is it?”
“I do have one request.”
“Anything.”
“For however long we’re married, however long you need me, I ask that . . .” I inhaled all the air that would fill my lungs, but—as usual—it didn’t feel like enough; that shitty feeling in my chest was back in a big way. Don’t worry, my selfishness allowed me to power through. “I ask that you don’t have any relationships of an—uh—intimate nature with anyone else.” Studying her closely, I didn’t miss the blanket of frost sliding over her features. Or how she removed her hand from mine.
She swallowed. The face she made after swallowing had me wondering what tasted so bitter. “Yes. Fine. That’s fine.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” I leaned back in my chair while we traded glares. She looked like she wanted to speak, like a protest was on the tip of her tongue, but she stayed quiet. Instead, opting to look at something incredibly interesting in her lap, her hair falling forward to cover her face.
I heard her clear her throat from her hiding place—yes, I knew she hid behind her beautiful hair . . . often—but she said nothing.
Maybe I should’ve felt like an ass for asking, for making demands. I didn’t.
I was getting hitched to a woman I was crazy about, so excuse me if I didn’t want to watch her get all polyamorous in our marriage. Yeah, it was fake. Yeah, it wasn’t going to last. But as long as it did last, why would I want to put myself through that masochistic bullshit?
No fucking way.
I might’ve been enlightened on some things, self-aware like she said, but not
with this.
Never with this.
After lunch I was in a bad fucking mood. Rather than meeting with Alex to go over security specs for the Caplan Banking job, I went home to see Wally.
I didn’t like how Kat and I had left things. She’d grown cold as soon as I made my request, like it offended her, or I’d insulted her.
I wasn’t trying to insult her, and it bothered me she’d taken it that way. But I wasn’t going to bend on this, and that was fucking that.
So of course, while I was stomping around Grant Park, throwing a ball for Wally, broody as a grounded sixteen-year-old, my mother decided to finally return my phone calls.
“Daniel.”
“Ma.”
“Are you well?” She was angry. If the straight-to-voicemail treatment for the last week hadn’t tipped me off, her tone now was a dead giveaway.
“I’m great,” I lied. “And how are you?”
“Fine.”
I laughed, silently. If she heard me laugh, she’d have my balls.
“Did you get my messages?”
“Yes. Thank you for calling.”
I waited for a minute, for her to say more. She didn’t.
“I leave you twenty-one messages, three calls a day, and that’s all you got for me?”
“I’m not going to apologize for needing some time to cool off and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Who do you think I am? Willy Wonka? You missed my birthday.” She sniffed. And these weren’t crocodile tears either. I’d hurt her feelings.
Ahh, there it is. The acrid taste of guilt.
“Ma . . .”
“I don’t ask for a lot. I love you. I love my children. I want you to call me on my birthday.”
“I know.” I was clutching my chest so my heart didn’t fall out and bleed all over the grass.