Running Scared

by Lisa Jackson

  “Soon afterward. But you aren’t the father.” She took one of his strong hands and squeezed it. “Believe me, I know.”

  Relief flooded his handsome features. “Jesus, Bibi, I’ve been such an ass. I fucked up beyond fucked up.”

  She didn’t argue. There was no point.

  “I’m surprised you speak to me.”

  “You forced me in here, remember.”

  “But who’s the baby’s father?”

  “No one you know, and besides, it doesn’t matter. It’s my business. All we have to worry about now is to make sure that the child isn’t found. If he is, my life, your life, and his life would be ruined.”

  Collin snorted. “I don’t care about being the next crown prince or whatever the hell you want to call it for the whole damned family. That was Stuart’s role. He should have inherited.”

  “Just like Uncle William,” Bibi said, voicing a thought that had nagged at her conscience for years. “Don’t you think it’s strange that the firstborn always seems to die?”

  “I wouldn’t follow that line of reasoning too closely,” Collin warned. “Next in line would be that son you want to keep hidden away.”

  A vague unease pierced her mind. “Another reason for him to stay where he is.”

  Collin touched her tenderly, his fingers caressing her face. “You know, Bibi, if I were so inclined, you’d be the only woman for me.”

  “What about Carrie?”

  “My wife?” he asked, saying the word as if it tasted bad. “Frigid.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “We each had our reasons for marrying. I did it because my father was getting on my case and I was still young and stupid enough to think I had to please him.”

  “And her?”

  “Her family was going broke. She couldn’t reconcile herself to being poor, so we worked a deal. Kind of like my mother and father. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “But now, the divorce?”

  He laughed without a trace of mirth. “It’s damned hard to live a lie, Bibi,” he said, “but then you know all about it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Lord, do I.”

  “My guess is you even know where your boy is.”

  She couldn’t trust him; not with a secret this big. “No,” she lied and felt a little tenderness for the boy he’d once been, the boy she’d loved so long ago. “I don’t. And I pray to God that I never do.”

  There was a soft rap on the door, and then it opened, a shaft of light piercing the gloomy shadows to fall on them huddled together. “Bibi?” Kyle asked, standing in silhouette, a strapping man with thick hair and a voice that rarely showed a note of concern. He frowned slightly as Bibi climbed quickly to her feet and put some distance between herself and Collin’s chair. She felt guilty as sin and he knew it. His brow furrowed in silent accusation. “Not that I really want to know, but could you tell me what the hell’s going on in here?”

  “So your mom’s pretty and can cook, too,” Daegan said, winking at Jon across the table covered with a turkey carcass, as well as platters of candied sweet potatoes, gravy, stuffing, white potatoes, peas, and cranberry sauce.

  “Watch out, Jon, Daegan is piling it up so high we’re all gonna need boots in order to slosh through it.”

  “Mom!” Jon admonished, but delight registered in his eyes, as it did every time she stepped out of her controlled, I’m-the-mother-so-I-do-everything-as-expected mode.

  “Well, okay, I was laying it on a little thick and there was a problem with the dinner.”

  “Oh?” She arched an eyebrow high, daring him to find fault with her masterpiece of a meal. She’d been working on it for days though she wouldn’t admit it. Ever since Jon had announced that he’d invited Daegan to dinner, she’d wanted everything to be perfect. Foolish woman.

  “There wasn’t enough food.”

  Jon nearly choked on a bite of stuffing.

  “Not enough?” Kate leaned an elbow on the table and held her chin in her hand to stare at him.

  “Well, not if you intend to feed the rest of the town the leftovers tomorrow.”

  “Very funny,” she said, but felt her eyes sparkle.

  Daegan found a toothpick in a little glass holder and jabbed it into the corner of his mouth. “I thought so.”

  “Me, too,” Jon agreed, anxious to have someone on his side when he and his mother battled.

  “Okay, okay, let’s not argue,” she said as she pushed her chair back and realized that this was the first holiday that she and Jon hadn’t spent alone since Laura had visited one Easter two years ago. Never a grandparent, an aunt, a cousin, or a brother or sister for her boy. Nor a father. Just the two of them. Sometimes it was too much for her—other times she was fiercely proud that they’d made it on their own. But today was different. She’d enjoyed having Daegan over and had even spread an ivory-colored linen cloth over the old dining room table and made a centerpiece of gourds and small pumpkins in a basket of candles and flowers. For the first time in a long, long while, she felt content. The nagging restlessness that had been chasing her down was at bay this afternoon, and though outside it was bitterly cold with swollen dark clouds and snow falling from the leaden sky, she felt warm and safe.

  “We can have dessert by the fire,” she suggested, nodding to the living room. “Jon, help me clear—”

  “Awe, Mom, it’s a holiday.”

  “I’ll help,” Daegan said.

  “No way, you’re the guest!” Jon was horrified.

  “That’s right. You don’t have to—”

  “I’m used to cleaning up after myself. It’s no big deal.” Daegan shoved out his chair and gathered up his plate and silverware.

  “It’s not man’s work,” Jon argued.

  “You know better than that,” Kate muttered.

  “It is unless you’re lucky enough to have a woman do it for you, and even then, you’d better be careful,” Daegan said, “because some women take offense to duties being described as theirs, especially when it comes to kitchen duty. Get downright testy about it. Don’t say as I blame them.” To Jon’s utter horror, Daegan picked up Kate’s plate and his as well.

  “But—”

  “Be smart, Jon,” Daegan advised. “This is a holiday for your mother.”

  “So now you’re an expert on family relations?” Kate asked.

  Jon eyed him strangely. “Is this what your mom taught you? Or your dad?”

  A sadness scurried across Daegan’s features, but was instantly replaced by the same hardness Kate had come to recognize—tight jaw, thin lips, furrow between his eyebrows. “My mother,” Daegan said so softly that Kate barely heard the words over the clink of the glasses Jon was collecting. “But that was a few years back.” He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “My mother doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

  Kate’s heart dropped and she felt a sudden ache for this hard-edged man; so there was a softer side to him, a place where he hurt. He just kept that part of him hidden.

  “Why not?” Jon asked.

  “Because of something I did a long, long time ago,” he admitted, frowning.

  “What?”

  “Jon, it’s none of our business—”

  “It’s all right,” Daegan said as he set the dishes in the sink and Kate slid the platter containing the turkey carcass onto the counter. Jon joined them in the kitchen and his gaze was glued to Daegan.

  “My father was a jerk of the highest order. Never married my mom. In fact, he was married to someone else but kept coming around, cheating on his wife with my mother and cheating on my mom with his wife.” His gaze touched Kate’s briefly before he stared out the window and forced his hands into his back pockets. Kate guessed that he wasn’t seeing the snow falling in tiny icy pellets from the sky, that he didn’t notice how dark the sky had become. No, he was lost in his own private space—trapped in forbidden memories. “I finally took offense and had it out with my old man. And my mother…” His jaw clenched eve
n tighter. “My mother stood by him even though he beat her and treated her like scum.” He said the last words as if they tasted bad. “You asked me once if I killed anyone.” His gaze moved back to her son, and Jon, swallowing hard, nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I didn’t lie. I never killed anyone in my life, but I tried to kill my bastard of a father once, aimed a gun right at him, but I missed.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Kate didn’t even admonish her son. She held on to the edge of the counter for support. Inside she was shaking. “Dear God.”

  “So you never talk to your mother?” Jon asked, his eyes round as proverbial saucers.

  “I tried. It’s a one-way street. Let’s not talk about it.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Jon asked, unable to let it go.

  “The day I moved out. A long time ago.”

  “But what if she gets sick? What if—”

  “I have someone who will let me know,” he said, then cleared his throat and wondered what had possessed him to open up to them. Hell, considering that he was here to break apart their little family, he had no right to try and garner any sympathy for his own sorry home life. Kate blinked rapidly, as if fighting tears. Jesus, he was making a mess of things. He’d been lulled into a sense of belonging this afternoon, of being a part of a real family. “Look, I’d better be leaving.”

  “But dessert—” Kate said, motioning toward two pies cooling by the window. Apple and pumpkin from the looks of them.

  “And you were going to teach me how to play pinochle and poker,” Jon reminded him.

  “Another time.” Daegan’s insides churned when he saw the look of utter disappointment on the boy’s features. Kate tried to disguise her own sense of loss, but it was there in her eyes, lancing through the thick skin he’d tried so hard to wear as a shield. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” It sounded like an exit line and it was. He was getting too close to Jon and Kate, trapped in all the trimmings that a family meant. Candles and flowers and pumpkins and big meals. Laughter and wine and playing cards. Jokes and flashing smiles and disappointments. His insides churned and for a few fatal seconds he was the boy from South Boston again, the kid with no grandparents, no father and a mother who scraped by on her own delusions. He loved that woman for how fiercely she’d fought for him and cursed her when she’d chosen his father over him.

  That old searing pain shot through his soul and he silently cursed the family who had used and abused him.

  “Daegan—don’t go,” Kate said and her voice wrapped around him like a balming mist. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, stay. Please.” Jon’s voice. His son. His own flesh and blood. But no one knew it. If he were a true man, a real father—the kind who put his son above himself—he’d walk out now, return to Boston, and tell Robert Sullivan the truth, that he’d sired Jon, that if Robert insisted on tracking the boy down, he would have to go through Daegan and face a scandal so dirty and shame-filled he’d never be able to raise his head among the social elite again. Jon would never know. Kate would be safe.

  “I’ll see you,” Daegan said and walked to the front door, where his jacket hung on the curved spoke of a wooden hall tree.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Kate said and he turned to look into her worried, whiskey-colored eyes. His heart twisted as he saw the accusations and disillusionment in his son’s gaze.

  “You, too.” He grabbed his coat off the hall tree and shoved his hands through the sleeves.

  Jon rushed forward, and as Daegan reached for the door, Jon touched his hand. Bare skin on bare skin. “You’re leaving,” he accused him.

  “Yes.”

  “But not just for today.”

  “Eventually I’ll have to move on.”

  “Soon.”

  “Probably.”

  Kate made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. Daegan glanced at her over Jon’s shoulder and his insides curled in disgust when he recognized the pain he’d caused her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’s time.”

  “You’re a bastard,” Jon accused him, backing away from him as Daegan yanked open the door and a cold blast of wind tore through the house.

  Daegan turned his collar up around his neck. He stepped out onto the porch and slammed the door behind him. “You got that right, Jon,” he said to the bleak, frigid afternoon. “You sure as hell got that right.”

  Chapter 20

  “You little shit!” Todd Neider’s voice, a harsh whisper, seemed to resound off the lockers, and Jon, already late for class, froze in his tracks. “Stay away from Jennie.”

  Gritting his teeth, Jon turned and found Todd striding toward him. The older boy was like an enraged bull, eyes full of fire, nostrils flared as if he smelled something foul, black T-shirt barely covering his gut.

  Stand firm. Don’t let him push you around. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  Two juniors stopped halfway up the stairs as if they smelled a fight in the air. They yelled to some other kids, who turned quickly to gather by the freshmen lockers near the gym. The smell of the locker rooms—sweat and disinfectant—was only overridden by the scent of fear—Jon’s fear. All he really wanted to do was run as fast as he could, but it was time to make a stand.

  The final bell buzzed loudly and a few more kids who would’ve been tardy for their next class anyway stopped to watch as Todd bore down on Jon.

  “She doesn’t want anything to do with a freak like you,” Todd said. “No one does.”

  For the first time, Jon didn’t believe him. Jennifer Caruso had written him a note—just a friendly note, but a note all the same—and it was now tucked deep in his wallet. She’d asked him to call her, and no one, not even Todd with his I’m-going-to-beat-the-living-crap-out-of-you scowl, could change Jon’s mind. All in all, it had been a lousy day because he knew that Daegan was leaving, hadn’t heard a word from him for nearly five days, but Jennifer’s note had raised his spirits. Neider wasn’t going to change that. “I think Jennifer can make her own decisions.”

  “You’re bothering her.”

  “Nah,” Jon said, spying Dennis Morrisey and Joey Flanders hanging out at the water fountain, looking over their shoulders, too cowardly to do anything on their own but loving the fact that Todd intended to play hard-ball. Well, this time, Todd was in for a surprise. Jon was ready. Not only had he learned a little bit more about the bully the other day when he slammed Jon up against the outside wall of the audiovisual room and Jon had glimpsed into his small mind, but Jon was made of tougher stuff these days. All of Daegan’s lessons were about to be put to the test, and even if he lost this round, he’d put up a better fight than Neider with his limited imagination could ever expect. “I’m not bothering Jennifer, but I’m sure as hell bothering you,” Jon said.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. For some reason you feel inferior to me and you have to—”

  “Inferior?” Todd repeated with a laugh as he reached Jon and sized him up. “To you?”

  “—show off and try and push me around so that you can feel like a big man when everyone knows you’re a mental midget. It’s probably ’cause Jennifer and a lot of other girls wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

  Whispers rippled through the semicircle of boys who had gathered. Todd’s face burst into color. “You little prick.”

  “At least I don’t jack off looking at pictures of Miss Knowlton!”

  Todd’s mouth slackened and everyone laughed. Brenda Knowlton was the music teacher—probably somewhere near thirty-five—with flaming red hair, matching scarlet lips, and a figure that wouldn’t quit. She also had a voice that rivaled fingernails on a chalkboard and a burly boyfriend who was an officer in the town’s police department. “I don’t—”

  “Sure you do,” Jon taunted. “And unless you stop this right now, I’ll tell more.”

  “No way—”

  “Like the way you steal Penthouse and Playboy from
Parson’s Drugstore. Mrs. Olsen saw you, too.”

  “The busybody?” Todd asked, suckered in for a second.

  “You’re goin’ down, Neider.”

  Todd’s big fists clenched. His two eyebrows became one. His glower was downright murderous. “I’ll kill you,” he said so quietly that Jon’s blood turned to ice.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just watch.” Rounding, Todd threw a punch, aimed squarely for Jon’s jaw. Jon ducked and rolled onto the balls of his feet. His heart was hammering and he watched every muscle in Todd’s face as the bigger boy came at him again, both fists swinging wildly.

  “Fight! Fight!” some of the boys yelled as Jon feinted right and Todd’s fist hit his shoulder in a glancing blow that didn’t do much damage.

  Jon swung. Two punches to the ribs and he backed away, ready to strike again when Dennis Morrisey shoved him back at Todd and he lost his footing.

  Crack! Todd’s fist connected with his jaw. Pain jolted, like a bolt of lightning down his spine. Bam! A hard blow to the stomach. His insides cramped. The floor rushed up at him and he fell, hearing Todd’s sick laughter. Jon tasted blood, but didn’t stop. As Todd took a step forward, Jon swept his legs in a deadly arc, knocking the bigger boy off his feet.

  Todd went down hard, a thud shaking the floor, his head snapping back to smash against the thin carpeting and cement underneath.

  In a howl of pain, Todd rolled over and grabbed Jon by the neck. Jon kicked and punched, but Todd was seventy pounds heavier and he just tightened his grip, cutting off Jon’s air, hauling him toward the bathroom.

  No! No! No! Jon’s mind screamed and he writhed like a slick eel, trying to get away, swinging at Todd’s bulging tummy, his sneakers dragging along the carpet. He heard the sniggers and whispers as the bathroom door flew open and the smell of urine and running water greeted him. Jon fought and snarled like a hound from hell, but Todd cornered him against one of the urinals, thrust his head in, and began flushing. A rush of cold water sprayed over him. Jon hit his head on the porcelain and coughed and sputtered.