Little had I known how completely unrealistic those feelings would turn out to be. The week after prom, he’d told me he was leaving for the military. And the bubble of our perfect life together burst.
Mom lets out a snore from the front room, and I pull myself from my memories. Tucking the remains of the sandwich back in its box, I stand and head toward the hallway that leads to Lex’s room.
A couple of knocks on the door don’t get noticed. I try the knob. Locked. “Lex, I got lunch from Mabel’s. Come eat.”
No response. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the door, praying to the Lord to give me the strength I need not to kick my daughter in her ass. “Lexie, precious,” I say, using the cutesy Southern voice I know irritates her, “come get these vittles before I eat them all myself.”
She barely touched her supper last night, so I know she’s hungry. “I got you chicken fried steak. With extra gravy.”
The door opens a crack, and her grumpy face stares out at me. “If I come eat, will you leave me alone?”
I smile sweetly but make no promises. Gesturing down the hallway, I wait for her to pass before following her into the kitchen. Seating herself, she waits patiently while I pour her a glass of milk and slide the appropriate container in her direction.
Lex digs in, and I sit, feeling a little vibration in my pocket. I pull out my phone to look at the notification and frown. Ms. Birch isn’t pleased about my sudden attack of the flu. Likely because the school secretary has already informed Buzz of Lex’s suspension.
I knew it was a risk when I floated the lie, but the only time off I have remaining is a couple of unused sick days. Still, she can’t prove I’m not sick, so I took the option I had. I’m hoping the old bird will let it go, but Birch has never been the let-it-go type.
I turn off the screen and set my phone down. “Are you ready to talk?”
Lex shrugs. “What’s there to talk about?” she asks between bites.
I let out a puff of air in disbelief. “Oh, you know, a little matter of your week-long suspension.”
Lex rolls her eyes but doesn’t respond. I put my elbows on the table and my chin on my hands, staring at her. Finally, she lets out an overly dramatic sigh. “Fine. What do you want me to say? I told you what happened already. He deserved it.”
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Whether or not you think he deserved it, there are better ways to handle it. Why didn’t you tell Miss Samantha what he said?”
“Miss Samantha doesn’t believe me.”
My mouth flattens into a straight line. It’s likely Lex is right. During our last parent-teacher conference, Samantha Sitwell had informed me of what she called my daughter’s “penchant for invention.” Which was basically her way of saying Lex lies like a rug.
“Okay. Well, there has to be another way to handle a situation like this, one that doesn’t resort to violence.”
Another shrug, and a look that says “Well, Mom, if you figure it out, I’m all ears, but I don’t think you’re likely to impress me.”
Very little impresses my daughter.
“Look, I get it. But kids are going to keep saying things you don’t like. It only gets worse in junior high and high school. And unfortunately, you won’t be able to beat them all up, no matter how much you might like to. So I suggest you figure out another solution.”
Lex’s eyes narrow and her chewing slows. “I’m not going to let anyone say things I don’t like to my face. If they do, they’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”
I shake my head. “Things might seem black and white when you’re nine years old, but that shit don’t fly in the real world.”
“Why not, Mom? Maybe if you started shoving her face in the dirt, Ms. Birch wouldn’t always be getting on your case.”
My mouth drops open, and I find myself stuck between laughing and crying. “So me getting fired would be the way to go? Just like you getting kicked out of school? And who do you think would keep food on the table and pay for all your things?”
Lex drops her fork. “Yeah, we’re doing great,” she says sarcastically. “Cold diner food and a house that’s been around since the dinosaurs.”
That stings. “We might not have much, but it’s better than nothing. Better than me getting fired.”
She looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “You let the people of this town walk all over you, Mom. I hear them talk about you behind your back, and it’s only a little bit worse than what they say to your face. So maybe I’m not the one who needs to change her behavior.”
I close my eyes and start counting. In the back of my mind, a part of me wants to admit that my daughter is more observant than I ever would have guessed. And maybe, just maybe, she’s right.
When I open my eyes again, my tone is rough. “Maybe I’m not the one who’s acting like an ungrateful child. You might not believe me, but you can’t treat other people like crap and expect them to go along with it. You can’t fight the whole damn world, Alexa.”
Her eyes are slits, her expression grim, as if she were saying, “Wanna bet?”
Things are spiraling out of control. She’s my child. A nine-year-old little girl who needs guidance. So I put on my best mom voice and make my adult proclamation.
“Alexa, you’re going to listen to me. From now on, I want you to implement a three-point plan when someone says something you don’t like. Number one, you state that you disagree. Number two, you concentrate on restraining your anger. And number three, you walk away.”
“Fine,” she says, standing up suddenly. “I disagree with your bullshit.” Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear the door to her bedroom slam.
I slide down and put my head on the table. Round two goes to my daughter. Just like round one.
“What’s for lunch?” Mom says, hobbling into the kitchen without her walker. I gesture weakly toward the unopened Styrofoam container.
She sits down, a grimace painting her face as she bends. I know her hip is still paining her something awful, but we’ve run out of physical therapy sessions covered by insurance and can’t afford to pay out of pocket. Yet another thing I’ve failed at.
“She’ll figure it out,” Mom says after taking a couple of bites out of her container. “At some point, she’ll wise up.”
I wonder if she has the time to do so before she’s made too many enemies. Cape Craven is a small town, and Lex can’t afford to alienate the kids in her class, as they’ll be the same ones she’s going to be with all through junior high and high school.
“Was I this bad?” I ask, straightening up and digging out the rest of my BLT for another go. “How did you handle it?”
Mom shakes her head. “No, honey. You were headstrong and had your share of trouble, but generally, you obeyed, and you never got in trouble at school. I think Lex gets that from her father.”
From her father. You can say that again.
“It ain’t easy, raising a kid without a father. At least your dad stuck around until you got to high school before he ran off with that metal shop floozy.”
Dad had left Mom for one of his coworkers at Craven Industries when I was a sophomore. The experience has not softened my mother toward the Cravens or their business.
“Should I tell her?” I blurt out, even though I’m well-versed in my mother’s opinion on the subject. “Maybe she’s old enough now to know.”
Mom sets down her fork. “I don’t think that’s wise, Sabrina. Lil Devil is getting older, but she’s still too young to deal with that kind of information. What if she blabs to all of her classmates, telling everyone who her daddy really is? Do you think it’s going to make her any friends? Even more, do you think it will make you any?”
“Mom, I’ve got to tell her sometime.”
“I know. But sometime ain’t now.” My mother’s face darkens. “I don’t trust them Cravens, never have. And we don’t need them taking notice of us again. It’s not like they’ve ever done us an
y favors.”
I frown. Mom will always be staunchly anti-Craven. She doesn’t just hold them complicit in her husband’s infidelity, but she flat-out blames them for my own crash-and-burn. “I guess you’re right,” I say softly, not quite sure if I believe my own words.
“It’ll be okay,” Mom says, patting my hand. “If we just—”
Her words are cut off by a knock at the back door. Before I can move to answer it, the door bursts open, and Tonya tumbles inside.
“He’s back,” she all but shouts. “I seen him!”
Mom’s face is confused, but I already know what Tonya’s going to say. “Who’s back?” Mom asks, her tone urgent.
“Ax Craven! He’s back from prison!”
Mom shoots me a look, and I set my sandwich back in the container and slide down until my head is resting on the table again.
How am I supposed to have the strength for round three when the hits keep coming?
7
Ax
After Mabel’s, I continue my cruise around the town. I recognize plenty of the faces that watch me, and a few of the brave ones even wave in my direction.
I’m aware that Cape Craven isn’t opening its arms to embrace me on my return. I didn’t expect it to. This town worships my family, my father in particular, and they don’t like those who go against him lightly.
Still, I know a few folks didn’t leap to believe my brother’s accusations against me. Some had been in court, supporting me, offering to act as character witnesses. I’d been well-loved in my hometown before the whole debacle five years ago. And while my popularity has taken a major hit, I know some of the townspeople won’t be offended if I grace their doorsteps.
The ride continues, but there’s only so much of the town to see, so I eventually turn off the main road and head back to my cabin.
The woods are quiet, which is one of the reasons I chose to shack up here after my discharge from the military. I’d heard enough weapons fire and screams to fill up several lifetimes, so a quiet patch of woods was all I craved. I saved the majority of my salary while working for Uncle Sam, and it was more than enough to fix up the hunting cabin to my liking. While it doesn’t leave me much, after legal fees had taken another bite out of my savings, I’m not worried.
I don’t expect to be on the outside for much longer. Not if my plan goes off like I expect it to.
The quiet starts to get to me after less than an hour back in the cabin. Prison was noisy, near constant name calling and bickering filling the echoing corridors. But at night, time and silence stretch out before you like the double yellow lines of a highway. Nothing passes them. Not even the soft sobbing you’d occasionally hear from another cell.
Now the woods reminded me of those hours spent locked inside, where time felt as slow as molasses and the hands on the clock stood still. I pace the small rooms, willing time to pass faster, praying for the silence to fade, to be replaced by something, anything.
I hear the faint sound of a motor, then the crunch of gravel. Someone is coming. I pause in my pacing but resist heading to the window to see who’s out there. Instead, I wait, listening for the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs outside.
I hear the stairs creak, and I hold my breath. There’s only one person I expect to see behind the door, and when I swing it open, I confirm my suspicions.
“I must say I’m surprised to see you here, brother,” comes Brent’s crisp voice. No hint of North Carolina creeps into his upper-crust pronunciation.
“I could say the same thing,” I respond, moving aside to let him in.
Brent looks around, his features broadcasting his lack of enthusiasm for my quaint lodgings. “What are you doing back in Cape Craven?”
I shrug and throw myself into one of the chairs. “Where else should I be?”
He sits on the edge of the other chair, his back ramrod straight. “Anywhere but here. I thought you would have understood that after what happened last time.”
“And what did happen, brother? I’d love to hear things from your perspective.”
His expression is neutral. “You heard it all in court. There was ample evidence to prove your guilt.”
“You know I had nothing to do with that robbery.”
“I know no such thing,” he says with a sniff. “Your prints were on the gun. You were on camera outside the building prior to the crime. And the artifacts were found in your possession.”
“Artifacts?” I laugh a rough and nasty sound. “You mean Dad’s priceless family heirlooms.”
Brent nods. “They are priceless, but you figured you could get a good price for them. The Craven family jewels have been appraised in the tens of millions.”
“You think I would rob my own family? Why?”
He picks an imaginary piece of lint off his tailored suit. “Why not? Dad had cut you out of the will, remember? When you pulled that little stunt after high school.”
“I wouldn’t call enlisting in the military a stunt.”
His dark eyebrow quirks. “No? Well, our father didn’t agree. He already had a placement for you at Tulane if you remember. You were to help him run the family business after college.”
I’d never been suited for that kind of life, although my father had refused to recognize it. Christopher Craven had my life mapped out for me by the time I was two years old. The Freeman School of Business at Tulane University for an MBA, then I’d rule his empire by his side.
What he wasn’t expecting was a son who wanted to chart his own path in life. We’d butted heads for years. First I insisted on going to public school after several years spent learning from private tutors. Then I’d wanted to join the armed forces instead of heading to business school. My senior year, we’d fought for days at a time, with my father finally forbidding me to enlist.
That was the day before I visited the recruiter and signed my name on the enlistment papers. I might have had a problem with authority figures. The military soon helped me out with that particular issue.
“That still doesn’t explain why I’d rob our own family, Brent.”
Brent shakes his head. “Doesn’t it? I heard what you told him that night.”
Indeed, he had. My fucking brother almost had it memorized. What he didn’t have, however, was the context around it.
After I quit the service, I came back to Cape Craven to lick my wounds. After a week of silence in my cabin, I finally decided to visit the estate and check in on the family. My father was surprised to see me. As usual, things started out cold and distant, our conversation polite but with little substance.
He must have seen how my time in the military had changed me. My father rose as our conversation dwindled away and walked to his desk. He brought back a local newspaper and handed it to me. “Steel Soldier Saves Lives,” it said, then gave a short description of my service overseas and the medal I received for my efforts.
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said, and I remember feeling lightheaded with shock. “You might not have followed the path I wanted for you, but you are still a good man, and I’m proud of you.”
After that initial meeting, I started spending more time with Dad. We caught up, him telling me of his business battles, me regaling him with stories of my time in the desert. I felt like we were almost friends again. And then came the night I saw Sabrina Jacobs.
The next day I returned to the estate, a skip in my step and a smile on my face. I told my father that I was going to marry my high school sweetheart. There had been no doubt in my mind that Sabrina and I would pick right back up where we’d left off after high school. She’d be my bride, and we’d settle down and have a family right here in Cape Craven.
Dad looked confused. “Are you talking about the Jacobs girl?”
I nodded. My father hadn’t thought much of her when we were dating in high school, but we’d come a long way since then. Or so I’d thought.
“Not possible,” he said after a moment, closing his paper and staring me down. “You�
��re a Craven, and you’ll marry like a Craven.”
I shook my head, not sure I heard him correctly. “I’ll what?”
Dad let out a sigh. “Look, son. I know you’ve always been one to go your own way in life, but maybe it’s time to take a little advice. Girls like the Jacobs floozy will always be there, ready for you to rescue them from the drudgery of their lower-class lives. But they don’t understand what it takes to love a Craven man, to belong to the kind of circles we inhabit.”
I stood. “Floozy?” My hands curled involuntarily into fists. “Take that back.”
Dad rose, and I could see the vein above his eye start to pulse. “Son, there’s no reason to get angry. Think about things logically. This family is worth billions of dollars. That girl has nothing. How long do you think a marriage between the two of you will work out?”
“You stuck-up, pretentious old piece of shit,” I began. “Where do you get off, telling me how to live my life?” I admit, my rage got the better of me.
“Watch your mouth, boy,” my father spit back. “You don’t get to talk to your father like that.”
“Oh sure, you’ve been one hell of a father to me. Turning your back on me. Writing me out of your will. All because I won’t do everything you demand of me.”
“That’s right,” he said growling. “And don’t expect to get back into that will just because you’ve been buttering me up the last couple weeks. You either do as I say, or you go back to a brutish life of violence and low-class floozies.”
I considered hitting him, punching him right in his upper-crust old face. Instead, I told him to go fuck himself and marched out of his office. Only then did I notice that Brent was outside the door. The look on my younger brother’s face could be politely described as “opportunistic,” but I prefer “scheming.”
“You guys had a little fight. He reminded you that you were cut off from your inheritance, and you left after cursing him out. Or is there something I’m leaving out?”
Billionaire Biker's Secret Baby_A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense Page 5