by Layla Hagen
When I enter the living room, Max is sitting on the sofa, reading on his laptop. I walk on my tiptoes, wanting to surprise him, but he catches me midstride.
“You wear my clothes well.”
“How did you know I was here?” I ask, pouting.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I have an Emilia sensor. Goes off whenever you’re nearby.”
“Really? Where is it, if I may ask?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “You can do more than ask. You can kiss it, lick it, ride it.”
“You are truly the most shameless man I’ve ever met.”
“I openly admit it.”
“You say that like you’re expecting a prize,” I say suspiciously, joining him on the couch.
“I was hoping my honesty will earn me that ride. Any chance?”
He woke up awfully self-assured this morning. Some teasing is required. “Only after breakfast, Bennett. Or coffee at least. Not awake enough to enjoy everything.”
He holds his palms up in mock disappointment. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Hard rule for me. Coffee before orgasms.” My face breaks into a grin, and it’s all Max needs. He jumps my bones, covering my neck with kisses, his erection pressing against my inner thigh. “I see your sensor is working overtime.”
“Always, Emilia. Always.”
“I have a surprise for you,” Max says a while later as we’re sharing breakfast. After making love, we ordered in.
“Ooh, I love surprises,” I say. “Except, wait, it’s not a slug, is it?”
On a memorable sunny day after we’d finished the school year, Max came running to my house, informing me he had to show me something, that he had a surprise for me. I was beyond excited, stomach full of butterflies and all, and followed him, jogging. My grand surprise turned out to be a cave full of slugs. Slimy bodies sprawled on bare stones. I had nightmares for months.
“No, I like to pride myself on making better surprises these days.” He grins devilishly for a split second, before his face goes serious. “Though I’m not sure if this is a good or bad surprise.”
“Oh.”
My stomach twists as I wait for him to speak. He chews the last bite of his sandwich, takes a sip of coffee.
“Max?”
“I spoke with the detective who’s on your father’s case yesterday. He called before we met for lunch, but then too many things happened and I forgot to tell you. ”
Lowering my eyes to my empty plate, I draw in a deep breath. “And?”
“He found him.”
“Where?”
“New Orleans. He gave me his home and work address.”
I snap my head up. “I thought he had it narrowed down to—”
“None of those were the right one.”
“But he’s sure the one in New Orleans is?”
He nods, scrutinizing me. “I still suck at surprises, huh?”
“No, I…. Thank you for doing this.”
“Talk to me, Emilia.”
“I don’t know how I feel.”
“You don’t have to do anything with this information. You don’t—”
“I want to go to New Orleans,” I say at once. “I want to talk to him, ask him to come see Grams. I think it’ll be good for me too. I’ll look up tickets online later.”
“We can take the company jet.”
For a few seconds I’m too stunned to say anything. I’m not sure what surprises me more. That he’s putting his company’s jet at my disposal, or that he wants to join me. As usual, Max anticipates what I’m about to say.
“Before you can protest, yes, I’m coming with you, and yes, using the company jet is not a problem,” he says.
“I never knew you could be bossy and sweet in the same sentence, but you outdid yourself, Max Bennett.”
“When do you want to go?”
“When do you have time?”
“Let’s go next weekend. I have meetings on Saturday, but we can fly out Saturday evening and come back Sunday.”
“Okay. Next weekend it is.”
***
“Wow.” I exclaim a week later when Max and I step inside the jet. It’s large enough for sixteen people, and looks far more luxurious than a regular airline plane.
“What can I say? We like to travel in style.”
“I’ve never heard you mention it before.”
“That’s because I don’t like to brag. Anyway, it was a smart decision to buy it for the company. We have enough people traveling back and forth the entire time. Having our own plane made sense. When teams fly out they can use the time in the air to actually be productive.”
“You don’t need to defend the choice to me,” I say, giggling as we sit next to each other.
“Sorry, it’s a habit. Had to work hard to sell the idea to Sebastian and Logan. They thought it was an unnecessary luxury. You should have seen my parents’ faces when I told them about it. I told them it’s for work. Now, using it for personal reasons when it would otherwise be parked in the hangar—that’s just making the most out of my assets.”
“You’re such a little devil.”
We spend the first hour of the flight talking about New Orleans and what we’re going to visit there, but we don’t talk about my father. There isn’t much to talk about… not now; maybe after I meet him. My stomach twists painfully as I try to imagine how it will go. I can’t help the sense of foreboding that has taken up residence inside me. Max threads his fingers through my hair, looking at me with questioning eyes. I shake my head, kissing his knuckles.
“You should get some sleep,” he says, getting out his laptop.
“Won’t you sleep?”
“Nah. The distributors from Brazil were supposed to come in two weeks, but then they moved the meeting to Monday morning.”
“This Monday?” I ask, stricken. “Max, why didn’t you tell me? I know how important this deal is for you. We could have postponed.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll just work on the materials for the meeting now and on our flight back. Go to sleep.”
It’s late, and it’ll be early morning when we land in New Orleans, so we should both get some sleep… or try to.
***
“I think I have a love-hate relationship with New Orleans,” I exclaim the next day.
“Already?” Max asks with a smile.
“Yep. Hate the heat. Love the beignets.” We’re having breakfast inside the famous Cafe du Monde, and I’m on my third beignet. These things are addictive. I’m also on my fourth coffee, because I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
“Emilia, you should slow down. Too much coffee and sugar is a bad combo.”
Stuffing my face with the last bite of beignet, I frown at him. “How do you know?”
“You forget I have three sisters, the eldest one who drilled into us boys the importance of sugar and caffeine. I also know what happens when she has too much of both.”
“I need the energy. We still have to finish visiting the Quarter. Let’s go.”
Since my father owns a bar, I decided to visit there rather than go to his home. It’s safer. The bar opens in the evening, so Max and I opted to visit the French Quarter in the meantime.
The area is a thing of beauty, and so different from everything I’ve seen until now. There are street artists at every corner, and a gypsy woman even offered to read my fortune. I declined, even though I was mildly curious. The heat and humidity are a force to reckon with, though. My dress clings to me, and I wish I could say the same about my hair, but it sticks in every direction.
“This city is beautiful,” I exclaim as we make a pit stop to eat a quick lunch. We’ve been walking for hours through the city, visiting famous landmarks. So far we’ve been to Bourbon Street and Jackson Square. We’ve also been to St. Louis’s Cathedral and right now, we’re on Royal Street. This strip of land is every food lover’s dream.
“I noticed. You barely paid attention to me all morning.”
I s
hrug. “You’re nothing to sneeze at, but New Orleans is totally eclipsing you.”
Max pinches my ass, making me bump into the next person waiting in line in front of me.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Bennett,” I warn.
“I thought you liked my hands,” he volleys back in a low voice. “Actually, you love them. You said it this morning. Repeatedly.”
He woke me up by touching me everywhere, so of course I was worshipping them.
“Different circumstances,” I mouth, elbowing him in the ribs.
Max and I are currently waiting in line to buy a jambalaya to go, and I’m salivating just looking at the food. The smell is intoxicating, further accentuating my hunger—and I stuffed myself with beignets a mere few hours ago.
When we’re in front of the counter, the vendor asks in a knee-melting Cajun accent, “What would you like?”
I tell him my order, letting out a deep sigh. The vendor seems unfazed, but Max cocks an eyebrow.
Max’s voice is clipped when he tells his order, and he watches me intently as we leave.
“What?” I ask innocently, shoving a spoon of jambalaya in my mouth. Holy hotness. My mouth is on fire. This dish is not for the fainthearted.
“So how come every time someone speaks to you, you make puppy dog eyes?” he asks with a frown.
“I can’t help it. Cajun accent is sexy.” My words only further accentuate his frown. I love seeing him riled up.
“Right, if you think this is sexy we won’t go to England anytime soon.”
“You might want to cross off Australia too,” I chime in. “Their accent is to die for as well.”
“No trips to Australia, then.” That last word sounded dangerously close to a growl.
“Not sure what that says about me, but I love seeing you all territorial like this.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
He eyes my food. “Does that earn me the right to taste your jambalaya?”
Mine is with chicken, while his is with chorizo and chicken.
I sigh dramatically. “I draw a hard line at food, but because I love you so very much, you can have one spoonful.”
We continue our tour in the afternoon, but my mood grows dimmer, and my entire body tenses. A knot settles between my shoulder blades, and the closer we get to six o’clock, the tighter it gets.
“We should head in the direction of the bar if we want to be there when it opens,” Max says cautiously.
“Yeah. Let’s do that.”
He kisses my forehead before lacing an arm around my waist. We walk like this toward the bar, which is at the edge of the French Quarter. A large Open sign blinks above the door when we arrive, and it does nothing to calm my nerves.
***
“I want to go inside by myself,” I tell Max. His expression instantly tightens, his jaw ticking.
“Not a good idea. What if—”
“This is something I need to do alone.”
“Emilia—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
A loaded silence follows, but I don’t back off. Eventually, he points to the coffee shop across from the bar, saying, “I’ll sit there and wait for you.”
As he enters the coffee shop, I turn and inspect the old building that houses the bar. It has a charm of its own even among the other beautiful buildings surrounding it. I looked up the bar online as soon as Max told me the name. It has a long history, and it changed ownership about fifteen years ago. That’s when it entered my father’s possession. Only a mere four years after he left Grams and me. Over the years, I imagined many scenarios why my father didn’t make contact. Most often, I feared he was a drunk, or homeless, and was too ashamed to show his face. Never in a million years did it cross my mind he was the owner of a successful bar in the heart of New Orleans.
Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I push the door open. There are a few patrons inside already, sitting at the tables scattered around the dimly lit room. I fix my eyes on the counter, where two men are working. One is in his twenties, the other one is unmistakably my father. Now that I have him in front of my eyes, memories of him as a younger man flood my mind. High cheekbones, tiny black eyes, and a small stature.
All the air leaves my lungs and my throat constricts. I grasp the counter for support in a small gesture, afraid my legs might give way.
“Can I get you anything, miss?” the twentysomething asks. I shake my head, moving along until I reach the part of the bar where my father is.
He snaps his head up, opens his mouth, and then blinks without saying anything. His features contort, his eyes growing cold and wary.
“Emilia?”
My throat seems incapable of forming any words, so I just nod.
“I have an office in the back, let’s go in there and talk.” His voice is just as cold as his eyes, with just the tiniest hint of unease. My legs seem to have the consistency of lumber as I follow him, and nausea settles at the back of my throat.
Once we enter his office, I try to fix my eyes on something that will calm me. No such luck. I can’t find anything to latch on in this tiny, strange place.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “How did you find me?” Going straight for the punch. So this is how this will be. Okay, then.
“Why did you leave us?” I toss back.
Running his hand through his black hair peppered with white strands, he gestures for me to sit in the chair in front of his desk, which I do. He sits behind it.
“Why did you never call or write?” I continue. He joins his hands over the table, looking at me like a stranger, which I suppose is what I am.
“Emilia, your mother and I were very young when she became pregnant with you.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I say dryly.
“I didn’t ask for you to be born. I loved your mother very much, but I begged her not to have you.”
Bile rises up my throat, but I keep my composure, determined not to show this asshole that his words hurt. Damn it, I don’t want them to hurt.
“I couldn’t change her mind. Hell, I practically had no say in her choice. When you were born, I tried to do the right thing. But you know what it’s like for a high school drop out to find work?”
“Hard, I imagine.”
“I loved your mother. But things got very hard, very fast. She changed from the sweet girl I fell in love with to a woman who was constantly nagging and whining. There was always some drama going on, something she needed for herself or for you. Look, I’m not proud of my past, but I did what I had to do.”
“Leaving your nine-year-old daughter after her mother had just died?”
“You had Grams to take care of you. It’s not like you were on your own.”
“Yeah, no nine-year-old needs her father,” I say sarcastically. “You didn’t even ask Grams to move away with you.”
At least that was what my Grams always said.
“No, I didn’t. I needed to be free to start over. Hard to do that with a kid. It was too much responsibility, and I knew I was meant for more. And I was right. Look at what I did here. I became successful.”
“While Grams worked herself to the bone to keep both of us afloat.” The punches keep on coming. I think sometime between entering his office and sitting on his chair, I became numb, which is just as good, because otherwise I couldn’t take this.
“Did it ever occur to you to reach out to us? After you built… all this?”
“I figured if you’d done well without me up to that point, there was no real need.”
“You figured,” I deadpan.
He shakes his head, avoiding looking at me. “It would have been hard to explain to my wife.”
“You’re married?”
Even through the veil of numbness, the words still hurt, like a knife being twisted around in my chest, again and again.
“Yes, I have a beautiful wife, named Tracy, and four children.”
“When did
that happen?”
“I married her nine years ago. The timing was right, you know… to start a family.”
Max told me his detective had a lot of information about my father, but after I learned about his bar, I didn’t want to know more. Now I wish I had asked. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Grams always said that Dad was a free spirit; that he didn’t want to be tied down. Little did she know. He did want a family; he just didn’t want us. He didn’t want me.
I look at him, dumbstruck. “I see.”
“You do, right? Explaining to them about you meant—”
“Having to admit what a lowlife you are.”
“Please, don’t tell them anything.” For the first time, he looks scared.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t come here to expose you. I didn’t even know there was anyone I could expose you to. God, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have come.”
He throws his hands up in the air. “Why did you come? What did you expect? You’re past the age where you can ask for money.”
What the hell? How can I be related to this person? How can Grams be related to him? There’s not one mean bone in her body, while he seems to be made entirely out of poison.
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think I want your money. When I started searching for you, I expected to find out you’re dead, or at least had a very good reason for not showing your face for almost twenty years. I never thought I’d find this. You having a successful life, choosing not to have anything to do with me or your own mother. And I came for Grams, because she has Alzheimer’s, and she wants to see you again. I flew here hoping to convince you to pay her a visit.”
For the first time since I came in, a sliver of something crosses his face. “Mother has Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes. Do you want to see her?”
He shakes his head. “No point. I told Tracy I didn’t have any living family. Best if you tell Mother you didn’t find me.”
My stomach sinks, which only goes to show what an idiot I am. A tiny part of me still hoped the knowledge that his mother is sick would make him want to reach out to her. What kind of coldhearted bastard wouldn’t want to fulfil what is essentially his mother’s last wish? I rise to my feet, massaging my neck, which has grown stiff.