by Ashley Jade
I sit down beside her. “No, you don't.”
She gives me a half-smile. “You really believe that?”
I grab a box of tissues off the nightstand and hand her one. “I don't know.”
She wipes her eyes. “Truth is, I'm not even upset about it. I don't love him, I never did. I was only trying to do the right thing for the baby.” She sniffs. “It's been over between us for a while.”
I tell my heart not to listen, but it's a glutton for punishment. “I don't—”
She puts her finger to my lips. “I know you have every right to hate me. But if you give me one more chance, you won't regret it.”
“Becca—”
She clasps my face in her hands. “I know it's hard for you to trust me again, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes.”
Her lips find my neck and my eyes flutter closed. God, I want to believe her. More than that, I want to be able to forgive her.
Like a cold shower in sub-zero temperature, my nemesis permeates my brain. “What about him?”
“I told you, we're over. All I want is you, Kit.”
She doesn't give me a chance to object because she claims me with her mouth again. I want to protest and tell her this is happening way too fast and I need to think, but her fingers start working their way down my body, sending the typhoon into another spiral.
“Now lay back and let me show you just how much I've missed you.”
The stove is hot, I remind myself as she slips my yoga pants off my hips.
But some of us chase the burn.
Because we want so badly to be loved.
VII
“At the gambling table, there are no fathers and sons.” ―Chinese proverb
My fingers curl around the edges of the chair I'm sitting on, almost as if my grip alone can stop the last shred of my composure from unraveling.
I mentally go down the checklist of everything that's happened over the last few hours. Sometimes it's easier for me to break things down in timeline form before I can process it all and act accordingly.
I found out the baby isn't mine—check.
I was informed by the medical staff that my father is nothing more than a vegetable—check.
I finally confronted my brother's girlfriend about setting up Asher, along with her good-for-nothing father and crazy Kyle, only to be proven wrong about her involvement—check.
Then, moments later, I watched that very same obsessed psychopath, Kyle Sinclair, run down the hospital hallway with a gun, in an attempt to kill Breslin, before being dragged away in handcuffs—check.
My brain pulsates as I recall the cherry on this fucked-up cake.
When I overheard Asher tell the police during his questioning that my father and Kyle had a relationship. One that began when Kyle was just a teenager—check.
Acid churns my stomach and another wave of nausea hits me.
Guess I'm not his only victim.
Granted sixteen is far from a child...but it's still wrong, right?
Then again, at fourteen I was receiving blow jobs from the girls in my brother's fan-club under the school bleachers during his football games. And by fifteen, I was having sex with them, so what the fuck do I know.
I drag a hand through my hair and look around the waiting room. It's only then I realize Breslin never came back from the restroom.
I'm getting ready to check on her because Asher will blow a gasket if I don't, when he appears.
“Have you seen her?”
I'm pretty sure my expression has busted written all over it. “She told me she was going to the bathroom.” I check my watch and stand. “About twenty minutes ago.”
Annoyance lines his features. “You didn't think to check on her?”
I want to argue that I technically did...approximately one minute ago.
He starts walking and I decide to come clean. He's already mad at me, so I might as well get it all out in the open.
“I told her about Kyle blackmailing you, but in my defense, I thought she already knew.”
He looks at me like I've committed treachery.
On second thought, maybe I have. Seeing as Breslin didn't know about Kyle blackmailing Asher when I confronted her...it means he never told her.
Shit. I'm pretty sure that's another checkmark.
Thing is, I don't understand why he never told her. Then again, I don't understand much of anything pertaining to his relationship with Breslin or Landon.
“I also thought she had something to do with it up until an hour ago.”
“What?” The vein in his forehead bulges. “Breslin would never—”
I cut him off, even though I was wrong, I don't want to hear him defend her like she's some biblical figure. I just want him to understand where I was coming from. “Yeah, I know that now. I just figured with her piece of shit father behind it maybe—”
“How do you know about that?”
I could ask him the exact same thing.
Suffice it to say, this is not the reaction I expected from him upon hearing the news that Breslin's dad was the co-conspirator.
However, the look on his face makes it clear this little cross-examination is a one-way street.
“To make a long story short,” I begin, giving him the CliffNotes version of what I told Breslin earlier. “I ended up running into him at a bar a few hours before the video went viral. I gave him all the money I had on me in order to get him to spill the truth. Once he did, I tried to talk him out of releasing the video, but it obviously didn't work. Old drunk had a bridge to burn.”
I run a hand down my face. “I tried to warn you that night but you didn't pick up your phone. And I didn't tell you it was Breslin's dad behind it, because the last time we talked about Breslin was before you left for college and you lost your shit. I didn't want you contacting her. I was trying to protect you and do what I thought was right. Turns out I was wrong.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
I want to reiterate that I thought I was doing the right thing, but he charges for the exit. “I need a lift.”
I follow him out to the parking lot that's now coated with a good seven inches of snow. “Where are we going?”
Obviously, I assume it's to find Breslin, but fuck if I know where she is. I'm also not too keen on driving through a blizzard to find out.
He opens the car door and gets inside. “Seeing as Breslin knows that Kyle blackmailed me, and her dad leaked the tape, there's only one place she could be.”
The snowy wind whips around as I pull up to the trailer park where Breslin's dad lives.
Asher's been silent during the drive, which means he's either lost in deep thought or thinking of creative ways to kill me and get away with it.
Given the events of the night, I'd go with the latter.
His gaze is scrutinizing. “Sure you're not keeping anything else from me?”
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
Asher has a right to be angry with me, I'll give him that. But he's not the only one who has things going on in his life.
I'd be more than happy to trade my problems for his.
“Nope. Sorry to disappoint, big brother, but I've been preoccupied with my own shit lately.”
“Right,” he seethes. “Guess that means I better get my shovel ready so I can clean it all up for you again.”
I slam the brakes so hard the car slides to a stop. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know, you could have at least said thank you to me for winning the championship.”
I snort, I find it downright amusing how arrogant he can be. “I should have said thank you? Funny, because last time I checked, me losing that bet and getting involved with Dragoni is what's making your NFL dream come true.”
He fixes me with a glare. “You really don't get it, do you? What if I lost? What if things didn't turn out for the best? What then?”
“I don't know.” I inhale deeply, hating the trace of concern
in his voice. “I would have figured out another way to settle the score. I always do.”
“How? By placing another bet? One that you might lose. Christ, when does the bullshit stop? Where do you draw the line, Preston? When someone you love gets hurt, or when they've taken your life?”
I'm about to tell him he's making mountains out of molehills, because I intentionally lost the bet with the Dragonis in order to get him to play football again, but he swings open the car door and says, “You're going to be a dad soon, brother. It's time to grow the hell up before you end up fucking an innocent life up right along with yours.”
His words punch through me like a physical blow. “No, I'm not.”
I close my eyes as the finality of it sets in. “There's a reason I didn't answer my phone when you called me about dad earlier today. I was getting the results back from the paternity test.”
It's not exactly accurate, seeing as I ignored his calls before I got the results, but I'm not in the mood to argue with him about it.
He exhales sharply. “You dodged a bullet.”
“I wanted the baby to be mine.”
I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but I do know talking about a baby that's not mine seems easier than talking about my father, or what I overheard him tell the police about Kyle.
Someone on the outside looking in would assume Asher and I are close. But the truth is, although I do care about him, I'll always keep him at an arm's length.
Because I keep everyone at a distance.
“Prest—”
“Part of me regrets having the test done now, but I couldn't take it, Asher. I needed to know.”
Emotions, the kind that can bring a man to tears, threaten to spill over, but I stuff them down.
I haven't cried, not once since I was seven, and I don't intend to now.
“I started talking to the baby every night when Becca went to sleep. Telling it stories. Promising him or her that I was going to be a better father than mine ever was.”
I blow out a breath as I recall all those late nights I spent making promises to a kid that wasn't mine.
Maybe this is my karma for doubting that he was in the first place. The universe's way of saying, fuck you.
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You will. When the time is right.”
I lean against the headrest. “I thought that time was going to be now.” I look out the window and notice another two inches have fallen since we left the hospital. “Maybe I just wanted something to give me the push I needed to clean my life up and get my act together.”
I don't realize I've said that aloud until he says, “Well, you know what they say. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.” He gives me a pointed look. “You'll get through this.”
I'm about to tell him there's nothing for me to get through because I'm fine, but pink hair and my favorite angry scowl flash through my mind. Swear that girl invades my thoughts at the most random times.
However, it dawns on me that I have a valid reason to see her again.
I could drive back right now and see her.
A sharp gust of snowy wind blows as Asher steps out of the car. “Looks like the weather is getting worse.”
Annoyance skitters up my spine. A three-hour drive will easily turn to eight hours in this weather.
“I know. I was thinking about heading to Woodside tonight, but I think I'll wait for tomorrow.”
He laughs. “I can't wait to see the look on Becca's face when she sees her shit all over campus.”
My brother's more warped than I give him credit for. “What the hell is wrong with you? I might be an asshole, but I'm not tossing a pregnant chick out on the street in the middle of winter. No matter how much I can't stand her.”
She might deserve that, but the baby doesn't.
He raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you going to Woodside tomorrow?”
A long pause stretches between us before I finally utter, “To see Kit.”
Since I don't want him reading anything more into this, because my feelings about her are mine and mine alone, I add, “I'm not the only one Becca hurt and Kit has a right to know that the baby isn't mine.”
I'm thankful when he doesn't pry further and taps the hood of my car. “Drive safe, little brother.”
I salute him. “Call me if you need me. I'll answer.”
A familiar urge snakes up my spine as I drive off. If there was ever a night I needed the escape, this is it.
I make a left that will bring me to the highway, but when my car veers to the opposite side of the road due to the snow, I'm reminded that not only is it hazardous to be driving, but I can no longer rely on my father's money because he's a goddamn carrot.
Or can I?
As it turns out, it's a blessing in disguise that my father either couldn't or wouldn't transfer all his money to me in one lump sum when I demanded it last night.
Not only because it would have looked suspicious as hell right now, but because I know I'm the primary beneficiary of his will.
It used to be Asher, but after the falling out him and my father had, I was upgraded.
However, I can't celebrate just yet, because there's still a very distinct possibility that he transferred an undisclosed sum of money into my account like he said he was going to, and that alone will look odd. Unless I can come up with a valid reason as to why he did it. But in order to do that, I need to figure out how much money I'd be covering for in the first place.
Christ, I wish I went ahead and had him offed instead of blackmailing him now. Would have made things a heck of a lot easier for me.
I skid to a stop, pull out my phone, and log into my bank account. Not knowing what he did or didn't do is driving me crazy.
I'm relieved when my savings shows that I have a little over twelve grand—exactly what I had the last time I logged in.
Tossing my phone in the console, I breathe a sigh of relief...until I remember that it takes over twenty-four hours to process a transfer.
I slam the steering wheel in frustration. There's no way to know for sure what he did unless I look at his account.
Shifting the car back into drive, I decide to make the short trip to his house and find out.
It takes me longer than I anticipated to get here due to the roads, but after I enter the code on the keypad and open the front door, I march straight to his office.
I'm halfway up the staircase when I hear footsteps approaching. “Hey, Ms. Panfile.”
Ms. Panfile has been our live-in housekeeper since we moved here six years ago.
She's also one of the only people on the planet who doesn't annoy the living shit out of me. Which probably has something to do with the fact that the woman hardly speaks a lick of English. Well that, and her favorite recreational activity happens to be the kind that can be rolled and smoked while listening to Bob Marley, but I'm not going to split hairs.
“Preston!” she yells in her broken English, rushing up the stairs.
I'm tempted to ask her what's wrong, but then she cries out, “Mr. Holden.”
I shrug since there's no point in pretending to be sad about it. “Yup. He's toast.”
Sheer confusion mars her face. “Hungry?”
“No.” I point upstairs. “I need to take care of some things.”
She gives my arm a squeeze. “Mrs. Holden home soon.”
My neck prickles. “When? I thought she was stuck on a boat?”
“Sì.” She holds up three fingers. “Three weeks. But tomorrow night she come back home.” She clutches her chest. “So sad.”
Yeah, I bet she is. It's no secret my mother gets more money from him being alive than she ever will upon his death.
My father was many things, but naive about his sham of a marriage wasn't one of them. That prenup is iron-clad. She'll be lucky if she gets to keep her car and the condo in St. Barts when all is said and done.
I can practically hear her praying for a miracle from the middle of the Atlantic. Maybe i
f she was a decent mother, instead of being so wrapped up in her trophy wife role and his money, she'd have my sympathy and support. Instead, all I feel is even more relieved that I didn't marry Becca.
Unlike my parents, I'll never marry someone for convenience or money.
Or because I'm being threatened by a manipulating bitch.
When I marry, it will be because I love her more than I love myself.
Because I value her heart more than my own.
But since neither of those things are on my bucket list, I don't foresee it being an issue.
I give her a tight smile. “I'm gonna go.” I turn, but an idea hits me. “On second thought, I think I am hungry.”
Although she's about as harmless as a stuffed dove, I don't want her checking up on me while I'm in there. At least now she'll be distracted.
Her face perks up, like she's relieved she can do something for me.
I wait until she scurries off before I trek my way to his office.
It looks exactly like it did the last time I was home.
The large oak desk is spotless and shiny, courtesy of Ms. Panfile. The brown leather office chairs are made for business, but comfortable enough to endure long meetings. Football memorabilia line the shelves, but not enough to be considered tacky, more like a tasteful homage to his favorite sport. And when my eyes scan the corner of the room, I notice the small bar still has various bottles of top-shelf whiskey to choose from.
Not a single thing is out of place. Including the computer that sits smack dab in the center of his desk.
The one he doesn't enable the password protection for because our house has top of the line security, and according to him, an intruder would never make it this far.
Fucking idiot. Computer passwords aren't for home intruders. It's to stop those who pry.
I press a key on the keyboard and a second later, a younger version of him in his Duke's Heart football jersey illuminates the screen.
He looks so much like my brother, it's sickening.
I plop down in the chair and pull up a browser so I can auto-log into his bank...
And then I freeze.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out a man on life-support wouldn't be logging into his bank account.