The Big O Series

by M. S. Parker

  She sat stiffly against me, even after I lapsed into silence, waiting for her to ask what I was talking about.

  But she didn't.

  "Aren't you going to ask?"

  "I imagine I got in the way of you being able to do...whatever you do. Like being the King of the Multiple O, I figure. Otherwise you wouldn't do it."

  For a second, I didn't know how to reply to that. Eyes closed, I sat there. There was a padded headboard, and I dropped my head onto that as I tried to think.

  "I ended up with that stupid nickname because I was good at fucking, Michelle. And I'm a good whore."

  I sensed her entire body flinch.

  Opening my eyes, I caught her chin and guided her face around until she met my gaze. "What?" I asked bluntly. "That's what I am. I have sex for money. You can change it up or make it sound prettier than it is – a male prostitute, a gigolo, an escort – but I have sex with women for money. It started out because the only jobs I could get were odd ones that paid under the table, and when a few women made it clear they wouldn't mind paying me to give them a good time, I was tired of scraping by so I went with it. But whether you put a pretty tag on it or not, it doesn't change what I am. I'm a whore."

  "You're more than that," she said softly.

  "Not much." Disgusted with myself, I let her face go and wondered who in the hell I was fooling.

  Michelle turned around then, facing me. As I sat there, she threw one leg over my hips and cupped my cheeks, studying me with shadowed eyes. "You're my friend. And although it was wrong what you accused me of, you were pissed off for another woman you care about. Your heart was in the right place, even if you were an ass about it."

  She sighed and leaned in, rubbing her lips against mine. "And you helped me figure something out. All this time, I've been stuck inside myself, half afraid to live, and I didn't need to be. I didn't figure that out until you came along, Jake. So...thank you."

  "You didn't need me for that," I said, voice raw. Fisting a hand in her hair, I tugged her head back, staring into her eyes. "Everything was inside you all along."

  "But maybe it took you to help me see it." She kissed me again. "Just like I'm going to make sure you understand there's more to you than what you think."

  I wanted to believe that.

  Maybe there even could be.

  Sighing, I hooked an arm around her neck and tugged her in closer. "There are things I should tell you, Michelle."

  The letter was wrinkled and creased from being carried in my wallet for the past couple of years.

  The picture of my mother was faded.

  Michelle held the picture in one hand, and at some point, she'd pressed it to her heart.

  It made me ache, just seeing her like that.

  She held the letter in her other hand, reading it.

  She flipped it over, then back, then flipped it over again. I think she must have read it five times before she finally put it down and met my eyes. "He never says what he's sorry for," she said softly.

  "I know."

  The letter was from Marlon McCrane.

  Holding out a hand, I waited for her to return the letter, and I looked down at the words and letters, the familiar scrawl of Marlon's handwriting. "This was the son of Senator Washington McCrane," I said quietly, looking up to meet her eyes. "He died a few years back, but not before he sent this letter to the prison where I was serving my time. I'd just...I got out a few days before the letter got there. It should have been forwarded, but for some reason, my old cellmate ended up with it."

  Rubbing a thumb across one crease, I thought about that phone call the guy had given me, telling me about the letter. I'm going to mail it to you, man. But just in case...I want to read it to you. You should know what's in it in case something happens.

  What was in it was a bunch of rambling nonsense, the by-product of a mind destroyed by booze or drugs or both. But one thing that was clear...Marlon felt like he had something to apologize for.

  Over and over, he'd written, I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry.

  But I didn't understand just what it was he was supposed to be sorry for.

  Not at first.

  Later, though, I started to wonder and think. If he had just been in the car, what would he have to be apologizing for? I'd never know, either.

  Slowly, I looked up and met her eyes. "I already told you this, I think. But I don't remember what happened the night my mom died." She lowered the picture to look at the image of my mother, her hair falling to obscure her face. "I loved her. Her and my dad. They were good parents. I had a good life, played football. I was a good kid. We were like some sit-com family, just...happy."

  I blew out a shuddering breath.

  "I wake up in the hospital and I'm told that my mother is dead. That I'd been driving, and I hit her and killed her. There wasn't a trial, just a plea deal, and I signed it without thinking about much of anything. I just wanted to die. For the longest time after I went inside, that was the only thing I wanted – to die."

  "Jake..." She reached out to me.

  I took her hand and kissed the inside of her palm. "Guilt is a terrible thing, Michelle. It will eat you alive. It took me a long time just to be able to look myself in the mirror in the morning."

  Her face was unreadable, and I couldn't even begin to guess at what she was thinking.

  I wasn't sure I wanted to know. Not just yet, at least. I was talking about my mother's death and the possibility that I had killed her. That's what I believed for so long. But when I got that letter...

  "You wanted to know why I reacted so bad about Whitley..." I squeezed my eyes closed for a long moment before looking back at her. "I've been watching the McCrane family – specifically Senator Washington McCrane for a very, very long time."

  "Why?" Michelle's eyes were confused.

  "Because the only other person who knows exactly what happened the night my mother died was the boy in the car with me...Marlon McCrane."

  Her lashes flickered. "Oh."

  "Yes, Senator McCrane's son."

  "Shit." She mouthed it, the word making no sound as it escaped her lips. A split second later, she came up off the bed to pace, dragging the blanket with her. I rearranged the other ones around me, watching as her long legs scissored back and forth, one fist clutching the heavy quilt between her breasts. "What..." She finally stopped and turned to look at me. "What did you do, follow him to New York?"

  "No." Shaking my head, I took the letter and folded it into quarters, neatly following the lines that were all but embedded into it at this point. "I had no idea he was a senator in Maryland, or that he spent so much time in New York. Not until I'd been here a couple of years. I only knew him from when he'd come to Texas to visit his son. He could win the absentee father of the year award, showing up on birthdays and holidays, presents all but falling out of his pockets, but beyond that, Marlon might as well not exist."

  "Were you two friends?" she asked.

  "Maybe." Jerking a shoulder in a shrug, I answered, "The two of us had what you might call an uneasy friendship. Marlon moved there when he was pretty young, after his parents divorced. His mama spoiled him rotten. Washington, when he came around, seemed to think the only way to parent was to give Marlon whatever he wanted. Sometimes I wonder if his parents had ever told him no in his life."

  Rubbing my temple, I put the letter down on the table in front of me, the memories a tangle inside my head. I'd been the popular kid. Marlon had always just been there. There had been a rivalry between us, but I hadn't realized it at the time. It had taken a period of years, looking back over them to realize just how volatile things had been between us.

  How many times had my folks asked me not to hang out with him? How many times?

  I couldn't remember.

  They told me he was trouble.

  I wouldn't even have gone to the party if he hadn't nagged me into it. I sure as hell wouldn't have been driving a car because my parents had never bought me one.

&nbs
p; But he wasn't the one who made me take the first drink, or even the second.

  And that was what I told myself over the years. If I'd ended things when my parents told me to, if I hadn't gone to the party, if I hadn't taken that first drink...

  Then the letter came.

  "I never could understand what he said he was sorry for." Staring down at the simple rectangle of paper, so simple in appearance, I finally looked up at her. "There was only one thing that made sense."

  She didn't need me to paint her more of a picture.

  "Could he have called his dad to...hell, I don't know. Make it go away?"

  "My mother was dead," I bit off. "There was no making that go away."

  "I know." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. "That didn't come out how I meant it. I just...all of this seems crazy. And scary."

  "Yeah. To you and me both. But in a way, it makes sense." I remembered taking those keys from Marlon. Telling him...

  We ain't driving, man.

  I remembered that.

  Those were things I hadn't told people. What would it have mattered, with my mother being dead?

  "He wanted to drive," I said gruffly. "I took his keys and told him...I told him neither of us were driving. We weren't in the shape for it. He mouthed off. Took a swing at me. After that, I don't remember anything until I woke up in the hospital."

  My face had been bruised, but I'd been in a wreck. Anything could have caused that.

  "Do you think it's possible Senator Washington McCrane helped cover up his son's part in your mother's death?" Michelle asked, coming to kneel in front of me, her eyes earnest.

  "I don't know." My gaze flicked to the letter. "And I can't ask Marlon about it, either. He OD'd a few days after that letter arrived at the prison. So whatever secrets he had, he took them with him to the grave."

  She huffed out a breath and sat back on her heels. "Son of a bitch. That's a mess." Slanting a look up at me, she asked, "And there's nobody you can ask now?"

  "No. Save for the senator," I said mockingly. Jerking a shoulder up in a shrug, I added, "There was a kid who was supposed to be in the car with me, but he was killed in a hit-and-run a year later."

  "What a coincidence," she murmured. "Was the driver caught?"

  I met her eyes. "No."

  "Is this why you took Whitley on as a client?" she asked. She cocked a brow at my look. "I know that's what she is. Did you choose her to get back at him?"

  "First, she chose me," I pointed out. "I screen all my clients, and when I realized who she was married to...I could have said no. I elected not to. I thought it would be a good way to get information on him."

  "And while you're doing it, you're banging his wife," she added.

  "I think what I do is a bit more than banging," I said bluntly. "And she came to me. Her husband hasn't touched her in three years, and on top of that, she's a lonely woman married to a dick."

  Michelle held up her hands. "Okay, okay..." She still had an odd look in her eyes. "If you say you didn't take her on because of who she is, then I believe you."

  Those words unsettled me, and I wondered if maybe there had been some bigger part of me that had looked to Whitley and wondered if I could use her.

  I didn't like that part of me. Not at all.

  "Look," I said roughly. "He doesn't give a damn about her, save for the fact that she's beautiful and her parents have connections in DC. He's already made noises about getting a divorce, but he doesn't want to lose those connections."

  As Michelle continued to watch me, I added, "Besides, I like her. She's a nice lady, and she's trapped in a bad marriage. I wouldn't use her just to hurt him."

  "You thought about it, though," she murmured.

  "I think about a lot of things. That doesn't mean I'll do them."

  "Okay." She nodded and looked away. "You'll have to find a way to get the truth from him if you ever want to be free of this."

  "I'm sure he's ready to just blurt it out."

  To my surprise, a faint smile curved her lips.

  Before I could ask about it though, she said, "Did it ever occur to you that maybe he's the reason people found out about Whitley?"

  "What?"

  She shrugged and cast me a quick look. "We tell our secrets to those who matter. Maybe she told him...or somebody close to him, and word got back to him. Maybe he hired an investigator who's been following her, and they know about you. If he wants a divorce, the best way to get it is to paint her in a bad light...and wow, has he done that."

  Mind whirling, I thought about what she said. But then... "No. That doesn't make sense. Whitley said she never told him about the attack."

  "But she told the cops. Her parents. People knew." Michelle shrugged. "All he had to do was find somebody who did know and who was willing to talk."

  Thirty-Two

  Michelle

  Senator Washington McCrane gave me the creeps.

  Capitol C creeps, too.

  I'd hired a private investigator to check him in the week since Jake had told me the truth about his past, and his connection to the powerful McCrane family.

  One thing my family had taught me – knowledge is power, and the investigator had come up with plenty of knowledge.

  McCrane had plenty of reason to give me the creeps. There were stories about him that had been swept under the carpet, washed away by money, or tucked in dirty closets because of threats.

  If I was smart, the last thing I'd do was go head to head with a man like this. But the man I cared about deserved to have his life back and that wasn't going to happen until he knew what happened that night.

  McCrane had a fundraiser going on tonight, and I'd used my aunt's and mother's connections to get me a ticket inside – plus a good thirty minutes alone with the senator for a private interview. He thought he had a sympathetic ear for the current volatile state of politics, thanks to my family background. But he must not have paid much attention because if he had, he would've realized my family and the kind of politics he played were two very different fields.

  But it didn't much matter. He was an egocentric ass who had heard what he wanted to hear, which I'd been counting on.

  I'd left Jake a note along with a ticket, knowing he wasn't going to get here until I'd had a chance to talk with the senator, maybe even after the five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner had started, but once he saw the name on the ticket, he'd be here.

  He had no idea what I was up to, and I knew he wasn't going to be happy with me, but I'd also known I had to do this. I wanted Jake to be free and clear.

  Jake.

  His name wasn't even really Jake.

  He'd been born Matthew Jakes, he told me, and after everything that happened, he'd scraped together the money for a name change and moved to New York. It was supposed to be a fresh start.

  Seeing McCrane must have been like a punch to the gut.

  Of course, sitting across from the slimy bastard wasn't a pleasant experience right now, and I didn't have a history going back all those years with him.

  I couldn't imagine what it would have been like for Jake to seen him.

  He'd told me that Washington had no idea he was in New York, might not even know he was a free man, although I had to wonder why the bastard wouldn't more closely watch somebody whose life he'd ruined.

  Arrogance, though, had put many people in their place.

  And arrogance was something this man had in spades.

  "Your mother and father must be so proud of you," Washington said, sipping his second whiskey – served neat. I'd poured him extra too. "Coming half way across the country, setting up on your own. Now you've got a new career."

  I'd pumped him full of the shy, nervous reporter routine, and he'd eaten it up.

  "I'm not brand new," I said, smiling a little. "And I'm determined. After all, I got this interview with you, didn't I?"

  "You did, at that." He tossed back the rest of his drink and gestured to the bar. "Are you sure you don't want a dri
nk?"

  "Oh, no." Giving him a look of wide-eyed innocence, I said, "I can't drink on the job. But if you want another...please do. Me, I can't hold my liquor all that well anyway."

  He laughed and patted my hand. "Live and learn, sweetheart. What kind of questions do you have for me?"

  As he rose, I pretended to study my notebook. I had scrawled down the sort of questions I'd ask the typical politician. So he didn't move things along too fast, I fired a couple at him and jotted down the pat, trite answers. Politicians probably had these questions – and their answers – memorized within a month of deciding to run for office.

  "It seems it's a hostile environment out there these days," I said somberly as he dropped back down in the chair across from mine.

  "Oh, sweetheart." He gave me a mournful look. "If you only knew."

  If he kept calling me sweetheart, I was going to scream. But I smiled prettily and leaned in closer. "What was it like when you first got into this? If I read correctly, you were married before...had a wife and a child before the current Mrs. McCrane." His lids flickered. "It seems that your current wife isn't all that supportive. Was that the case with your first wife too?"

  Make it all about him, I reminded myself. He was a manipulator and a user. As long as it was all about him, he'd keep talking. Fortunately, a skill a freelancer writer learns early on...how to ask questions.

  Giving him my own sympathetic expression, I added, "It's understandable if you'd rather talk about something else."

  "No, no..." He shook his head, reaching to tug at his lower lip. "It's...I just haven't thought about them in a very, very long time." With an abashed look, he met my gaze full on this time. "That was a very unhappy part of my life, Michelle. I hope you'll be kind if you decide to discuss it."

  "Why don't you tell me your side of the story?"

  The man ought to be a story teller.

  I sat there, listening as he spun a tale about him and his first wife – his high school sweetheart, of course – and how they loved each other more than the world, but the strain of the public eye was more than his introverted wife could handle and that she longed to raise her child in the small Texas town where she'd been raised. Naturally, it broke his heart, but he didn't want the woman he loved unhappy, and when a separation didn't work, they agree to divorce.