Taking Her

by R. R. Banks

  What he said about Connor can't be true. It just can't. It doesn't sound like the man I know. The man I care for. This has to be something Bryant and my father made up. Right?

  I point my car toward home – my home. I need a little time to think. To figure out what to do next. I keep denying it to myself, keep telling myself that there is no way Connor has a child and never told me. It’s impossible.

  But then, a little voice whispers to me in the back of my head, asking me if it could be true. A cold wave of worry and doubt crashes over me, and I begin to wonder. There's still so much I don't know about Connor – so much about his past that’s still unknown to me. I only know what he's decided to tell me, and it's entirely possible he's been very selective in the information he's doled out.

  The truth is, I have no idea if he does or not.

  I immediately feel like a piece of shit for having the thought. Connor has been nothing but good and kind to me since I met him. Yeah, he's a little gruff and engages in all kinds of cock-waving, macho-man, petty bullshit with other guys. That's just part of his personality. But, beneath that exterior, could he really just leave his child behind?

  I don't know. And I hate it.

  There's only one way to find out for certain. Only one way to get the answers I so desperately need. I punch the button on the steering wheel that connects to my phone.

  “Dial Connor Grigson,” I instruct.

  “Dialing Connor Grigson,” the computer replies.

  A second later, the call is connected, and he answers it on the second ring. The moment I hear his voice, my stomach churns and lurches, making me nearly lose my nerve and hang up.

  “So? How did it go?” he asks.

  “Is it true?”

  I hear a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “If I say yes, do I get a cookie?” he asks. “Or maybe, something better?'

  His charm falls flat and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach worsens. My knuckles are white as snow as I tightly grip the wheel. My head is throbbing and all I want to do is go crawl under the covers and sleep.

  “Connor, I need to know if it's true,” I say, wincing at the tremor I hear in my voice. “Do you have a child?”

  There's a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, and I begin to wonder if the call was dropped. I cut a quick look at the display though and see that it's still connected. The deafening silence worries me.

  “So, that's the route they're planning on taking,” he says. “They hope to force me into a big settlement by releasing sordid details of my past, are they?”

  I hear his words, but the thing that stands out to me the most is that he doesn't deny it. He doesn't answer my question, but he also doesn't offer an outraged denial of it either. My heart sinks and I can't stop the tears from rolling down my face.

  “So, it's true then,” I say, a choked sob passing my lips.

  “Zoe, it's not what you think –”

  “It never is, is it?” I ask.

  “Zoe,” he says, and for the first time, I hear genuine anger in his voice. “This is not what –”

  “Goodbye, Connor,” I say and disconnect the call.

  My hands are shaking on the wheel so badly, that I have to pull over and stop so I don't run off the road and kill somebody. I sit behind the wheel, my entire body racked with sobs. Salty tears stream down my face.

  I can't believe it. I cannot believe I slept with someone – fell in love with him – who abandons his own child and its mother. Not only did I sleep with him, but now I’m carrying his child.

  I sit there by the side of the road in tears, staring at the charred, ruined pieces of my life, knowing I'm now on my own. Completely on my own. Alone.

  What am I going to do?

  What in the hell am I going to do?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Connor

  “Fuck!” I shout.

  I hurl my coffee mug across the room where it hits the wall and shatters on impact, raining down coffee and shards of ceramics all over the floor. Evelyn, who'd been standing in the kitchen area, jumps and looks at me wide-eyed, shock on her face.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Grigson?”

  I shake my head. “Pretty far from okay right now,” I say. “Sorry to startle you, love.”

  She gives me a small smile and grabs a broom and a dustpan from the utility closet and hustles over to the mess on the floor. I jump up and head her off.

  “I'll clean it up,” I say. “My mess, I'll deal with it.”

  She puts a hand on my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze, a warm smile on her face.

  “You go take care of yourself, Connor,” she says. “Sounds like you have more important things to clean up than a spilled coffee mug. You go handle that. I've got this.”

  Spilled. Like it's an accident, rather than the temper tantrum of a petulant man. I give her a tight smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. Evelyn's been with me for a while and she never fails to take good care of me.

  “Thank you, love,” I say. “You're far better to me than I deserve.”

  “Remember that sentiment when it comes time for my yearly raise.”

  I laugh. “I'm sure you'll remind me if I forget.”

  “You know I will.”

  I sigh and walk over to the kitchen, pouring myself another mug of coffee before I turn and walk down the hallway to my art studio. I drop down onto the stool and take a long sip of coffee, letting my mind work the problem over.

  Obviously, Bryant and Zoe's father have been doing some serious digging into my past. And god knows there is a lot of unsavory, juicy stuff out there for them to comb through. And they quite obviously plan to use that to squeeze me for a sizeable amount of money – as well as take Zoe away from me.

  The money, I don't give a shit about. I can have my lawyer fight that out if needs be. Though, the blowback on Zoe worries me. A lot. But, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  What worries and pisses me off the most, is that they're using that old information they dug up, mistakes made in a previous life, to drive a wedge between Zoe and me. The fact that they purposely mischaracterized certain events in my past, all in an effort to smear me, and push Zoe away from me is beyond reprehensible, in my opinion.

  Those two slimy, greedy motherfuckers have crossed the line and there's no coming back from it.

  Zoe tried to warn me. She told me they'd stoop pretty low. I apparently did not take her warning seriously enough. I push the button for her number on my phone and hold it to my ear. It's sent directly to voicemail. I try again. Same thing. I'd send her a text, but I have a feeling my number has been blocked.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, but manage to keep myself from throwing my mug across the room this time.

  I stand and pace the room, searching for answers and finding none. The only solution to the problem is to give in and pay them their extortion money, and maybe this will all go away. If they allow any of those sordid details of my past to get into the public sphere, Six String could pay a pretty heavy price financially. Not to mention what it would to do me personally.

  Of course, getting rid of the problem by throwing money at it doesn't solve the biggest issue on my plate right now – squaring things with Zoe. I want a chance to explain my side of things, but I can't get her on the phone.

  Which leaves me one option – go and see her face-to-face.

  I turn and stare through the large French doors in my studio, watching the dark, threatening thunderheads rolling in. Lightning flashes ominously in the distance. The rain is close. Which is fine because the dark, dreary day matches my mood pretty well right now.

  I head to my bedroom to grab a quick shower and change before I head out. I'm going to see Zoe. I'm going to make her understand that her thinking is all wrong, even if I have to kick in her door to do it.

  But first, I've got another stop to make.

  ~ooo000ooo~

  The bell chimes and the elevator doors slide open. I step out into the lobby
of Nichols and Associates and see Tabby behind the reception desk. She gives me a wide, dreamy smile. I can practically see the cartoon hearts floating above her head.

  “Well hello again, love,” I say.

  “Hello yourself, Connor Grigson,” she says. “Why haven't you called me yet?”

  “Had a lot on my plate lately,” I say.

  She's so busy looking at me through her heart-colored glasses, she obviously hasn't even seen the cuts and fading bruises on my face. It's been a little more than a week now, and I'm moving around a bit better – although my ribs are still fucked seven ways to Sunday, the bruises are less visible.

  “Hey, listen,” I say. “Is the big boss in today? Ryan? He around?”

  She gives me a flirty little smile. “I'll tell you if you take me out tonight.”

  I give her a dramatic sigh. “Would that I could, love,” I say. “I think I'm going to be tied up tonight. If not in jail.”

  She cocks her head and stares at me for a long moment before deciding that I must be joking and bursting into laughter.

  “You're funny Mr. Grigson,” she says. “Always a joker.”

  “So, I've been told,” I say, growing a bit impatient. “Is he here today?”

  She nods. “He is,” she replies. “Let me just call him and see if he has an opening since you don't have an appointment.”

  “You know me too well, love,” I say. “But, tell you what? I'll just head on back there and surprise him. He'll definitely want to see me.”

  “Oh, I don't know if –”

  I give her a wink and a smile. “It'll be our little secret,” I say. “Thanks, gorgeous.”

  Her cheeks flush as she watches me walk through the lobby into the main room of the office. I stroll through the rows of cubicles, earning curious stares from the people inhabiting them. I have no idea where I'm going. I’m not sure where the big man's office even is. I doubt he's parked out here in the cubicle farm. Looks like there's only one way to handle this.

  “Ryan Nichols, Bryant Brooks,” I shout out, turning in a circle. “Where are you slimy pieces of shit?”

  All movement and conversation seem to stop in an instant as all eyes turn to me. I see people peeking over the heads of their cubicles like goddamn prairie dogs, trying to figure out what’s going on. Nichols obviously keeps people on tight leashes around here.

  “Come on out, assholes,” I say. “We need to have a talk, you and I!”

  A door to an office on the far wall flies open and I see the face of the man I've come to see. It's red and filled with outrage. Clearly, he's not pleased to see me. Good. Fuck him.

  “Oh, there you are,” I call. “Ready to have a chat? Or did you want to wait until Bryant finishes sucking you off in there? I got a few minutes, mate.”

  His face turns a deeper shade of scarlet as stifled snickers sound around the cubicle farm. Clearly, not everybody is as fond of the old man and his cabana boy as he likes to believe. He looks around the room with narrowed eyes, obviously trying to figure out which employees are laughing at his expense. I’m sure he’s making a mental checklist of who to fire later. Yeah, I feel a bit bad for these folks when I leave, but whatever. Not my concern. Not today.

  I make my way over to his office door. His breathing is heavy, his face ruddy, and his nostrils are flaring like an angry bull.

  “You should watch your blood pressure, mate,” I say. “Keep getting all red and puffy-faced like that and you'll stroke out sooner, rather than later. I once had an uncle back in Ireland –”

  “Get in the goddamn office,” he growls low. “Right now.”

  I glance back at all the people still peeking over their cubicle walls and give them two big thumbs-up. Nichols pushes me in the small of the back, propelling me into his office and slamming the door shut behind us. Bryant is sitting in a chair in front of Nichols' desk, his expression sour, refusing to meet my eyes. And in the chair next to him is none other than Jay Hill himself.

  “Well, look at you, you fucking piece of shit,” I say. “What rock did you slither out from under, ya slimy prick?”

  Hill looks at me and quickly turns away, refusing to make eye contact. He looks like the kid who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Which, in some sense, I guess he is. Nichols walks around his desk, drops down into his chair, and swallows down the scotch in his glass, re-fills it, and swallows down half of that. He takes a couple of deep breaths and finally seems to regain his composure.

  I walk over to the sidebar in his office and peruse his liquor. Finding a bottle of scotch I like, I pour out a healthy glass and turn around, raising it to him. His face darkens again, but he says nothing.

  “To your health, mate,” I say and take a swallow, relishing the burn as it moves down my throat. “This is some good stuff. Good stuff.”

  “That was quite the show you put on out there,” Nichols says.

  I nod. “One thing all those years touring taught me was how to make a grand entrance,” I say and turn to Hill. “You know, those tours you were never on because you were never in our fucking band?”

  The small, greasy man seems to shrink into himself. He's practically curled up into the fetal position in his chair, looking for all the world, like a man who wishes he could be anywhere but where he is.

  “Perhaps it's fortuitous that you're here, Mr. Grigson,” Bryant says, finally able to speak. “We were just discussing a new proposal with Mr. Hill.”

  “Oh, were you now?” I reply. “Well then, my timing is serendipitous indeed.”

  “Since you obviously balked at our first offer –”

  “Because it's pure bullshit,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath, trying to appear patient. “We've been discussing an alternative offer –”

  “Which will also be bullshit.”

  Bryant rounds on me his eyes filled with fury. “Fuck you, you smug Irish prick!” he shouts. “If not for you –”

  “Bryant,” Nichols finally says and gives a small shake of his head.

  If looks could kill, Bryant would have reduced me to a pile of ash on the spot. The unadulterated hatred in his glare is the emotional equivalent of the bomb they dropped on Hiroshima. He takes a long breath and leans back in his chair, obviously struggling to keep his composure.

  “What my associate is saying,” Nichols steps in, “is that some new information has come to light that may make you want to consider accepting an offer.”

  “Yes, I've heard,” I say. “Damning stuff, that.”

  “Yes,” Nichols said, his tone flat and hard. “It is. Given that you're a business owner and a pillar of the community, I'm sure you wouldn't want some of these…allegations ever coming to light.”

  “You should call it what it is, mate,” I say. “A pile of shit.”

  “It's actually called opposition research,” Bryant says. “You find your opponent's weaknesses, and you hit them there. In your case, there were so many fuckups to choose from, I didn’t really know where to start.”

  I shrug. “I've never shied away from admitting my mistakes,” I say. “I've spoken about them in various settings. People call me an inspiration for it.”

  “I have to wonder how those people would feel,” Bryant says, looking off into the distance like he was pondering the meaning of goddamn life, “if they knew their inspiration was actually a deadbeat dad.”

  I cast a glare at Hill and he shrinks even further into himself than before. I knew that particular nugget had to have come from him directly. What I don't know is whether or not Bryant actually did any digging into it. If he bothered to find out the truth of the matter, or deliberately ignored it as he threatens to go scorched earth on me if I don't give in to their extortion demands.

  “You people are really something,” I say. “And I'm also using the term people rather loosely. You're actually parasites – with less honor.”

  “Call us what you will, Mr. Grigson,” Bryant says. “But, we've got you by the short and curlies.
”

  “Oh, do you?” I ask. “Seems to me, it's you skeevy pricks who are over a barrel. I can have you both disbarred and brought up on charges for this shit.”

  “You could,” Nichols says. “But, you'd also be subjecting Zoe to the same harsh punishments we'd face. Would you really do that to her?”

  “Last I heard, she left your firm,” I say.

  Bryant shrugs. “Not officially,” he replies. “Besides, she's been in on the deal since day one. Look at the documentation that proves it.”

  I give them a grin. They think they've got checkmate on me, but as I stand there staring at their smug, smarmy faces, an idea occurs to me. An idea that could change the entire equation. Part of it's going to depend on Zoe though – and I have no idea if that's a bridge that I'm going to be able to repair.

  I turn and catch Hill looking at me, an almost apologetic expression on his face. I glare at him and just shake my head, not even trying to hide the disgust on my face.

  “Why would you even do this, mate?” I ask. “You know you didn't write the music. You know you weren't part of the band. You hung around, drank our booze, smoked our weed, and did whatever drugs happened to be on hand. We let you hang with us because you were a decent enough guy. And now, you pull this shit? Again? We were nothing but good to you, Jay. And this is how you repay us? Go fuck yourself.”

  Hill quickly looks away, covering his face with his hands. Bryant looks at me, his gaze steely and determined.

  “Please don't speak that way to our client again,” he says. “In fact, don't speak to our client at all.”

  “You're welcome to pucker up and kiss my ass, mate,” I say. “You spineless, cowardly piece of shit. Don't think I don't know it was you who sent those two goons to my place to rough me up. I know it was you.”

  He puffs up and stares at me. I quickly close the distance between us, leaning down, my face inches from his. He recoils in his seat, his eyes wide. He glances around, looking for a way out, but I step in front of him, putting a hand on each of the armrests, a look of absolute hatred written on my face.