by RC Boldt
“Hey.” I drop a soft kiss on her temple. “How are you feeling?”
“What about me, Emma Jane?” Brantley complains. “I don’t get a kiss from the beautiful pregnant lady?”
She rolls her eyes with a laugh and steps over to greet him with a hug before returning to my side.
I turn and scan the area for Knox. “Where’s your husband?”
“He’s in the car, finishing a call.” She shakes her head. “I really think he’s using it as an excuse to leave the car running in case I need to be rushed to the hospital.”
Brantley and I exchange a look before I turn back to her. “Do you expect that?”
She winces slightly. “Mmm, maybe.”
“What?” I stare incredulously.
She holds up her hands to stop me from my tirade. “Easy, easy. Y’all are making me crazy with hovering. I wanted to come out and wish your mom a happy birthday, okay?”
“Are you in labor?” I demand.
She snaps her lips shut and doesn’t answer me. It’s only now I detect the slightest sheen of perspiration dotting her upper lip and forehead. Considering it’s currently only in the upper sixties, and that’s chilly for most true Floridians, this is a bit alarming.
“Ah, hell.” Brantley turns to lay his bouquet of tulips, our mother’s favorite flower, at her grave. “Happy Birthday, Mom. We miss the hell out of you and love you. But right now, we need you to use your connections and hold off on Emma Jane propelling a baby from her uterus because we both know I’m not down with that sort of thing. I like the peen, remember? And that’s—Ouch!”
Brantley’s rubbing the back of his head where Blue’s swatted him.
I exchange a look with my brother. “Take her back to Knox. I’ll be there in a minute, okay?”
“But, Beck,” Blue protests.
“Go.” I gentle my tone and add, “Please.”
She nods, and my brother guides her back across the small patch of grass to where Knox’s car waits.
I set down the large bouquet of tulips beside Brantley’s and shove my hands in my pockets, staring down at the engraved headstone.
“Happy Birthday, Mom.” I swallow hard. “I miss you like crazy.” A corner of my lips tips upward. “I know the first thing you’d say to me if you could. ‘Becket, you tell them to protect you in the pocket better when you’re out there on that field.’ You always worried so much. But you won’t have to worry much longer since I plan to retire after this season’s over.” I pause and release a long sigh. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. There’s this girl—woman—and well…I think you’d love her.” I swallow past the sudden lump of emotion and wish like hell I didn’t have to do this, didn’t have to talk to her gravestone. “I think you’d love her as much as I do, but there’s more to it. And I wish like hell you were here because you always gave me the best advice. Because she turned out to be—”
“Becket!” The urgency in Brantley’s voice has me in instant motion. My feet eat up the distance separating where he shuts the door and quickly moves out of the way before Knox practically burns rubber down the drive of the cemetery.
“Shit,” I mutter and nearly pull the door off the hinges to get into my SUV, Brantley sliding inside beside me.
“She swore she was okay.” My brother grips the dash as I drive like a madman, trying to keep up with Knox’s car. “Then a bad contraction must’ve hit because her face went deathly pale and she was like, ‘Hospital now.’”
“Dammit.” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. “She should’ve known better than to chance it.” I’m grateful for the lighter than normal traffic and the fact we’re only ten minutes away from the hospital. “If anything happens to her…”
“It won’t,” Brantley assures me. “She’s a tough cookie.”
The remainder of our drive is spent in silence until we finally make it to the emergency entrance. I pull a wad of cash from my wallet and give it to the valet guy, begging him to park my car. He must recognize me, and for once, I’m cool with using my public profile to my benefit.
We race into the hospital just as they’re wheeling Blue back, a frantic Knox following. Brantley finds a seat in the waiting room, waving me on, indicating for me to follow my friends.
When I start down the hallway trailing after Blue, a nurse protests. “Sir, you can’t go back there!”
“But I…” Shit. I falter, realizing I have no part in this. It’s a private moment, a special one, between only Blue and Knox.
God, it fucking stings, as stupid as it is.
With a resigned nod, I turn toward the waiting area.
“Jones!” Knox calls out. “Get your ass back here!”
I stare at him dumbfounded. He waves me on impatiently. “Better hurry the hell up if you want to utilize all your birthing coach help!”
I jog down the hallway to reach him and follow him into the room.
“Uh, which one of you is the father? There’s only one person allowed in here.”
I freeze at the question posed by the female doctor, darting a questioning look at Knox.
“He’s her birthing coach, and I’m the father,” Knox answers.
The doctor eyes me before I detect the look of awareness in her gaze, obviously recognizing me. “Oh, of course, Mr. Jones.” She scribbles something on a clipboard.
By the time Knox and I hurriedly rush to Blue’s side, we hear the words, “Oh, my. She’s crowning already.”
“You did great, EJ.” Knox smooths back Blue’s hair from her face, pure adoration on his face, and gazes down at the baby in her arms. “She’s beautiful.”
“And you,” Knox directs this at me, “you’re not too shabby as a birthing coach.” He smirks, his green eyes filled with humor. “Might be missing your calling.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “I’m just honored to be a part of this.” I force myself to stand from the chair. “I’ll leave you two alone.” I take two steps to the door when Blue calls out to me.
“Beck.”
Slowly, I turn, and she smiles at me, looking beautiful and so damn happy. “We’re going to name her Betsy, after your mom since it’s her birthday.” She pauses before adding, “If that’s okay with you, of course.”
I close my eyes and run a hand over my face, attempting to keep my emotions at bay. “It would be an honor.” I work hard to get the words past the growing tightness in my throat. “I know she would love that.”
My best friend nods, a soft smile playing on her lips. I give a little wave before I turn back and quietly exit the room, pulling the door shut behind me.
I barely make it five feet down the hall to find my brother when I hear footsteps behind me. “Jones.”
At Knox’s voice, I stop and turn to find him approaching me with rapid steps. When he nears, he grabs the back of my head and tugs me in for a brief hug before backing away. “Thank you.”
Confused, I shake my head. “I didn’t really do anything except get a sore hand from her grip.” I huff out a laugh. “She’s got the grip of a pro-arm wrestler, I swear.”
“No.” Knox’s eyes lock with mine. “Thank you for being there for her back when I wasn’t. You’re a good man, Jones.” He regards me with his emotion-filled gaze, and I know it’s taken a lot for him to say this. He and Blue have come so far from when they were estranged.
He holds out his hand, and we shake briefly. Then he turns and quickly strides back toward his wife’s hospital room.
A slow grin forms on my face. “Does this mean we’re besties now, Knox?” I call out.
“In your dreams, Jones,” he replies readily, but I detect the faint smile in his voice. “In your dreams.”
But when he reaches to push the door to her room open, he glances over and winks before disappearing inside.
36
Ivy
November flew past in a flash and morphed into December before our eyes, as we’ve been busy laying the groundwork. It’s taken time for Leif to
dig up evidence that was buried, and that means Nathan Tate has continued to spew his lies and spread them further. It’s bad enough to have my past strewn about on seemingly every news channel and gossip show, but it’s unacceptable to have an innocent man dragged down with—by me.
It was a happy relief to receive a text message from Emma Jane with a photo of her beautiful newborn baby girl. It seems she doesn’t share in Becket’s aversion to keeping in touch with me.
While I’m trying to right my wrongs, I’ve been faithfully watching each of Becket’s games on TV just to feel closer to him. Witnessing him in action makes me feel like I still have that connection, albeit tenuous and certainly one-sided.
We’re currently awaiting our meeting with Nathan and his legal counsel. Leif has officially saved our asses—or, more importantly, my ass—in this situation. His magical aptitude for everything technology-related and being able to uncover the tiniest internet footprint people leave behind has been a godsend.
Well, one of them. My other is seated on my left. Dr. Robicheaux.
I’d decided it was necessary to reach out to him after everything had blown up in the media. Thankfully, he’d called in a favor from a friend, Mr. Parker Watson, who works at a prestigious and well-known law firm here in Jacksonville.
As the five of us sit around the conference table in one of the boardrooms within the law offices, I turn to Dr. Robicheaux. “Thank you.” It’s ridiculously long overdue, but it has to be said.
His eyes crinkle kindly. “No thanks are necessary, Ivy.” He pats the top of my hand that’s settled on my lap. “I’m happy to help.” He leans in and adds, “Even if you did throw the competition and I won by default.” His tone carries no admonishment, just good-natured humor in his reference to our connected past.
When the door to the boardroom opens, I tense.
“Confidence, Ivy. Confidence,” Leif whispers at my side and gives my hand a comforting squeeze.
Nathan and his lawyer, Mr. Ratcliff, arrive, striding in confidently. They take their seats across from us, and his counsel sets his briefcase on the table, withdrawing a thick file.
“This outlines exactly what my client demands in exchange for not disclosing more details about you and your past.” He flashes a confident smirk in my direction. “As well as that of your boyfriend, Becket Jones.”
My spine goes ramrod straight; the mere mention of Becket creates such a visceral reaction.
“And this is what I would like to share with your client.” Our lawyer, Mr. Watson, slides a stapled stack of papers across the table to them. “If your client doesn’t drop the accusations and criminal charges against Becket Jones, this information is poised to be shared with local and national news stations, not excluding ESPN.”
Tate’s lawyer scans the print and visibly pales beneath his tan. His eyes dart nervously to Mr. Watson before he slides the papers over to Nathan. The man’s features darken, and his face turns ruddy in color, anger radiating from him.
It took more work than we anticipated to uncover this information, but thanks to Mr. Watson as well as Leif calling in some favors, we’d managed to determine all parties involved.
“You can’t do this!” he explodes, shoving out of his chair so abruptly it tips over backward. “You bitch!”
“Nathan!” his lawyer reprimands. “I suggest you—” But his suggestion isn’t heeded as Nathan continues with his tirade.
“You!” He jabs a finger in my direction and spittle gathers at the corners of his lips. “You and Jones were in cahoots this whole time!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I state calmly.
Nathan Tate slams his hand against the table, the sound reverberating throughout the room. “Becket Jones is the reason for this! He needs to pay!”
“And by pay, you mean, you planned to extort money from him?” Mr. Watson leans in toward the table. “Because you’re jealous of your half brother.”
Our lawyer’s words hang ominously in the room, and Nathan’s eyes turn to angry slits. “He’s the reason my father left! It was fine until Jones came along and started playing football!”
Our lawyer reaches for the phone on the table and quickly punches in a few numbers before a voice comes over the speaker.
“Mr. Watson?”
“Send in security, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nathan’s still fully immersed in his self-righteous tirade. “He ruined everything. My son wanted to be like your boyfriend instead of like me. He ruined me!”
Two large men enter to escort him from the room, and of course, he doesn’t go without a fight. Finally, we’re left alone with Mr. Ratcliff.
The older man takes off his glasses and leans back in his leather chair. “I apologize for my client’s outburst.”
“We suggest he undergo therapy for his anger and his son be moved to his grandmother’s custody indefinitely, for his safety, which we understand you can see to since you also house”—Mr. Watson waves to indicate the large firm, which has multiple lawyers specializing in various areas—“individuals who can facilitate this.”
I lean in and link my fingers together on the table. “He needs to retract every single claim. Publicly.”
At my words, our lawyer slides an additional sheet across the table. “Therapy must be completed to the satisfaction of the licensed professionals, and we have coordinated efforts to facilitate this for free, not including Mr. Tate’s transportation to the clinic.”
Ratcliff’s eyes are questioning. “Why would you do this?”
“Because we know Mr. Tate isn’t great with money.” Mr. Watson addresses the other man frankly. “The grandmother foots most of the bills. Sammy does without…often. When Mr. Tate should be spending money on school supplies, new shoes, and clothes for his son, he gambles it away instead. He needs the help to overcome this addiction.”
Ratcliff makes some notes and calls in a colleague to go over our demands, and forty-five minutes later, we exit the law offices triumphantly.
One down, two to go.
I walk into what must be the seediest bar in the roughest part of Jacksonville.
I’m thankful it’s relatively empty for this time of day, and according to Leif, who uncovered this information, it stays relatively empty aside from the few meeting to try to score their next fix.
The ragged-looking bartender doesn’t appear to be doing much bartending since she’s puffing on a cigarette and watching The Price Is Right on the lone, tube television above the bar. I slide onto the worn leather barstool that has patches of brown duct tape covering holes and areas of wear. The other female occupant currently in the embrace of a scrawny-looking man doesn’t immediately notice me beside her, so I wait.
It takes a solid five minutes for her to finish sucking face with the grimy-as-hell guy with deep pockmarks covering his cheeks. I watch them with distaste, detached, much like I’m viewing a disgusting scene from a made-for-TV movie.
He notices my attention and breaks the kiss, smiling at me with what I’ve come to recognize as meth teeth. Disgusting, rotted, blackened.
“You wanna get some of this?” He grabs his crotch obscenely.
“Can barely hold myself back,” I say with a deadpanned expression, but I’m not watching him. My attention is on the woman, waiting for the sign that she recognizes my voice.
It’s immediate. The rigidness of her spine, the way she turns her head with heavy weariness.
And when she looks at me with eyes that appear marginally stoned, I feel nothing. Nothing aside from pity, that is.
“Ivy.” Her voice is gravelly, like the roughest grade of sandpaper. Her skin hangs on her face, eyes sunken, and teeth nearly as bad as her companion.
“We need to talk.” My tone is firm, and I hold her gaze steadily. I don’t care if I have to shove her ass into the seat beside me. We will talk.
She must see I mean business because she shoves away from the man and stumbles clumsily toward the b
arstool. She climbs up and releases a long sigh, and I rear back at the horrid stench of her breath.
“You’re pissed about what I did.” She drags a finger along the mottled bar surface, avoiding my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I feign confusion. “Did you mean when you started doing drugs and spent all our money on getting your fix instead of food or rent?” I tip my head to the side. “Or when you sold the piano my grandmother left me, just so you could get high? Or wait.” I tap my finger to my lips before I fix a hard, cold glare on her. “When you tried to sell me—your own daughter—for drug money?”
I withdraw my cell phone from my back pocket and swipe the screen until I pull up the photo. I turn the screen her way, depicting a photo of Nathan Tate. The same man who’d done some digging of his own, utilizing his shady connections, and tracked Vera Donohue down in this very bar the night of the Mayo Clinic’s Giving Gala.
When the local newscasters had discussed the Jacksonville Jaguars’s quarterback who’d created the gala and displayed some video footage of attendees—highlighting Becket and his date for the evening—Vera had begun to run her mouth.
Presenting Nathan Tate with more ammunition.
“Is this the ‘reporter’ who paid you for information about me?” I lean in and snarl. “Is this the man you offered information to in exchange for money you used for drugs?”
Finally, some semblance of emotion crosses her face. “You think you’re so much better than me, like you’ve never made a mistake.” Her words are spoken with such venom, such hatred, serving yet another reminder that the mother I once had is long gone. “I met him when I saw that photo of you at some fancy shindig with that famous football player. I figured I could get something out of it.”
I clench my jaw tight, attempting to maintain composure. “I’ve made mistakes, but the difference between you and me is I plan to make things right.” I slide off the stool and pocket my phone and start walking toward the exit. “Goodbye, Mrs. Donohue.”