Next to Never

by Penelope Douglas

  “Do you want me to read more?” Dylan asks.

  No, not really. But I can’t help but feel a little curious now.

  I shrug and walk to my dresser again. “Just a little more, sure.”

  • • •

  Jase . . .

  Happiness is a direction, not a place. Or so they said.

  I fucking hated that saying. Like I wouldn’t be happier anywhere else but here right now.

  I ran my fingers through my short blond hair, smoothing away the mess the wind had made, and skirted around a couple at a high round table as I made my way to my father’s nook in the back. It was dark, secluded, and quiet, but it allowed him an excellent view of the action. And my father liked to see everything.

  “The one thing I can count on about you”—he smiled like he’d swallowed something bad—“is that you can’t be counted on.”

  “Where you’re concerned?” I replied lazily as I unbuttoned my jacket and slid into the semicircle booth without looking at him. “Of course not.”

  I dumped my keys on the table and gestured to the waitress who made eye contact. She knew what I drank. I was here every Friday night at six o’clock sharp for the weekly rundown with my father.

  “You’re right, Jase,” he agreed. “I expect too much from you apparently.”

  His dry tone reeked of disappointment, but I didn’t give a shit. At twenty-six I was already disillusioned enough to feel sorry for my own infant kid. What kind of family did I bring him into?

  “I was in court in Chicago,” I explained. “What would you have me tell them? That you want weekly reports on my sperm count, so you can have a busload of grandsons in hopes that one of them will make it to the White House someday?”

  Sarcasm was something I hadn’t grown out of.

  “Stop whining.” My father swirled his Jameson in his rocks glass. “Tell them that you have an important meeting.”

  “I hate lying. You know that.”

  I dug into my breast pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case, taking one out and lighting it. Tossing my lighter down on the table, I focused straight ahead of me, knowing my father was watching me through the swirls of smoke.

  He was weighing his words, deciding if it would be worth his energy to chide me.

  I blew out the smoke, biting back the smile tugging at my mouth. The day I graduated from law school last spring was the day I stopped letting him push me around. I had my degree, and I had the upper hand. He needed me more than I needed him, so once I’d secured my future, I put my foot down.

  He’d bullied me into taking up the law, which even though I found little enjoyment in it, I was actually adept in it, and my forced marriage to Maddie was already hanging on by a thread. She was as unhappy as I was, and our son was the glue.

  As much as I loved her, it was only a matter of time.

  The waitress set down my drink—GlenDronach, neat—and disappeared.

  “How’s the kid?” my father asked.

  I smiled, my son’s sweet face flashing in my head. “Perfect,” I replied. “He came out of the womb with a smile, and I don’t think he’s stopped since.”

  “He’s strong.” My father nodded, eyeing me. “He needs brothers.”

  “He needs a father,” I shot back, blowing out smoke and hating the dirt taste in my mouth.

  “You know I hate smoking.”

  “I know,” I replied. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me tonight? Other than about my child?”

  He sighed, probably annoyed that I wasn’t playing along. “And Madeline?” He leaned forward, his midnight blue suit a sharp contrast to the red booth. “How is she?”

  “Fine.” I nodded, tapping off some ashes in the ashtray. “Probably busy redecorating. She already has the kid in mommy and me swimming and Gymboree.”

  “She’s a good woman.” He leaned back, looking at me pointedly.

  I fisted my fingers, accidentally snapping the cigarette in half. “You don’t have to tell me that. I know my wife better than you.”

  Maddie was my best friend.

  Or rather she used to be.

  We grew up in the same circles, were thrown together at social functions growing up, and were even “encouraged” to attend the same university. Lucky for our parents we hit it off and always kept in touch when we were separated. She attended boarding school down south, while I attended military school, but we wrote and talked on the phone. She knew me, and I cared about her.

  Unlucky for us was the knowledge that our parents had a plan. Arranged marriages are supposed to be a thing of the past, but they’re still very much alive and well, and it’s ruined the close relationship Maddie and I once shared.

  The stress of forcing myself to make love to someone I didn’t think about like that was killing me. She was still trying, but I’d shut down.

  And it killed me to hurt her.

  I could feel my father’s judgmental eyes on me, and I hurriedly tucked my cigarettes and lighter back in my jacket, getting ready to leave. I couldn’t do this tonight.

  “Son,” he started, “I love you—”

  I let out a bitter laugh, cutting him off. “Don’t even try. Unlike me, you’re terrible at lying.”

  “And I do want you to be happy,” he continued, ignoring my insult. “I know you and Maddie are having problems.” He lowered his voice. “You’re practically separated, sleeping on your office couch half the week or in spare bedrooms in your house.”

  How did he know that? Damn it.

  “There are ways for a married man to find satisfaction outside of his home.”

  I shook my head before throwing back the rest of my drink. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

  To my father, happiness was power. And taking anything you wanted was powerful. He had no boundaries, and no sense of right or wrong.

  But I did.

  I may not have been in love with my wife, but I did love her. I may not want to yank up her skirt and fuck like her like I couldn’t live without her, but I did care about her. We hadn’t had sex in months, and even though I knew things were ending between us, I wanted to protect her and respect her.

  I let out a breath and slid out of the booth, standing up and grabbing my phone and keys.

  “This marriage cannot fail.” My father leaned forward, issuing his order. “You’re getting more and more distant by the day, and you need to keep it together. You’d be surprised how easily another woman can—”

  “Another woman,” I growled, cutting him off, “isn’t going to fix what’s missing.”

  “I know what’s missing,” he retorted, looking me up and down. “You have no lust for anything. Every day is the same. You already feel like you’re sixty years old, right?”

  I froze, staring at him.

  “Life is so dull”—he spoke slowly as if knowing every thought in my head—“even food seems boring, doesn’t it?”

  My knuckles cracked, and the room felt like it was getting smaller.

  He leaned back, eyeing me with his self-satisfied fucking face. “We keep a suite at the Waldorf, Jase. You’re not getting a divorce, so I suggest you use the room whenever and however often you need it.”

  I shook my head and spun around, bolting out of the bar without even stopping to get my coat.

  Jesus Christ. What a fucking prick.

  The frigid March evening cut into me, but it was a welcome relief from my burning temper.

  I powered down the sidewalk, my gaze driving over the concrete, and I couldn’t seem to get a handle on myself. I couldn’t make myself happy and keep my family intact. Why couldn’t I find a balance? Maddie wasn’t the problem. I was. Why didn’t I want her?

  She knew I didn’t love her like that when we married, and it was the same for her, but we thought it would grow into som
ething bigger.

  I’d see her standing at the refrigerator in the mornings dressed in my white T-shirts, her long, beautiful legs and angelic face equal in their perfection. Any man would desire her. So why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I slip my hands inside of her clothes and whisper in her ear how beautiful she was? Or how much I needed to be inside of her right then? Why couldn’t I give her the husband she deserved?

  I rounded the corner, heading into the rear parking lot, lost in my thoughts, when I heard hushed chatter. I looked up and immediately halted.

  My eyes narrowed at the sight of two kids hovering around my car, fiddling with the handle of my BMW.

  What the . . . ?

  “Hey!” I burst out, charging forward as both of their heads shot up. “Get away from my car!”

  “Run!” one of the guys shouted, darting around the car and breaking into a run. “Come on, Kat!”

  I raced over, seeing one of the kids shooting down to grab tools off the ground.

  “Thomas!” he shouted after the other kid had already run off like a coward and saved himself.

  But it was too late for this one.

  These fucking kids were out of control, and I hoped like hell he was old enough to taste a night in jail.

  “Come here, you little shit.” I swooped down and grabbed the kid by his black sweatshirt and yanked him up.

  But my face immediately fell.

  It wasn’t a boy.

  Not a boy at all.

  It was a young woman.

  She breathed hard, both fear and fight blazing in her chocolate eyes as I held her by the collar. I stared into the warmest brown hue I’d ever seen, and a glow of light sweat covered her flushed cheeks.

  My mouth went dry.

  Her long brown hair was tucked into the collar of her hoodie, but strands blew across her face with the light wind, and I squeezed her sweatshirt tighter.

  “Let go of me, asshole!” she shouted, struggling and squirming to get away. I narrowed my eyes, amusement fluttering through my chest.

  She twisted, throwing out her pathetic little fists, and I almost laughed.

  I jerked her up. “How old are you? Didn’t your parents teach you to keep your hands off other people’s things?”

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” she yelled, tears filling her eyes despite her tough act. “I promise we won’t do it again. We just needed the money.”

  “Tell it to the cops,” I snapped, even though I had no intention of calling the police.

  Her worried eyes darted around her, and I could tell she was struggling not to cry.

  “How old are you?” I demanded again. Did she have parents responsible for her?

  She shot angry eyes at me but clamped her mouth shut.

  I got in her face. “How old?” I yelled.

  But the next thing I knew, she’d swung her fist, bringing it down across the side of my face, and I reared back, loosening my grip on her.

  Shit!

  I grabbed my face, trying to force my stinging eye back open, but all I could make out were legs and ass as she darted away, into the night.

  I squinted, rubbing the ache in my cheek, and I swallowed blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth when she’d hit me.

  I composed myself and moved toward my car. But then I zeroed in on something on the ground, and I reached down to pick it up.

  A wallet.

  It had to be hers. Fake red leather with a coin compartment. Opening it up, I immediately went for her license and picked it out.

  “Kat,” I said slowly, eyeing her bright smile and dark eyes.

  And then I looked at her birthdate, since she’d refused to tell me.

  Nineteen.

  A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “Old enough to know better,” I said to myself.

  The address read “14 Truman Street,” and I turned the card around in my fingers, thinking about what to do.

  I could have them arrested. Or I could save myself some aggravation, because they were only common street punks, and toss the license into the Dumpster. I had better things to do. Who really cared, anyway?

  But then her eyes flashed in my head, and I suddenly knew what I wanted to do. My interest was piqued. The fear and the way her breathing shook. The vulnerable tremble to her bottom lip. The anger and the way she slapped me as she found the courage to fight.

  What was her story?

  Slipping the card into my pocket, I climbed into my car and sped out of the parking lot. Truman Street was on the other side of town, and I had no clue if she and her little pal even had transportation or they were just counting on taking mine, but I suspected I wouldn’t even find her home. If that was her real home, that is.

  I sped down the street and took a left on Main, cutting through the downtown and driving until the businesses and pedestrians were behind me. I couldn’t see everything as clearly at night, but I could tell that the manicured lawns of emerald green had now turned brown and patchy, and the houses became smaller and older as the neighborhoods changed. The once-white siding of a trailer was tinged yellow under the porch light, and I couldn’t help but feel disgust at the garbage lying on some of the lawns.

  After a few minutes, I finally pulled up on Truman Street and slowed my car, seeing number fourteen across the street. The house was dark with no lights illuminating the outside.

  I gazed around the neighborhood, picturing my son inside one of these trailers or dilapidated houses. There was no way in hell.

  “We could’ve been arrested!” I heard a woman shout.

  I followed the voice and saw a girl across from number fourteen, leaving a trailer and carrying a small child. She chased after a man walking away from her.

  It was them.

  She adjusted the child on her hip, holding the poor kid close, since he didn’t have a jacket. It looked as if they were picking him up at someone else’s house.

  “What would’ve happened to our kid?” she shouted after the guy, the father, I presumed.

  He crossed the street, heading to number fourteen, and she trailed behind, carrying the child. He opened the door and disappeared inside, leaving her out there alone.

  What a fucking prick. She was just a kid.

  And the kid had a kid. I couldn’t have her arrested.

  Taking out my cell phone, I dialed a number and held the phone to my ear, waiting for him to answer like he always did.

  “Hi. It’s Jase,” I informed him when he picked up. “I need all the information you can find on the residents of Fourteen Truman Street.”

  “Okay,” Brown answered, and I knew he was probably writing the address down. He was on the company payroll, and an investigator my father’s firm used often. “I’ll get back to you within forty-eight hours.”

  “Twelve.” And I hung up.

  • • •

  Dylan stops reading there, but I can see her eyes move across the page as she silently reads.

  “Hey,” I complain. I was listening to that.

  I walk over and throw myself onto the bed, landing on my stomach next to her. Dylan turns to me, cocking an eyebrow.

  “She tried to steal his car,” I explain, “and now he knows exactly where she lives. You can’t just stop there.”

  We hover close, both of us reading to ourselves.

  ***

  Jase . . .

  A week later, I walked into Denton Auto Repair, a piece-of-shit shack probably built in the thirties with chipped white paint and a dank cement floor in the “lobby.” The walls were stained yellow, probably from old cigarette smoke, the blue counter was cracked, and the two vinyl couches were ripped. I held back my sneer, trusting in the fact that the place had been in business a long time. It probably had a good reputation.

  But under normal circumstances I would neve
r step foot in such a grimy shithole whose mechanics would probably take my car out for a joyride after they talked me into leaving it overnight. I had other business here, though.

  I closed the door behind me, the sun setting outside and evening approaching, and pulled out my handkerchief, absently wiping off my hand before stuffing it back into my pocket.

  Two men loitered around the lobby, and when I looked to the front counter, I found it empty. This was where she was supposed to work. I’m not sure what she did, though. Clean, maybe?

  “Mr. Hutcherson,” a female voice called, and I jerked my head to the left.

  A young woman strolled behind the counter, coming in through the door leading in from the garage area, and heat immediately warmed my chest. I watched as she stapled paperwork and offered the man who’d stepped up to her counter a smile.

  Jesus.

  Her dark brown hair shone, tied up in a messy ponytail, and I caught hints of red in the strands around her oval-shaped face that I hadn’t noticed last week. Her chocolate eyes were deep and warm, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring at her full bottom lip.

  I clenched my fists at my sides, and tried to breathe normally, like I didn’t want to walk right over there and . . .

  She wore jean shorts that weren’t too tight but just short enough to see a good amount of thigh, with a white V-neck T-shirt tucked into them that kind of drowned her. Did it belong to her boyfriend?

  I walked slowly forward, as if on autopilot, and stepped into line behind the other man, Hutcherson, I would assume, to await my turn. She smiled at him and handed him his keys as he paid the bill. I noticed she had a grease stain on her neck as well as a few black smudges on her shirt and several on her hands. She must’ve worked on cars, too.

  It was dark that night, and I didn’t get a good look at her then, but seeing her again, I knew . . . it wasn’t the adrenaline that night or the cold weather or the frustrated state I’d been in after fighting with my father.

  I didn’t want to punish her. Or help her. I’d wanted to see her again, yet I shouldn’t have come. But my family was out of town, and I’d told myself it was just curiosity. That’s all it was.