by Emma Renshaw
Once we’ve sat down, my dad waits at the head of the table with a smile on his face for all of us to take a bite. As a partner of the firm, he was always busy as we were growing up, but he made sure that when he could make it home, he’d cook dinner. This was partially due to the fact that my mom can’t cook. At all. It’s best to keep her out of the kitchen entirely. My dad takes pride in his cooking and feeding his family, never touching his plate until everyone at the table is happy and has taken their first bite. He always takes his first bite with a smile on his face.
"How was Isabella's engagement party?" my mom asks after we've sat down to eat.
My body tenses, remembering every word Patrick said to me. Slowly chewing my food, I give myself time to compose my thoughts before I answer. "It was great." I muster all the cheer I can.
"Was Patrick there?" my dad asks softly and kindly as he pats the top of my hand with his, giving it a tiny squeeze. Dad sees Patrick every day at work which is another reason I’ve kept my mouth shut about the changes I’ve seen in Patrick. I don’t want there to be any tension in their law firm.
"That boy is a schmuck," Pop Pop states, shaking his head and shoveling another bite of food into his mouth.
Hammond snorts, smiling at me before wiping his hand over his mouth to erase the smile–his way of telling me to ignore it. I grin back before answering my dad. "Yeah, he was there."
I don't mention his date; it'd shock everyone at this table, and they would ask questions I couldn't answer. Questions I'm still asking myself. Since our very first date and probably even before that, our families have been planning our wedding. How perfect would it be if two kids of one of the most successful law firms in Austin ended together?
Again, another reason why I’ve kept so quiet about our break up and Patrick turning into someone unrecognizable. I keep my eyes glued to my plate and focus on my shoulders staying in a relaxed position. I can feel my mom’s questioning gaze burning into me.
"How's work, Hammond?" I ask, changing the subject.
A tiny smirk crosses his face— he knows exactly what I'm doing. He answers anyway, telling us about his current caseload and work hours as I release a relieved sigh.
My mom frowns, staring at him. "You're so busy. You need time to be young and have fun."
"If I work hard now, I can play hard later," Hammond states. This has always been his way.
"You hardly have time to go out. How will you meet a girl?" my mom asks, on the same mission as many mothers across the world—Mission Grandbaby.
"I do just fine," Hammond says with a cocky smile.
"Ew," I whisper, curling my lip and pushing my plate away from me. Hammond chuckles taking another croissant from the basket in front of him.
"You'll need to make time for the charity gala in a couple of months. I expect you both to be there with a date. I've already RSVP'd for you both." My mom’s plate is forgotten in front of her as she stares at Hammond with her hands steepled under her chin.
Hammond drops his fork, looking slightly queasy. "Mom—"
I roll my lips between my teeth to keep from laughing, completely delighted the attention has been turned away from me. I pull my plate back in front of me, scooping up a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs.
"Nope," she says firmly. "It's important. You'll be there with a date. End of story."
Pop Pop laughs, smiling as he shovels more food in his mouth and nudging my side with his elbow, enjoying the show just as much as I am.
My mom twists her authoritative gaze toward him. "That goes for you, too, Walter."
His laughter dies as his head comes up slowly, staring at my mom. "Come again?"
"You will be there with a date," my mom says, her eyes daring him to argue with her. My dad has stayed silent through this entire conversation, smiling and enjoying the meal he made for his family. He’s a shark in the courtroom, but home is my mom’s domain. She’s judge, jury, and executioner. My dad has always let her take this role and usually just sits back to enjoy the show. It’s only when Hammond, Pop Pop, or I got too angry and started to yell at her that my dad would step in to cut off any disrespect toward her.
Hammond cracks up as Pop Pop mutters, "For fuck's sake."
"I'll find a date for you and Hammond myself if I have to."
Hammond stops laughing again, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath. When he looks back up, he has on his most charming smile. "Mom, believe me, I got girls I can call," he says.
My mom raises her brows and purses her lips before turning to face me. I brace for what she's about to say as I wipe my mouth with the napkin.
"You can ask Patrick, honey," my mom says. "I imagine he’ll be there, anyway, but he can count as your date."
I crush the napkin into a ball in my fist. "We'll see," I say quietly before biting the inside of my cheek.
"Or I can find you a date. My friends are always begging me to set you up with their sons." She takes a sip of her mimosa watching my reaction to her bringing up other men. This is the first time she’s brought up setting me up with someone that isn’t Patrick. Panic clogs my throat. She’s figuring it out. That this break up just may be permanent, that he’s probably not coming back to me.
I clear my throat and rub my hand over my heart. "No thanks, Mom. If I need a date, I can do that on my own."
"Just let me know. Some of these boys are cute.” She winks as she picks up her mimosa to take a hearty sip.
I hold back my groan, wondering if I should take the plunge and ask Patrick. I could suggest going as friends, a night of fun. He's the one who brought up marriage last weekend at Isabella's party.
I'm debating the pros and cons of asking him, but at the same time, I'm picturing myself in a sexy dress I know he couldn't refuse. I sigh wistfully when the thought of reuniting just before the holidays crosses my mind. I shouldn't get my hopes up, but maybe it's time. If we’re back together, this new asshole side of him will have to take a hike.
Chapter 7
James
When Hudson walked into the gym for the first time, this cavernous space looked completely different. I bought the building from an old man in a private sale in cash, opening my gym with as little of a paper trail as I could manage. Hudson was my first customer.
I'd been in Texas a few years at this point, laying as low as a person could and still function in a normal society. Finding jobs that paid cash was essential. There are a lot of people out there willing to pay under the table, but most of the time it’s for a pittance. I needed more than that. I needed to make more of myself and stop using the money I had; I wanted to use money I earned, money that no one but Uncle Sam could take from me. My entire life, I didn't own shit. Nothing to my name, ever. Not even to any of my names.
Derek. Preston. Michael. Connor. By the time I reached kindergarten, I could read small chapter books, but I didn't know my name. I didn't respond to any name. Four foster homes in my first five years, all of them calling me whatever the hell they wanted to call me, whatever name they could remember between their benders.
Preston was the worst. The parents lost their son in an accident. I was the only kid in that foster house and they tried to make me into their dead son Preston. At the age of five, if I couldn’t anticipate the way they wanted me to act, they’d lock me in a closet. Eventually I learned silence was easier. The punishments fewer and farther between when I was silent.
James. My name, chosen for myself by myself, is the first true thing that belonged to me. My land is second. The house I built with my own two hands is the third. This gym is the fourth. The big SUV parked out front with every modification I could make to ensure my safety is the fifth. Every possession important that is mine can be counted on one hand. When I make something mine, I make damn sure it stays that way.
I had cash when I settled in Texas—cash I didn't want to spend, cash I had to use to survive, but never using more than necessary. There’s one thing in this world I’m afraid of—the d
ay the owners of that money come after me.
After bouncing from motel to motel, deciding if I wanted to stay in Austin, I found a gym similar to this one, bought a guest pass for the day, and worked out for the first time using real equipment. I was in shape, even back then, but I'd never been in a gym or used real, solid equipment. The closest I came was my high school gym, but all that metal was covered in rust or mostly broken machines.
That gym started an obsession for me. I floated from gym to gym, only getting guest passes until I found a place that I could pay for my membership in cash. As my muscles and bulk grew, so did my dreams. I'd never had dreams—kids like me weren’t allowed to dream. Without the owner knowing, I listened to him and gained knowledge and motivation, then made my move to the other side of Austin so my gym wouldn't be close to his.
When I opened the gym doors, Hudson came in on the second day, looked around the huge space that had me at a folding table with a clunky laptop and one treadmill, one punching bag, a bench press, and a set of weights. Most people who walked in those first few months while I filled the space turned on their heel and walked right back out.
Of course, Hudson was a different story. He walked in, looked around, and burst out laughing, which only served to piss me off. He laughed so hard he doubled over, slapping his knee. I’d launched myself from the folding chair, set on kicking his ass. Walking in and deciding it's not for you, fine. Laughing at one of the only things I've ever owned, fuck no. His eyes settled on me as I stomped toward him with my hands balled in fists and my jaw clenched. And then his words stopped me in my tracks.
"This is kind of like heaven," Hudson said, looking between me and the space with his shit-eating grin. "I've been looking for a place to work out without having to wait in a long line to use a damn machine or listen to men grunt while they stare at themselves. Don't think I'd have to wait around in here. It's like you set it up just for me."
My lip curled as I continued to watch him.
"Not much for chitchat?"
I shook my head.
"That's perfect, too." Hudson grinned. "How much?"
When I responded with the price, those were the only words I spoke to him for a week. He came in and worked out, always stopping by my little folding table to talk, even though I didn't answer. I don't think he cared. He can talk without an audience and not get bored.
The second week, I added a brand new leg press. Hudson stopped when he walked in, staring at me. "You didn't have to get me a gift," he said jokingly.
"Your legs look like chicken legs," I responded, holding back a smirk.
Hudson laughed with a hand resting on his shaking chest. "I'll get you to crack, just wait."
I shook my head, going back to the catalog in front of me, deciding what would be best to order for the gym. He never stopped, and somehow, he conned me into becoming his friend. Hudson, Savannah, and the rest of the group is the sixth thing I owned. I didn’t buy them or pick them out or even go searching for them, but they're mine all the same. They’re one of the few things that would gut me to leave behind.
I’ve left a friend in the past. A friend I never should’ve left. The guilt has eaten alive since I did. I’m not sure I could leave people I care about behind for the second time in my life.
The sounds of clinking metal and gloves hitting the bag fill my ears as I sit at the front desk watching everything in my gym. It's a slow form of torture not being able to participate in anything more than admin work. Every time I lift weights, hit the bag, or use the cardio machines, a sense of pride fills me. I did this. I accomplished this. I own this.
Hudson comes strolling through the door with his gym bag slung over his shoulder, smiling at each person he passes. He removes his sunglasses the farther into the gym he walks, looking around. When his eyes land on me at the reception desk in the center of the gym, he changes direction, heading toward me.
Most places keep the reception desk at the front of the house, but I prefer the middle; it provides a better 360 of everything. It allows me to face one way and be able to see what's going on behind me with the help of the large mirrors framing the walls.
Hudson walks behind the desk, taking a seat in the rolling chair in front of the computer, leaning back before he props his feet on the counter and brings his hands behind his head. My hand reaches out, swiping his feet off the counter, which makes him laugh before he props them back up in the same spot.
I heave a sigh and I leave him be. For now. "Didn't you come here to work out?" I ask dryly.
"I did." Hudson grins. "Thought I'd hang out with you first. Wouldn't want to miss out on any James time or your bright, sunny disposition."
I stare at him blankly.
Hudson has been talking this entire time I've been lost in thought, but I don’t know what he’s saying. Still, years later, he doesn't need an audience.
"Is that how it is now? If I eat the girl's pancakes the next morning, it means I want more? I told her before we left the grocery store that it would be a one-time thing. She said she was down."
This isn't the conversation I wanted to tune back into, but I find myself rolling my eyes and responding. "Told you, it's easier if you don't stay."
Hudson frowns. "I can't do that. I like cuddling."
"Christ," I mutter.
"Cuddling leads to more sex; plus, it's just…nice."
I shake my head, trying to go back to ignoring him, even as he continues.
"Is it my fault I thought the pancakes were a thank you for the several orgasms I gave her and not a commitment to see each other again?"
"Yes," I respond, once again tuning out as I survey all the patrons, hoping someone needs my help. I may not be able to lift like I normally do, but I can still help people with their form and get the fuck out of the conversation with Hudson. I'm about to resign myself to the fate of listening to Hudson when I spot a kid in the corner of the gym lifting dumbbells. Lifting them incorrectly. Lifting a weight that looks like it could snap his twiggy arms as they bend at an uncomfortable angle.
I leave Hudson behind, not bothering with his outrage that I walked away while he was lamenting about sex and pancakes. The kid doesn't clock me as I approach him. He's tall and just on the side of thin. His form is solid, and with the right diet to fuel his growing body, he could be lean and athletic. I look around the area, seeing if there's a parent watching him. Underage kids aren't supposed to be in here unmonitored. It’s not a family gym with a daycare, but if parents want to bring their teenager who will behave and use equipment properly, then I don't care. I offer day passes for situations like that, if they don't want to buy another membership. This kid didn't come to the desk and snuck in without getting a pass.
"Hey, kid," I call.
He jerks up, looking at me in fear before dropping the weight and taking off. Luckily, I'm faster. I catch him in a couple strides, grabbing the back of his T-shirt.
"I wasn't takin' anything," he spits out as the fear turns to white-hot anger flaring in his eyes.
"Slow down," I say, releasing his shirt but keeping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You aren't in trouble."
His chin lifts defiantly. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at him, I go for honesty. "Your form is slightly off when you're lifting the weight."
"You don't know shit," he responds, trying to jerk my hand off his shoulder.
"I do know my shit, and you have two options. You can either let me correct your form and give you the right weight to use, or you can leave. Won't allow you to work out here if you're intent on hurting yourself."
"I ain't gonna hurt myself." He tries to shake off my hand again. I don't let it move, knowing he'll take off if he's not under my grip.
"You will," I insist, looking at him again. His clothes are ratty, and his jeans are slightly too small. He's probably growing too fast to stay in anything long. Judging by his clothes and the backpack he was about to abandon, his family doesn't have a lot of money. I hide my cringe wh
en I look at his shoes, shoes that shouldn’t have been anywhere near a gym. His threadbare shirt has the local high school football logo across the front. I point at his chest. "You play?"
"What's it to you?"
"You keep lifting the way you're lifting, it's only a matter of time before you cause too much damage to your shoulder, and the closest you'd ever get to a field is being the water boy."
"Fuck you," he grunts, not losing an ounce of the fire burning inside of him.
"What's it going to be? I teach you, help that strength that helps you on the field, or you're out of here. It's one or the other." I've kept our conversation as quiet as possible so no one hears us.
The kid stays silent, looking around the gym, keeping his focus on anything that isn't me. His eyes swing back to me. There's so much anger and pain swirling around him, my chest catches. His clothes, attitude, and pain remind me of myself when I was a kid. If he stays, which I hope he does, I will work my ass off not to let him down like I'm sure he's used to.
"Fine," he mutters, looking down at his shoes. "I'll stay."
"Good man."
His eyes pop back to mine, showing the barest hint of pride at the praise.
"I'm assuming your parents aren't here?"
He stiffens, the shields slamming back down. I hold up my hand before he can get snarky and take off. "Don't care, either way. Don't allow kids in the gym without supervision. You aren't here working out unless I'm here, yeah? Lucky for you, I'm always here. Got me?"
"Yeah," he mutters, his shoulders falling a bit as his gaze moves to his ratty shoes. "I ain't got parents. I can't pay. My fosters won't pay for this."
Yeah, this kid is just like me. "Don't need your money, kid. As long as you let me help with your form, listen to me when I tell you about workouts, and don't show up unless I'm here, then you're good."
The kid nods, looking at me with renewed hope. "My coach told me I could go places if I put in the effort."