Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  V,

  Sorry I had to leave like this. I know you’ll probably hate me, but one day you’ll understand. I can only pray you’ll forgive me once you do.

  Enjoy everything life has to offer (but be wary of dangerous situations with potentially dangerous men). Have as much fun and experience as many things as possible.

  In your jewelry box on the dresser, you’ll find something that wasn’t there before. It was my mother’s; it reminded her of the night sky and she believed it brought her luck and safety. Please wear it and know I’m always looking out for you, even when I’m out of sight.

  ALWAYS yours,

  G

  p.s. Please, tell no one that you saw me.

  I don’t get it, and I’m more confused than ever…that sounded more like he was trying to say “goodbye V, time to move on and have a nice life,” but in a much kinder way. And in ordering me not to alert anyone that I'd seen him, he could only have meant my mom. But what does it even matter if she knows? Not that I’d tell her, she’d be packing us up again, and I’m just not in the mood for that right now.

  My legs quake as I come to a standing position that feels like it takes minutes to achieve. I reach out and open the jewelry box, my eyes easily landing on the new addition. Sitting smack-dab amongst all my rings sits an old-fashioned cluster of tiny diamonds with a delicate array of white-gold webbing spread between each one that connects them.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a piece of jewelry more beautifully unique, and it’s immediately evident what he meant about the ring and the night sky. I can easily envision the multitude of tiny diamonds as being stars spread across the heavens. Reflexively, I slide the ring down my finger, admiring the way it makes my hand appear more elegant.

  Those notions last all of about thirty seconds when I see the piece of jewelry for what it really is…

  A parting gift.

  A consolation prize.

  While it may be a beautiful consolation prize, that doesn’t change its definitive purpose. I apparently can’t have Gray, so I get this instead.

  What the fuck?

  My blood boils as my confusion expands. I can’t make sense of the past twenty-four hours, not with the way he acted; the way he treated me; the way he made love to my body like he was starving, and I was exactly the nourishment he sought.

  He comes out of nowhere—embodying the whole alpha-male concept to the extreme and appearing nothing at all like the Gray I left behind—stopping me from going home with someone else despite the time that’s passed since we last saw each other. Then he drags me back to his car, lecturing me about my carelessness. All that, only to bring me home and make love to me—multiple times—then tucks me into bed. He comforted me, rubbing my back until I fell asleep. Has anyone ever felt as cherished as I did last night? All for him to just to leave without a word. He left a note—the coward’s way out.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  Wrenching the trinket from my finger, I rear my arm back, ready to sling it against the wall across the room.

  I start to follow through and stop.

  Then, I rear back again. Same outcome.

  I drop my arm in defeat, my conscience guiltily reminding me this was the late Estelle Knightley’s and it meant something to her. It would be akin to spitting on her grave if I treated her ring in such an insolent manner. At the very least, I should hold onto it and give it back to Lyra one day.

  And why would he give a family heirloom to someone he's leaving behind? It makes no sense.

  My head is spinning with all the thoughts, all the incomprehensible facts that don’t add up. And the way my chest is aching makes not having to go into work today seem like a gift.

  Which reminds me…Gray took it upon himself to call in for me. That alone tells me he knows something of my schedule.

  Did he go through my phone after I fell asleep?

  He had to have. There’s no other explanation. He said he saw me leaving the library earlier in the day yesterday, but I could have just been there perusing for a new read. There’s no way he could have known I was there volunteering. Did he call out of work for me because he was being thoughtful, knowing I would be spent from last night’s late activities? Or was it because he knew he would tear me apart once I woke up and read his note?

  Asshole, being thoughtful and trying to soften the blow while breaking my heart at the same time.

  I slide the ring back onto my finger…should something crazy happen and I be forced to run and leave all my belongings behind, I’d feel guilty if this was lost in the chaos. As much as it pisses me off to see it there, my finger really is the safest place for it.

  My phone pings with another message, and I eagerly pick it up, swiping the surface to rid it of the lock screen.

  Mom: Lunch today at The Amber Grill? @1pm?

  Me: See you then.

  Chapter Seven

  I WALK INSIDE the crowded little restaurant, eyes scanning the tables until they land on a petite blonde, hair in her favorite style: a French twist. Her posture is straight and poised as she studies the menu with the utmost care, as if she’s the editor of some high-scale magazine and is double-checking an article before publication. Quickly making my way over to the little two-top table, I take the seat across from her where a lemon water is already waiting for me.

  She throws me a cursory glance, eyes lingering on my still-damp messy bun for an extra beat before focusing back on the menu. “You’re late,” she clips.

  “Yep,” I concur. She should have expected it. I’m always a few minutes late. “Better to be fashionably late, then not show up at all, or even worse, show up looking homeless,” I repeat a similar saying to what she often says.

  She actually rolls her eyes at this, allowing a noise of irritation to escape.

  “You can only use that excuse when you show up fashionably late. Wet hair is never in fashion. And I know this isn’t an upscale restaurant, Kate, but it certainly isn’t the food court either,” she argues, emphasizing my alias name before throwing me a pointed look.

  When she lifts the corner of her cheek ever so slightly, I know she’s just kidding. But with my mom, it’s often difficult to tell her true feelings. I may have once deemed myself the Queen of the poker-face, but she was its inventor. We’ll just call her its Goddess.

  “So, what are you having?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “I believe I’m having the salmon salad.”

  I scrunch up my nose at her choice. I love salmon, and I love salad, but have never thought they paired well together.

  “I’ll just have whatever the soup of the day is, a side salad, and can we share some calamari? Please? I’ve not had it in forever.”

  The waiter walks up just as I’m saying this, and Mom gives him our full order including the appetizer I requested. He retrieves the menus from us after taking everything down.

  “Excellent choice, Madam,” he states, smiling appraisingly at my mother with a false air of splendor in his tone. He’s attempting to flatter her, I’m sure. She blooms under his attention and blushes. Men are drawn to the regal Althia Malone—or whoever she is at the time—everywhere she goes. Even ones that are closer to my age than hers, like in this case.

  He shuffles away, but not before having the audacity to toss her a wink as he goes.

  “Mother,” I teasingly chastise, “you’ve missed your calling in life. You should have been one of those secret agents, like that movie we just watched with Jennifer Lawrence. What was it called again?” I ask.

  “Red Sparrow,” she answers automatically.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” I nod. “Men are obsessed with you. I bet you could extract information from them in record time.”

  She scoffs, ignoring my playful comment and picking up her phone just as a message comes in. I watch as her face warms slightly, melting away her neutral demeanor, and I wonder who exactly she’s corresponding with that would elicit even a sliver of a reaction from her. For some rea
son, she’s not been herself lately. It’s hard to crack a genuine smile from her, like she’s on edge or something.

  “Did you finally find you a man for a one night stand? You look like you have that post-coital glow thing going on.” Yeah, I just went for the shock factor. She’s not at all the kind for a one-night stand. It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t been laid at all in the past fourteen years since we’ve been skipping from place to place. I’m also theorizing that getting her all flustered will draw away from the fact that I’m feeling so down-in-the-dumps. That she won't notice and start hounding me with questions I don’t have answers to.

  Down-in-the-dumps. Wow. That term feels far too mild since I’m feeling like my heart has been ripped from my chest and bashed with a sledgehammer repeatedly, or my soul has been crumpled like a piece of paper then set on fire. Those descriptions are much more appropriate for what I'm feeling today.

  My mother narrows her eyes at me, but surprisingly, offers an answer straight to the point. “I met up with Jameson yesterday,” she says in a lowered voice, and her eyes widen like she’s admitted something she didn’t mean to.

  I shift unconsciously to the edge of my seat. Now she has my attention. I’ve never known Uncle Jameson to come to my mother, so near where we’re settled at the time. He typically meets her about an hour or two away, just in case anyone ever gets suspicious and tails him.

  “Any bad news?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, taking a sip of her water.

  “Any good news?” I attempt to pry.

  Something crosses her mind at this, I can tell from the way she pauses, hesitating before she once again shakes her head in response. I roll my wrist over, palm face up as I look at her expectantly. She needs to tell me something.

  “Everything is pretty much the same. They lost our trail in Tennessee when we stopped and had our car repainted. Still don’t have anything to go on. Your uncle and an associate of his had to travel to a nearby city on business. They separated for a while between meetings and did their own thing. Jameson snuck in a visit to reassure me of things in person. You know how risky it is for us to be in contact electronically, but he just recently got a new burner phone, so we might be able to use it as an open line of communication for a while at least.”

  She goes back to hastily typing out a response.

  “But wasn’t that risky of him, coming here when he had ‘an associate’ so close by? What if this was all a set up to catch him slipping and follow him? This ‘associate’ no doubt is also an associate of Dom’s.”

  I began using my biological father’s given name once I finally grasped that he was never a true ‘father’ in any sense of the word. I’d rather give the impression of being born unaware of who fathered me than allude to him having any other role in my life than the villain he is.

  “Don’t worry about that. He wouldn’t come if he wasn’t completely certain it was safe to do so,” she states without looking at me.

  For some reason, I feel like there’s something she isn’t telling me.

  The waiter takes this moment to zip in with our appetizer, placing it between us in the center of the tiny table.

  “Thank you.” My mother smiles kindly at him.

  He nods at her, stepping away from the table to return to the kitchen, but I don’t miss the way his eyes land at her cleavage just at the last second before he turns. Pig.

  “But everything seems okay then? From Uncle J’s end?”

  “YES,” my mother enunciates irritably, “I already said that.”

  She places her phone back on the table, screen side down, before taking a spoon and placing some of the calamari on her plate. Once she’s finished plating it, I do the same.

  “Well, aren’t you snappy today? I recant that theory about you getting laid. Unless it was a crappy lay?”

  Finally, the clouds part and a winning smile comes out. “Va—,” she huffs. “Kate,” she corrects herself, still fighting back a smile. “Ladies don’t talk about such things. But for your information, no. There were no crappy lays. I’m just stressed lately.” Giving me an apologetic look, she amends, “I’m sorry for taking it out on you.”

  “Hmm…All I heard was you saying ‘there were no crappy lays.’ But not that you didn’t get laid at all. Good for you, Mother,” I remark in a congratulatory tone. I’m having far too much fun saying things I know will embarrass her should someone else overhear. As they say, the people who elicit the most response, are the most fun to tease.

  She purses her lips, shooting me “The Look” all kids are terrified of seeing on their mothers' faces.

  “I met with Jameson and it was the same as always. He gave me plenty of money to float us for a while. We talked about how things were going for me and you here in Baltimore. Since things seem to be going okay, and he knows for sure Dominic has no idea we're so close by, he thinks it might be okay to prolong our stay. Especially knowing you’re settled and have your gig with volunteering. That was pretty much the gist of it all.”

  I nod, following along with what she’s saying, but continue to stuff my face with Calamari and marinara dip.

  “Are you still enjoying your time volunteering with the library?”

  “Of course. I get to work among books all day and hardly interact with other humans unless I feel like it. What’s not to love?”

  She huffs at this.

  “You don’t need to volunteer, and that suggestion the other day that you get a job?” She dabs at her mouth with the linen napkin. “Pish-posh. The money Jameson sends is more than enough to support us both.”

  “But it’s boring,” I argue. “I didn’t mention it so that I could make money. I need some type of purpose in life besides being your daughter.”

  She shrinks back slightly, her lips snapping shut as if my words have somehow hurt her. Maybe they have, but this is reality. The truth of the matter is, Mom clings to me more than she needs to. It isn’t healthy—for either of us. Even if we miraculously got the call that Dom was out of the picture, was no longer pursuing us, and we were now safe…Mom would still be overprotective. I’m sure she’d continue meddling in my life, and any potential relationships, on a nearly obsessive level.

  I get it. I’m her baby. Without having me to think about, she’d probably still be stuck in a messed up marriage. I don’t think she’d have chosen to walk away if she weren’t concerned with my safety. Although she lived with Satan himself, I sometimes wonder if receiving the cold-shoulder in a loveless relationship and being smacked around every now and then might have been a better situation than being chased relentlessly by someone who wants to kill you just because you’ve left him.

  She recovers from the harshness of my words clears her throat before responding again. "I see." It’s the only time she speaks for a while, suddenly more deep in thought than ever. Though I don’t feel bad about speaking my mind, I do feel horrible about the way it’s made her feel. I apologize accordingly, because that’s just what you do when you love someone.

  Mom continues to remain tight-lipped and I, consequently, do all the talking. It might be the most I’ve talked to her in the past year, but she nods her head to show she’s listening at all the right times, and offers a polite smile when it’s required of her. She’s making an effort to appear genteel, I’m guessing because of the other diners around us, but it’s obvious something is gnawing at her conscience.

  I know all her tells, but none give her away like her foot softly tapping against the base of the table. Mom is the type of person who can’t hold something in for too long, so I perceive each tap as the tick of an old-fashioned oven timer slowly winding down to go off, so I don’t push. I wait.

  It isn’t until we’ve been served our entrees and are halfway done, that she is able to voice her thoughts. “Do you resent me for the life we live? Will you leave me the day Dom is finally gone, travel the world and never look back?” Her words are melancholic and her brows are pressed together.

  �
��What?! No, Mom. Never. Even if we were finally free, and I lived somewhere different from you, I’d visit all the time. We would still talk every day—probably more.” I scoot my chair back and make my way to her side of the table, wrapping my arms around her slender shoulder and leaning our heads to whisper quietly, “We’re best friends, remember? That’s what you always said, even before we left New Jersey.”

  She gives me a wistful smile, shaking her head slightly as if not convinced. “When you were born, this isn’t the life I imagined for you. I dreamed I would spoil you, that you would be afforded all the things you wanted, and then a thousand more things you didn’t even realize you wanted until I gave them to you. Pets and treehouses and siblings and friends that were yours from the first day of Kindergarten on. I never realized this is the muddy mess you’d be dragged through,” she admits softly.

  I pound my fist against the table, just enough to get her attention but not the entire restaurant’s, hoping it will break Mom out of her lackluster state. “Mom, I’ll admit, sometimes I feel like I can’t take a shit without getting your permission first.” I pause, glancing at her to see how she’ll respond. She sighs, eyes brightening a bit and lips twitching ever so slightly. I continue, “But my life hasn’t been as bad as you’re making it sound. And I don’t blame you. You were younger than I am when you got married! You pretty much didn’t have much choice in the matter. And if you hadn’t gotten married, I wouldn’t be here at all, right? So, stop blaming yourself for our situation and realize some things are just the way they're meant to be. Good or bad, you can’t deviate from the path set for us until it’s time. I love you. Let's brush off the heavy and enjoy this meal, okay?”