When my mom was arrested, social services sent my brothers and me to live with our paternal grandparents. They did their best to finish the job their son had started, seeing the four of us through the end of our high school years after our mother went to prison for conspiracy to commit murder, sentenced in a swift and speedy trial mere months after her arrest.
My stomach clenched, as it often did, just thinking about the last moments of my father’s life. Thomas Paige was shot four times in the driveway of our own home, a run-down, ramshackle house in the worst section of the city, which was riddled with crime. He’d been found with fatal gunshot wounds and an emptied wallet, as if a robbery had simply gone wrong. A robbery was plausible enough in that neighborhood.
We didn’t come from means. We came from desperation. We were bred from broken dreams, from a mother who’d wanted to be a Vegas star but never had the talent, so instead eked out a meager living as a seamstress, and from a father stuck driving cabs on the night shift. But his situation had started to change, and he’d thought he’d finally caught his lucky break when he began driving limos. He started making more money, and after a couple of years at his new gig, the future looked bright.
But there was no lucky break that June night he was shot after eight hours of chauffeuring rich kids from the swank suburbs to their after-prom parties.
He was my hero, and losing him tore my world apart, ripping the fabric of my life to tatters.
It tore my grandma to shreds too, but the woman had to buckle in and become a parent again to four broken kids.
At the time I’d never fully comprehended how horrible my grandparents must have felt. Their son was dead, his life taken at the hands of his wife—the very same woman who’d carried these four messed-up, troubled kids who had been dropped on their doorstep as teens.
As I grew older, I came to understand the terrible balancing act that my father’s parents had had to pull off to raise us with love and kindness during those last few critical years. My brothers and I were grafted by murder, united by death and prison, into their home.
Some days, I still missed my father fiercely, in the same raw way I’d missed him in high school.
Today, I felt that empty longing envelop me for a split second as I stepped out of the final pose, finishing our yoga session, and looked at a sun-faded photo of my father in his early twenties that hung above the end table on the porch. Sepia now in tone, the image showed his hands wrapped around Michael’s waist as he hoisted the toddler onto a slide.
My heart squeezed at the sight of it, but I felt love too— love for him, and love for my grandparents. They were the heartbeat of our fractured family. A few years ago, my brothers and I had bought them this new house in a safe and affluent section of Vegas. I was so damn glad we could do that. We’d made a pact as teens to live differently than our parents, to pull ourselves out of the terrible circumstances we’d grown up in.
“We’ll become Sloans,” Michael had said, the night he’d suggested we change our name, taking on Victoria’s mother’s maiden name – our connection to her and to him. Turned out the name meant more. “The name itself means ‘warrior.’ That’s who he was for us,” Michael had said. “That’s who we will be for him.”
Our way of honoring him.
Our lives honored him too. We’d made a vow to give back as much as we could, to support charities, and help others improve their lives.
Remembering my daddy, I pressed my fingers to my lips, then touched my dad’s photo in the frame.
Victoria did the same.
“I love that picture,” she whispered. “That’s how he always was with all you kids. Spending time with you. Loving you.”
My throat hitched. Even now, eighteen years later, I still felt so much emotion welling up inside me. “I know, Nana. I remember that about him. That’s what I remember most.”
When she squeezed my arm, her eyes were veiled with a sheen of tears. But her voice was strong as she shifted the topic of conversation. “I hear from Colin that you’re doing business with your old flame,” she said.
Grateful to focus on the present again, I answered her, “You hear correctly. He hired my company to arrange for some dancers and choreography at his nightclubs.”
We walked across the cool tiled floor to the kitchen. She turned on the tap and poured some water, handing a glass to me, and I downed half of it quickly. She glanced left and right, as if checking to see if my brothers were in earshot. “He’s a sweet boy.”
“Boy,” I said with a laugh. Brent was hardly a boy. He was all man, and the memory of how he’d touched me in his friend’s bar the other night crashed back into me like a comet of lust.
“He came back to bring me my ring, you know,” she added, leaning her hip against the counter as she pushed a hand through her silvery hair.
“He did?” I asked, flashing back on how I’d given him the ring when he saw me in London. It had needed resizing and he said he’d take care of it, so it was with him when we broke up. “You never told me that before. I thought he’d mailed it here.”
“I did try to tell you at the time, sweetheart. But you didn’t want to hear a word of it. You weren’t interested in any news about Brent, so I let it go. The ring doesn’t fit me anymore, but he came by and dropped it off himself several months after you split. You were still in London.”
A strange sense of shock raced through my system. I’d always figured the ring had arrived by mail, never by personal courier in the form of Brent Nichols.
“He called me in advance. Made sure I was here. Said he wanted to return it to its rightful owner,” she continued, as she poured herself a glass of water.
“He came to see you at your house?” I asked, processing this news for the first time.
“He did. Pulled up on his bike and came inside. I offered him some tea and sat with him for a few minutes. Russ was at work, so it was just your boy and me. He said he didn’t want to risk putting the ring in the mail, or FedEx, or any of those services,” she said, and that little detail somehow worked its way into my heart, chipping away at the tiniest piece of ice still coating that organ to protect me from Brent.
“That’s actually really thoughtful,” I said softly.
“He asked about you. He wanted to know how you were doing.”
My heart beat faster. I wanted to grab it and tell it to settle down. “He did?”
“I think he just wanted to make sure you were okay,” my grandmother said, stopping to take a drink of water.
That lump in my throat resurfaced, and tears threatened my eyes. I blinked, holding them in. What was wrong with me today? I needed to get a grip. That was ten years past, and this was now.
“I’m seeing Brent tonight,” I blurted out, desperate to tell someone I could trust.
“You are? About the business deal? Or maybe about more?” my grandma asked in a sly tone.
I went with it, turning the moment playful. “Maybe more. We’ll see.”
“For what it’s worth, I always liked him.”
“Liked who, Nana?” Michael’s voice carried across the room. I straightened my spine as he sauntered into the house with the toolbox, heading to the garage.
“Liked you, my love,” she said, patting her eldest grandson on the cheek as he passed by. “I’ve always liked you.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. Doubtful,” he said skeptically, but continued into the garage.
Once he was out of sight, my grandma hugged me. “Some secrets are just between us girls.”
“Girl power,” I whispered, and she winked in response, then headed to her room to change out of her yoga clothes. I turned the other direction to go hang out with my brothers in the backyard, passing Colin and my grandfather on their way into the house.
“Just going to make some more marinade,” Colin said, with culinary bravado. “My marinade rocks.”
“No way is it better than mine. And to prove it, we’re going to have a taste test contest,” my g
randfather chimed in, and I smiled at their competitive ways then joined Ryan by the grill. He pressed a spatula on top of a burger.
I bumped my shoulder to his. “Hey you. Are you going to take one of those home to Johnny Cash?”
“Of course. Nothing but the best for man’s best friend,” he said with a grin.
Like all my brothers, Ryan towered over me, but I was used to being surrounded by these sturdy men. Ryan’s brown hair looked lighter in the noonday sun, as if several strands were streaked with gold.
He flipped a burger, then glanced carefully at the house. “Hey,” he said in a low voice. “Did you hear from Mom?”
I nodded heavily, thinking of her letter. “The other day. It’s the same old, same old.”
“But is it?” Ryan asked, holding up the barbecue tongs as if punctuating a point. “What if she’s right?”
I sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ry, we can’t do this every single time she writes to us.”
He narrowed his gaze. “But what if she’s right that there were others involved?”
I shot him a stern look. “Well, there were others involved. The other guy is also in prison because his fingerprints were all over the gun.” The details had been splashed across papers and the news at the time, and the specifics of how the local detectives had followed the trail of evidence to our mother was in black and white for anyone to find. Ryan and I had hashed this out a million times, and probably would a million more. It was an endless cycle with no answer, but the facts were these: Twenty-two-year-old Jerry Stefano, card-carrying member of the local gang the Royal Sinners, had pulled the trigger. Jerry Stefano had been in touch with Dora Prince many times, and was instructed to make the crime look like a robbery gone too far.
But the murder was never about the money in our father’s wallet. Our father had a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy. Dora Prince was the beneficiary. And Jerry Stefano had been promised ten percent if he could get away with it.
Murder for hire, plain and simple.
Our mom had wanted the money.
It was murder in cold blood.
Ryan shook his head. “I know, but what if, Shan?” He dropped his voice to the barest whisper. “Listen, a buddy of mine in the DA’s office said one of their attorneys visited Jerry in prison recently. They haven’t been there in years, but the attorney went to ask him some questions. See if he knew about some other crimes. Doesn’t that say something?”
I groaned, frustration coursing through me. Ryan had a hard time letting go. He was obsessed with possibilities. “Jerry Stefano was a Royal Sinners gunman. Of course he knows about other crimes. He was probably involved in them. I’m sure that’s what the attorney wanted from him—information.”
Ryan was undeterred, smacking the spatula against the burger for emphasis. “We should at least visit her again.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. “She’ll do her usual routine. Tell us there were others. Tell us they’re still around. Like she did at Christmas. She’ll try to manipulate us.”
I didn’t share Ryan’s sympathies, but I harbored guilt. Too much guilt over my mother and all those years when we were as close as a mom and daughter could be. Like my dad, my mom had been there for me, for every dance, every recital, every performance, every moment. Maybe that was why I’d had such a hard time severing ties with the woman now in orange. Or maybe it was because I believed that my mother, in some bizarre way, loved me and my brothers.
Deeply.
Ryan seemed to sense an opening because he pushed on. “Look, if you don’t want to see her, why’d you give her your new address when you moved back to town a few years ago? So she could write to you. Michael and Colin never did. They cut her out completely. They never see her,” he said, then leaned in closer and clasped my shoulder. “I’m not saying she’s innocent, Shan. I just think she’s our goddamn mother. The least we can do is go see her again in jail.”
I gritted my teeth. Visits with my mother were exhausting. They wore me out. But as that kernel of guilt pulsed through my veins, I threw him a bone. “I honestly don’t know if I’m up for it again so soon. But let me know when you go, okay?”
He gave me a hopeful grin. “I will.”
As I headed into the house, I glanced at the time, grateful that the clock was ticking closer to my date. I wanted to speed up the next several hours, run through them in fast forward, because I needed something that felt good. Something that was the complete opposite of my twisted family story.
* * *
Speak of the devil.
When I returned home and grabbed my mail from yesterday, there was an envelope.
Another letter from prison.
My mother had drawn hearts on the envelope flap this time.
My stomach roiled.
I didn’t want her drama before a date. Ironic, though, because Brent was always the one who’d opened the letters when she sent them to me in college. He’d been my shoulder, my support, and I’d desperately needed him then.
I set the envelope down.
Maybe he’d play that part again.
Was I ready for that?
Was I ready to trust him a second time?
I asked myself those questions as I got ready to see him.
After I showered and dried my hair, I tied the slim strap of my charcoal-gray top at my neck, then smoothed my hand across my black skirt, which hit just above my knees.
Trust.
How did you get it back? And more to the point, how did you get it back when you’d played a part in breaking it? Michael may have been right when he said I had a pass, but that pass no longer applied.
Now that Brent and I had reconnected, no matter where we were going, I needed to tell him the full truth of why I went to Los Angeles that fateful weekend.
But even with that knowledge out in the open, what would it take for him to trust that I wouldn’t react from a place of emotion going forward? I had then. I’d need to assure him I’d listen, that I’d give him a chance now. We both had so much ground to cover.
I’d been a mess back then, leaping to conclusions.
But he’d been in love with work, making me think he wasn’t as invested in us as I’d been.
We had a ways to go.
But one thing was still certain. I loved touching him, and he loved touching me.
As I ran my palm across the fabric of my skirt, I closed my eyes and imagined the feel of Brent’s hand. He had strong, solid hands that knew me. That had mapped every inch of my body. That had traveled across the terrain of my skin. He was my magic pill, my sip of champagne, my bite of smooth dark chocolate. He was an endorphin, the most powerful, potent one I’d ever had.
When I opened the closet door, I made a mental note to ask Michael to fix it. The dang thing was still loose. I perused the racks of shoes, then selected a pair of plum-colored pumps with four-inch heels. Walking past my bureau, I stopped at a frame on it—another shot of the sunflowers I loved.
I trailed a finger along the top of the frame, smiling wistfully at the image of the flowers next to a stone.
There was a photo behind the frame too, but I didn’t need to look at that right now.
I headed into the kitchen, and my phone buzzed on the counter. I grabbed it from its spot next to the sunflower frame I kept there. A text from my driver said he was one minute away. I shut and locked the front door, then nearly smacked into Ally, who lived two flights up. Laughing, she glanced up from her phone to smile at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Cat videos, obviously.” Ally looked up toward her condo, the broad smile still on her face. She pushed her big round sunglasses high up on her head.
“But of course,” I said.
She thrust her phone at me, showing me a clip of a tabby kayaking with his owner. “This cat hikes with his person. I wish my cat would just cuddle with me at night.”
“Keep dreaming,” I teased.
She raised an eyebro
w and looked me up and down. “You look gorgeous. Date tonight?”
I grinned, feeling a little sassy. “As a matter of fact, yes. And thank you. I better get going. My ride is here.”
“Your date won’t know what hit him. You look gorgeous, Shay.”
I blew her a kiss in thanks, then she called my name again.
“Yes?”
“I have a date too. It’s probably going to be a sleepover. If you’re coming home, any chance you can feed Nick later tonight?”
“Yes, I’m coming home. And of course I’ll feed him. Nick is so cute. I love that tomcat. Cats make me happy.”
“He’s a total ladies’ man,” Ally said with a wink. “He ought to make you ecstatic.”
Sounded like someone I knew. I smiled at the private joke as I walked down the steps.
When I slid into the air-conditioned white Nissan, I confirmed my destination—The Cromwell near the Bellagio—with the Uber driver.
“Can I interest you in a candy or a water?” the driver asked.
I shook my head, but thanked him.
On the way there, my mind returned to the inevitable. To the weight I carried with me.
Words I knew I’d have to say soon.
I swallowed and parted my lips as if to speak. I bought you a hat in the airport. I was heading to tell you the news: I was pregnant with your baby. Then, my body failed me.
The words were awful, like jagged glass in my mouth. They hurt so much. Too much. I’d put it behind me, as much as one can—I’d processed that loss. He’d have to do it for the first time.
He’d have to feel the hurt.
Was it wrong to want a night that didn’t hurt?
Tomorrow. I’d deal with it tomorrow. Truths like this were best delivered in the morning, right? I could have this evening with him, then in the morning, I’d discover the right words.
In the morning, I’d be ready.
I wanted dinner without tears or sadness, so I forced myself to focus on the opposite.
My Sinful Nights: Book One in the Sinful Men Series Page 9
