by Julia Kent
It's all you have.
The temptation to mention the gyms I now own is strong, but I won't show my hand in a moment of weakness, and make no mistake: I am weak right now. Weak because I brought up emotion.
McCormick men don't feel.
McCormick men act. To feel is to admit weakness.
The feeling is distinct and palpable, and it makes me livid.
“What's your point, Dad? I should take pity on you because one day I'll hand the company off to one of my children?”
He bristles at the word pity. “I'm trying to warn you. Give you advice. Help you learn from my mistakes.”
“Trust me. I already have.”
He lets out a long sigh with more emotion in it than I'd expect. “This is not how this conversation was supposed to go.”
“Good, because this is pretty bad.”
“I also want to talk about inheritance.”
“What about it?”
“You have children coming. That means significant changes to wills and trusts.”
The hair on the back of my neck begins to stand up. “What do you mean?”
Before he can answer, Paolo appears with a table brush, removing our bread plates, gently brushing the crumbs off the tablecloth. He sets down dinner plates and then a steady stream of servers deliver our food.
“Another drink, sir?” he asks Dad, who gives me a glance before declining. I change my mind on the fly and shake my head. After refilling our sparkling water, Paolo leaves.
I immediately cut into my steak. Can't scream at someone with your mouth full, right?
“A new generation requires additions and changes. After your brother had Ellie, I spoke with our estate attorneys, and with the Montgomery trustees.”
“Okay.” One-word answers are safe, and the tenderloin is perfect. Maybe that vodka and soda is kicking in, too.
“Of course, I've written Ellie–and will write any additional grandchildren–into my will and your mother's family trust. None of the trusts will actually break, though, for four additional generations beyond your children.”
“Sounds good.”
“You're not angry?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“There's significant capital tied up in these trusts.”
“I know.”
“You don't want access to it?”
“I don't need access to it. I have my salary, my investments, and my income is plenty.”
He snorts. “From the Montgomery trust, surely not.” My mother, Elena Montgomery, came from a family with money. Dad has no control over her family trust.
And it kills him.
“Terry lives on it,” I remind him, secretly pleased that this is like poking him in the eye with a pine needle.
He gives me a sour look. “Terry lives in a hovel and drives a tin can.”
“He owns a duplex in Jamaica Plain and drives a Subaru.”
“Exactly.” Dad takes a bite of his steak. I use it as an opportunity.
“Why tie up the trusts for so many generations?”
His eyes hold intrigue, as if he's caught me in a snare.
“Not that I care,” I add, then take a bite of salad. The watermelon radish complements the bibb lettuce and shaved campo de Montalban, and the pear-lemon dressing is perfect.
“Legacy. I like to think I've founded an empire that people can continue to build on.”
“How can we build on it if we don't have access to capital?”
“I did. Built Anterdec from the ground up with absolutely nothing.”
“Yes. Of course.” We have to acknowledge it, always. And I do genuinely admire what my father managed, but I don't understand his incessant need to have it validated.
Then again, I didn't grow up on the streets of South Boston, stone-cold poor. The divide between the world as he knows it and my own world, a product of his choices, is too great.
Maybe that's the source of so much friction between us. He expects me to be grateful for all his hard work when I never asked him to sacrifice so much in the first place.
“You're upset the trusts don't break with your generation,” he says in a goading voice, as if he thinks he's close to riling me up about something I truly don't care about.
“Why is it so important to you to think I think that?”
“You're in denial, son. Every man with some smarts wants the money to prove himself.”
“I don't need to prove myself to anyone but me.”
Only a double blink shows me I’ve gotten to him.
“I think it's a strong decision to delay the trust breaking. Prevents future generations from spending your hard-earned money in foolish ways. Keeps the McCormick family on top for a long time,” I continue, feeding his ego. Moving him away from specific discussions about my wife and children is the goal here.
Not dominance.
Distraction.
“Good to see you come around,” he says after another bite of steak. I ignore the ridiculous barb and focus on my food. Amanda's finally out of morning sickness, so I can eat whatever I want in front of her, but the Brussels sprouts might still be a bit much.
This is good. Not as good as Consuela's meals, but damn close.
We finish our food, lifting the napkins from our laps at the same time, sharing a small smile that feels like a truce. Dad stands, looks at his watch, and makes the most basic of gestures indicating he's choosing to leave me.
I stand, too. He offers his hand to shake and I take it. Grip strength isn't a measure of a man, but it can be a measure of health, and his is weaker over time.
His strength is waning.
He mentioned his age earlier.
And speaking of health...
“By the way, good call on Pam,” I say to him, prolonging his exit for reasons I don't understand.
“Pam?”
“Amanda told me you're the one who suspected Lyme disease in her.”
“Oh. That.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It made more sense than fibromyalgia. All she needed was a special blood test. I just encouraged her.”
“You did more than that, Dad.”
His hand is still in mine and he pauses, not letting go. “Thank you, son. Pam's a special woman. Any way I can help matters.” He finally lets go, straightens the lapels of his suit, and cocks one eyebrow. “You take care of Amanda, and I'll take care of her mother.”
“Will do.”
“And we will take care of my grandsons,” he says with an unsmiling wink.
With that, he leaves.
And all I can think about is whether Amanda's torso is long.
9
Amanda
I open my eyes, the words running through my head before I'm fully awake.
Twenty-three weeks, three days.
That's my first thought.
The second is: I need to hump my husband.
Some impulse centers itself between my legs, turning me into a rocking nerve ending, my entire body so horny, it's like some gene in me got flipped and my entire purpose in life is to orgasm in a continuous loop.
“Help,” I whisper to Andrew as I slide my bare thigh against his hair-covered one, his body gloriously nude, which only ratchets up my sex-crazed fever.
“What's wrong?”
“I need you to let me have sex with you again.”
One eye narrows, the other holding steady as I reach for him, finding him halfway to where I need him.
“Excuse me?”
“Can I please have sex with you again? I know we just did it–” I look at the clock, squinting to read the numbers, “–seven hours ago, but I–”
The kiss answers me.
“You don't have to ask.”
“Of course I do! Consent is very important.”
His erection twitches in my hand, jumping slightly.
“There's my consent.”
This isn't slow sex. It's fast and hard, the kisses hot, my legs parted and my body centered over him in seconds. The
grinding need to have him touch the deep ache inside and unclench it is too furious, too intense to ignore.
I'm bent over him, hips rolling up, belly hardening with each curl as I ride, ride, ride to climax. My thighs pull him in deeper, knees pressing against his tight ass, my hands on his chest, his head bobbing up to suck one breast at the perfect moment of ecstasy, making me moan into eternity.
And then–snap. I'm done.
I climb off and kiss his cheek.
“Thank you!”
“That's it?”
“That's it. Why? Do you want more?”
“Of course, I want more.”
“Now?” I look at the time. “Because I have forty-four minutes to make it downtown for a meeting.”
“No, not now, but...” He frowns. “Is this the magic second trimester the guys always talk about?”
“The guys?”
“Vince. Dec. Gerald.”
“You talk about our sex life with them?”
“What? No.” He avoids eye contact. “We talk about pregnancy. Suzanne's due around the same time as you. A few weeks behind.”
“Yeah, no kidding. We sure do know that. Maybe you could be her doula now that you've seen her half naked in the bathroom.”
“Hey! That was an honest mistake,” he grumbles.
“You're lucky you don't have an honest shiner from Gerald.”
“I'd have deserved it.”
Andrew reaches for my hand, pulling me back to the bed, hand on my belly.
“I love this. You're so full and hard.”
“That's my line, bud.”
Resonant, rich laughter, full of a happiness I've never heard from him before, fills the air.
“I love you.” He kisses my belly. “And I love them.”
“I love you, too.” I reach down and wrap my hands under his chin, cradling his face, the morning beard growth prickly and real. “I am so lucky to spend my life with you.”
“I'm the lucky one. I never would have guessed I'd end up with a wife who asked permission to have more sex with me.”
That stirring starts between my legs. I close my eyes. He chuckles, a deep sound that tells me he's reading my mind.
And then he pulls back the covers, spreading his nude body out on the mussed sheets, and says:
“At your service.”
10
Andrew
“You guys weren't kidding about the second trimester,” I say as I curl sixties, barely making it through eight, going slower on the release. Vince watches my form like he's just eaten a bad pistachio.
“Right?” Declan's eyes go distant. “It's basically the reason I can't wait to have another one.”
“Basically..?”
He shrugs. “If the second trimester is the holy grail, the first year after the baby is born is the Sahara desert, bro.”
Gerald chokes on the protein gel packet he's sucking down. We look at each other, the shared anticipatory pain a bonding moment.
“You guys make me puke,” Vince interrupts. “Whiners.”
“Says the guy who isn't married and doesn't have kids.”
“Haven't found the right person yet.”
I smirk. “You mean you haven't found the guts to ask Gina out yet.”
A silence descends, slow and humid, like a tornado rolling in over a prairie.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me. It's obvious you two like each over. Ask her out.”
“My love life is none of your business. You guys might talk about what your dicks do or do not do all the time, but I sure don't.”
Old Jorg walks by and says, “That's Vince Code for not gettin’ any.”
Declan's in the middle of guzzling his water and sprays half of it over the bench he's on. Gerald smothers a grin, wiping his scarred face with a hand towel that looks like it's seen better days. Bleach spots all over it at least attest to being washed.
I hope.
Note to self: Have Gina assess gym cleanliness and up the sanitation protocols for the chain.
“JORG!” Vince bellows, face rippling with a wave of emotion that makes me see the fifteen-year-old punk in him.
“Ask the girl out. Bet she's waiting for you to do it, ya dumbass.”
Watching Vince get ribbed is the best.
“What're you looking at?” Vince growls at me, ignoring old Jorg. “Get your ass over to the sandbags and tires.”
I eye that section of the gym. It looks like a reality show set for people too naive to realize their pain is being exploited.
Hey. Wait a minute...
“And you, too,” Vince adds, pointing to Dec. “Tug of war.”
“There's no rope over there.”
“Not with rope. With the tire.” He points to one with a five-foot radius.
Even Gerald balks. “You want these two to play tug of war with a monster-truck tire?”
“You make fun of me, you pay.”
“I already pay you, Vince,” I point out.
“And you and your brother can show us who's stronger.”
“We know the answer to that,” Declan says smugly.
Instantly, I'm on alert. Did he just say–
“Me,” my brother adds.
Yep. He did.
I snort. “You wish. Sleep deprivation has you hallucinating, bro.” I flex my arms as I curl a sixty, holding back the internal scream.
“Snooze, you lose,” he shoots back, eyeing my biceps with a mocking expression that sends red rage through me.
Competitive red rage.
“Deal.” I drop the sixty on the ground and leave it, pumped and ready for this battle. “Get over here,” I call over my shoulder, “and prepare to get your ass whupped.”
A small crowd begins to form, starting with Jorg, Vince, and Gerald, followed by two teens, a guy who is either their father or a coach of some kind, and two jacked-up dudes with muscles that look like they glued apple fritters to their arms and thighs.
Dec and I get into squat position. Tire tug of war isn't new, but I've never done it myself. Watched Vince and Gerald go at it here and there, but it's not the most efficient way to spend time working out. It's more about using your body to manage the unexpected, which is great for a bodyguard like Gerald, or for firefighters or ninja warrior freaks, but when you're the CEO of a fast-paced multinational conglomerate, you focus on other workouts.
But this? Now it's a grudge match. Vince took his own pissed-off state and turned Dec and me against each other.
And I'm going to win.
“Before we start, let's set some rules,” Dec begins.
“The only rule is, you're about to lose,” I shoot back.
“Talk is cheap, Andrew.”
“So'm I!” Old Jorg shouts. He gets a sprinkling of laughter.
“We hold the inside of the tire. Top or bottom?”
“Which one are you?” one of the muscle-bound dudes shouts.
We ignore him.
“Vince and Gerald stand at the midpoint. First time one of our feet crosses, the other wins.”
Vince and Gerald nod.
“That works,” I agree.
“This is all about drag,” Vince clarifies.
The steroid-poppers look at each other as if they hadn't heard that quite right.
Or as if they interpreted it very differently.
“On the count of three,” Vince shouts. “One, two–three!”
I'll give my brother credit: He's stronger than I expected. Those soccer legs of his dig in like tree trunks and don't budge. But where he has me on leg power, I've got him on shoulders and arms. We're equally matched.
Which means this comes down to strategy and sheer perseverance.
So I'll win.
The tire's edge is hard to gain purchase on, my fingers curled in on the thin lip of the ring, the bottom of the tire resting on my forearms, which are on top of my thighs. Declan has chosen a different hold, hands on top, those tree-trunk legs of his giving him more
power.
If we were wrestling, I could flip the damn tire and take him by surprise, burying him.
But we're not. This is tug of war, so I need to drag him across that imaginary midline.
Which means I need a better grip.
Veins bulge in Declan's neck as his green eyes, so much like Mom’s, taunt me. Sweat blooms on his forehead, pit stains already wide from the earlier workout. He's pulling hard and as I think, I lose my footing, shoe moving an inch forward before I can tighten my core and use it to extend muscle strength to my shoulders, the network of my body communicating to do one job.
Just one.
Don't move.
“Hey, little bro, getting tired?” he taunts. The slip was a show of weakness he is eating up. Thirty-three years of frustration turn my mind to nothing but rage and I do it.
I flip the tire.
Because I'm already in a slight crouch, I have the advantage, Declan's mouth going to an O of surprise that I will cackle at until my last breath on Earth. The heave-ho I give the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound piece of rubber sends him on his ass, his reflexes good enough to move his arms and catch it before it flattens him.
I hold my place.
The crowd goes nuts.
“This is like free WWF!” one of the muscleheads shouts, and the two teens start cheering.
“CHEAT!” Dec calls out.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I'm still here. You're over there. Not my fault your ’nads have tire tracks on them because you didn't see it coming.”
Neither of us is strong enough to throw the damn tire, but flipping it isn't out of range. Declan goes into a reverse somersault, hooks the soles of his feet on the thick tire edge, and kicks it off him as hard as possible.
It lands with a thick thump on my side of the floor, the edge brushing down my shin, leaving a black streak. When Dec stands, I see his arms have tire tracks on them. He looks like a tank ran over him.
“TIME OUT!” Vince shouts. “You idiots don't even know how to play tug of war right! What the hell did they teach you at that fancy prep school you went to? Needlepoint?”
