“The reason Blake went home . . . what my mom wants to talk to him about is”—he exhales, long and hard—“The General’s sick.” His shoulders relax a smidge, as if he’s been carrying around that secret for a few days too long.
“Sick as in—”
“Cancer, Layla.” Pain washes his expression. “He’s dying.”
My hand flies to my mouth to muffle my cry. I can’t speak, but shake my head back and forth slowly as if the movement will toss the truth from my memory.
“The doctors gave him six months tops. He’s, uh . . . even these last few months he’s going downhill fast.” He rubs his eyes as if he’s forcing back tears.
“I’m so sorry.” I grip his shoulder and squeeze, hoping to convey comfort. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Poor Blake. He thought this trip to see his parents would be their extension of an olive branch, a chance to come back into his life and be grandparents.
He was wrong.
On one hand, I think he’d take that news in stride. He hates his father, and I can see how his death would be upsetting, but I think it would be worse if he had a good relationship with him. On the other hand, the great thing about life is that it gives us plenty of time to make amends for the ways we screwed up. Time allows opportunity for healing. When someone dies suddenly, they no longer have the chance to make things right.
Oh God . . . Blake.
I sniff back the wave of sadness that overcomes me. I know deep down he wants his father’s approval.
“Blake, he’s . . . not okay, is he?” My fingers twist frantically in my hair, itching to comfort him and regretting letting him go.
Braeden’s gaze swings to mine. “Honestly?”
I nod.
“No. My mom said he got pretty pissed and took off.”
“He’s coming home. We need to call him. I bet he jumped on a flight—”
“He’s on foot. Left my car in the driveway.”
I pat myself down. “Shit. I don’t have my phone. Call him, call him right now.”
“I tried, Layla. He’s not answering.”
I breathe deeply, trying to soothe my nerves, regulate my heartbeat, and remind myself that my body isn’t my own right now and I owe it to this baby to chill the fuck out.
A dull pain tightens on my left side. I gasp and my hand flies there to push back what’s sure to be a baby part pressing against my rib.
“You okay?” His voice is laced with worry.
“Fine, just a big kick.” I breathe deeply through the cramp until it subsides. “We need to get back to the condo, just in case Blake shows up.”
He nods and points the Rubicon toward home.
“Drive fast.”
##
It’s almost three p.m. and my phone has rung on the hour every hour since we arrived, but none of the calls were from Blake.
Between pacing and staring blankly at the wall, I’ve had time to review every possible scenario, and lucky for me I have a vivid imagination. I’ve closed my eyes and prayed, even willed him to get in touch with me through ESP, but the only person who’s been consistently ringing my phone has been Trip.
“Here.” Braeden hands me a glass of OJ.
“No thanks, I’m okay—”
“You haven’t eaten.” His expression is stern, replacing his prettiness with the focus of a hardened soldier. “You need something besides water.”
My appetite dissolved. It’s as if my stomach is too full of worry to fit anything else in there. But he has a point.
I nod, take the offered juice, and drink as much of it as I can while he’s watching. “Thanks.”
He takes the glass and brings it to the kitchen. Come on, Blake. He hasn’t answered my calls or texts, and somewhere along the way my worry for him has morphed into anger.
“Why won’t you pick up your phone and—”
My phone vibrates in my hand. I check the caller ID and hit Accept.
“Blake! Oh my God, are you okay?” A shallow sob bursts from my throat.
“Shhh, Mouse, I’m okay. Are you?” There’s a tired panic to his voice that pinches my heart. “I just charged my phone and saw all the missed calls. Is it the baby?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine . . . I just want to hold you.” Another sob.
“Fuck, I want that too. I’m so sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner. Brae taking care of you?”
“Yeah, he is, but, Blake, he told me about your dad.”
Silence is followed by him clearing his throat. “You’re lucky you got the stay-at-home version. The in-your-face version is . . . unpleasant.”
“Are you okay?”
“I am. There’s so much I want to tell you, but I want to do it when you’re in my arms.”
“I’d love that.” I check the digital clock on the cable box. “What time does your flight leave?”
“That’s, uh . . . what I wanted to run by you. I’m going to stay the night and come back in the morning.”
Disappointment settles in my gut, and the baby must feel it because another tightening kick throttles my side. “Oh, really?”
“If that’s okay with you.” His words rush out, letting me know he’d put his own needs aside in favor of mine. “If you want me home, I’ll jump on the next flight.”
“No, that’s fine. Just promise me you’re okay. The hardest part is knowing you’re hurting and that I can’t be there for you.”
“I’ll be okay. I didn’t handle the news well, took off for most of the day, and now I have so many fucking questions that I don’t think I can move past all the shit I’m feeling without getting some answers.”
I have so many fucking questions that I don’t think I can move past all the shit I’m feeling without getting some answers.
The single line of truth works like a dagger to the chest. Is that what I need too? Answers that will propel me through the confusion? Help me to put the past behind me for good?
“I think that’s smart.” For both of us.
“Good, thank you, baby. I’ll be home around noon tomorrow.”
“Okay, Blake. I love you.”
“I love you too. Put Brae on the phone for me, yeah?”
I hand the phone to Braeden, who sometime during the conversation had moved to sit next to me on the couch. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Bro, what’s up?” He drops his head to the back of the couch. “I know, but it’s not my news to tell.” He regards me for a second. “That’s different. She was worried about—” He checks the display screen. “Hold on, dude, Layla’s got another call coming in. I’ll call you back from my phone.”
He hands me the phone and pulls out his own before stepping out to the patio to call Blake back, I assume.
As if on autopilot, I look down.
Unavailable.
I don’t think I can move past all the shit I’m feeling without getting some answers.
I hit Accept.
“Trip. How soon can you get to Vegas?”
He stutters. “I can be there tonight.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight a.m. Give me your number, and I’ll text you the place.”
“Sure, yeah . . .” He gives me the number and I program it into my phone.
“Got it.”
“Thank you, thank you, Layla. I just want a chance to explain—”
I hit End before he’s finished and mentally prepare for the answers I so desperately need.
And hope that the truth doesn’t send my world crashing down around me.
Fifteen
Blake
I haven’t been able to even look at The General since I got back from my anger-induced walkabout and opted for sitting outside rather than risking another confrontation. Although my dad seems to take the hint that I’m avoiding him and leaves me alone, my mom is oblivious.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out to eat?” My mom is sitting with me on the back patio.
“No, Mom, I’m not that hungry.”
/>
“You need to eat.” Her voice is so timid, just as I remember.
Before I was dragged off in the night to military school, I thought my mom and I had a special bond. I thought she was like me, hiding some secret on the inside to keep it safe while pretending to play the role of perfect wife on the outside. Boy was I wrong.
She didn’t keep my secrets out of some bond or loyalty to me. She did it out of fear. Being with Layla has made me see what real strength looks like, and it has zero to do with muscle mass. True strength comes from resilience, an inner force that refuses to give up a fight. It comes in packages of all different sizes, five-foot-three inches of blond and gorgeous with a tongue that can slice through the biggest men with words or bring one to his knees with want.
Funny how weakness can be disguised by strength. On the outside, most would consider my father a strong man, but his unwillingness to fight for his life proves he and my mother are the perfect pair.
“How long has he been sick?” I don’t look over at her but keep my focus on the small garden across the yard.
“My guess is it’s been awhile. He was having problems but refused to see a doctor.”
“Hardheaded son of a bitch.” I push two hands through my hair and lock my fingers behind my head.
“Then when all that happened with you in Las Vegas, he changed. He made an appointment, and a few test results later . . . well, here we are.”
I tilt my head to meet her eyes. “Changed after Vegas?”
“Mm. He felt bad, I think, for not believing in you.” Her eyes narrow. “He lives with a lot of regret, Blake.”
“I highly doubt that. He’s hated me from the beginning.”
“No, he hasn’t. He . . .” She turns to the back door, probably making sure we’re not being overheard, then scoots closer to me. “He sees himself in you.”
“God, Mom”—I rub my eyes, pressing in on them until I feel the dull ache in my brain—“don’t say that. You’re confirming my worst fear by saying that. I’m about to have a baby and make Layla my wife. The last thing I want hanging over my head is the possibility that I’ll end up like him.”
“I know nothing I say will convince you, but at least give him a chance to explain.”
I shake my head, and she leans in closer to catch my eyes. “Please, just talk to him. If you don’t like what he has to say, you leave tomorrow and everything goes back to the way it was.”
“Until he dies.” My stomach pinches painfully.
She clears her throat. “Yes, Blake. Until he dies.”
“Fine.” I push up from my chair. “Where’s he at?”
She blinks up at me a few times. “Bedroom.”
I nod and pass by her into the house, heading for my parents’ room. Unease pricks at my nerves as I pass by my old bedroom. Everything looks almost exactly the same as it did the night I left. The metal band posters are gone, but the twin bed and dresser are the same.
Reaching my parents’ door, I knock softly even though it’s cracked. The sound of the local news and the blue light from the television filter through the gap.
“Come in, Son.” His voice sounds weak, as if maybe I woke him up.
I push inside to find him on his bed, his back propped up with pillows and a blue blanket over his legs.
“Do you have a second, sir?”
He nods and motions to a chair near his side of the bed before hitting Mute on the TV. “Feel better after getting some air?”
A slight heat warms my cheeks at his witness to my weakness. “Sorry I took off.” I tuck my chin and take the offered seat. “I know Mom worries. I just needed to—”
“Process.” He regards me with an understanding I’ve never seen from him before. “I get it. Took me three months, so . . . yeah, I get it.”
“And now you’ve processed?” My fists clench at my thighs. “Come to terms with the fact that you’re giving up?” I can’t help the anger that floods my veins.
He chuckles softly. “Never really thought about it as giving up. I figured I’d lived a long life. I have no desire to prolong the inevitable if it means my last few months on this earth are spent bedridden. I want to spend my time with your mom, with your brother and you, and I’d like to hold my grandbaby before my time comes”—he drops his chin and smooths his blanket—“if that’s okay with you.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I force back the emotion and remind myself that this is not the weakened man who sits before me. This is the man who smothered me until I couldn’t fight hard enough. This is the man who gave me something to fight for when I should’ve lived free and easy to do whatever the fuck I wanted.
“Dad, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry, Blake. All I ever wanted to do was protect you, and because of that I lost you.”
“Protect me from what?” I lean in closer, fixing my glare on his foggy green eyes. “You took everything I loved away from me.”
“I know, but that’s not how I saw it back then.”
“Not how you saw it?” My jaw tenses and I’m spitting words through clenched teeth. “There’s no other way to see it.”
“What you see, the man I was when you were a growing up . . .” He sighs heavily and allows a few quiet seconds to tick by. “I wasn’t tough when I was a kid. When all the other kids were outside playing, I had my nose shoved in a book. I got teased, beaten up, bullied.”
“You never told me that before.”
“It was a long time ago.” His eyes lose focus and wander away from mine. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“You’re not proud of being smart?”
“No, I’m not proud of hating who I was, trying to be like everyone else. I gave up on the books and forced myself into the war games that the other kids were playing. It was hard, but in the end it made life easier.” He turns his focused eyes to mine. “I thought I was doing the same for you.”
“You could’ve just sat me down, had a man-to-man.”
He drops his salt-n-pepper eyebrows over a steely glare. “Would you have listened to me?”
Fuck, probably not. I hated being told what to do, hated who my dad had become, hid my secret for so long it shoved a wedge between us in a major way.
My non-answer is my answer.
“By that time I was moving up in the ranks, I was powerful, and”—he chuckles—“well, none of that matters. Look at me now.” He waves a hand down his once powerful body, which is now still and exhausted. “Dying gives a man a lot of time to think on his mistakes. I don’t have a lot of time, but what time I have I want to spend making this up to you.”
One wet drop escapes my eye, but I swipe at it before it moves down my cheek. “Make it up to me by fighting. Do whatever it takes to earn us more time. I can’t put all these years behind us with only a few months.”
“All the treatments take energy, and I’m. . .” A long breath falls from his lips, and he almost seems to shrink in size. “I’m tired, Blake.”
How do I argue that? I’ve heard cancer treatment is horrific and without hope of survival it would be a daunting prospect. “Will you at least consider it?”
He places his hand on the bed closer to me. It’s the nearest he’s gotten to physically comforting me, and although he’s not even touching me, I feel it. “If anything has ever made me want to fight, it’s this moment, the chance to earn your forgiveness. That’s worth fighting for.”
“Fuckin’ A, Dad . . .” I rub my eyes and marvel at the change of events.
So this whole time I’ve been pissed at The General for fucking up my life, but if he hadn’t done what he did, where would I be today?
My stomach hollows out with the realization. He gave me my fight, lit a fire so deep in my gut that I’d crawl through hell if it meant holding on to something I love. My career, Layla, Axelle, everything I have I had to fight to keep. Holy shit! A wave of gratefulness surges in my chest.
“So.” He clears his throat. “Tell me all about Layla, Ax
elle, and my grandbaby.”
Right then it all makes sense.
Everything life throws affects who we become. Different experiences wouldn’t have brought me to where I am today. I owe everything I have to the fact that my dad didn’t make things easy on me.
Rather than give him my forgiveness, he deserves my gratitude.
Sixteen
Layla
It’s D-Day. Time to hear Trip’s side of the story so that I can put my curiosity to rest and end all this before Blake gets back. The phone calls, probing into Axelle’s birth records, all of it needs to stop.
I scan my surroundings and try to act casually as I people watch from the small Italian café at The Venetian Hotel. Few Vegas locals hang out at the casinos, which makes this the perfect place to meet without getting caught. The coffee shop is public enough for safety, but I chose a table off in the corner to allow us some privacy.
A warm cup of herbal tea between my hands fights off the chill that I can’t seem to shake. It’s not lost on me that my hands were cold the last time I saw Trip. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just as nervous to see Trip today as I was back then, although this time for totally different reasons.
As I wait for the blast from my past to show his face, my thoughts return to Blake. I can’t imagine how he must be feeling, and the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get to my man and get on with my life. I have every intention of telling Blake about my meeting with Trip, but he’s dealing with enough now, and the more I can handle behind his back the better.
He’ll be upset, possibly even furious, and insist that these things are his job to handle for me, but he wasn’t around the night Axelle was conceived or the nine months afterward when I was treated like a high-school leper. He didn’t live with me through sixteen years of abuse and the constant fear that my choices were going to end up destroying my daughter. Nope, that was all me.
Blake was dragged neck deep into my past when Stew showed up at my door. I watched helplessly as he was drugged and jailed all for the sake of loving me. No way I’ll risk bringing him down with this shit again.
This has to be the end now, and I won’t walk away until I’m convinced it’s finally over.
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