It's Only Love

by Mel Curtis

  Dooley Rule had sent them each personal letters to accompany his will. When Blue and Amber met their sales goals and the other stipulations of their father’s last wishes, they’d each received another letter with their inheritance. Cora was barely a quarter of the way to reaching her sales quota. And Dooley had been notorious for changing the game on Cora.

  “For your own good,” he’d said, duct-taping one hand behind Cora’s back during a game of tag at some long-forgotten friend’s birthday party. She’d lost her balance chasing after a younger target and skidded on her knees.

  “Adversity builds character, especially in girls,” he’d said, pushing her into the sparring arena, forcing a challenge with an older, larger opponent – a boy, who’d snap-kicked Cora in the stomach, landed a roundhouse blow to her shoulder, and planted his glove in her face.

  Each game change made Cora more wary. Each defeat made her more closed off. Until she became a rebellious, guarded ten year-old, who’d grown up to be a rebellious, guarded – yes, it needed to be said – bitch. All she’d ever wanted – then and now – was for Daddy to love her.

  “My Evening Star.” Ren stopped beside Cora and wrapped his long arms around her in a much-needed hug.

  She nearly choked on Old Spice, but it felt good to be held and she snuggled closer, careful not to crush Brutus in her bag.

  “Evan, why don’t you go in with Ren?” Amber tiptoed to kiss her husband’s stubbled cheek. “We’ll catch up in a minute.”

  The human bottle of cologne released Cora to hug Amber. “My Moon. I have not seen enough of you.”

  Amber grinned. “As soon as the season starts, I won’t see much of my favorite Flash players, either.”

  After Ren released Amber, Evan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t be long or the ice in your drink will melt.” He tugged a lock of Cora’s long, straight hair, as if she was five, not twenty-five, and headed inside with his teammate. The noise level grew more raucous as the NBA team welcomed their captain and their gentle giant.

  “I need to leave.” Cora sounded little-girl-lost. She’d thought she’d erased that voice from her repertoire when Daddy died.

  “You can’t leave. We have business inside.” Amber looped her arm around Cora’s waist, leading her away from the front door and toward the curved, sloping driveway. Their heels clacked on flagstone, their steps too delicate to crush Cora’s resurging insecurities. “As your boss, I’m telling you to open that letter, because it might concern the Foundation.” Amber lowered her voice. “But as your sister, I’m telling you to open it because Dad can’t hurt you anymore.”

  That was a big, fat-saturated lie. Right up there with telling a kid that Santa Claus didn’t have clogged arteries.

  Daddy had been a brilliant life coach, serving egotistical Hollywood celebs, slumping sports personalities, and obscenely rich, Beverly Hills residents. Where had he come up with his unorthodox techniques? He’d used his children as guinea pigs. Turns out, tough love was lucrative.

  Dad can’t hurt you anymore.

  Cora wanted to believe Amber, but there was only one way to prove it.

  She opened the letter with fumbling fingers, letting Amber read it, too.

  Dear sweet princess…

  The nickname filled her with unwanted longing and unfinished business. He’d died before she’d had a chance to say goodbye.

  I thought you’d need a pep talk midway through fulfilling my last requests. Congratulations on getting this far. By now, you know life coaching isn’t easy.

  No shit, Daddy. But according to Amber and Blue, she was good at it. A regular chip off the old cracked block.

  I know you can reach your goal, and when you do, my legal counsel will identify three more of my children.

  Cora’s heart plunged beneath the heels of her zebra heels. The edges of the letter crumpled beneath her fingers.

  More children?

  The shakes increased, making it harder to breathe. Amber hugged her close, but not close enough to stop the memories that suddenly took on new meaning.

  Daddy postponing a visit, the high-pitched voices of children a backdrop to his phone call.

  Daddy rushing in late, missing Cora’s fifth-grade dance recital, a Little League shirt and cap on. Odd, since Blue didn’t play baseball.

  Daddy’s fingers stained the colors of the rainbow, glitter on his cheek, as he refused to let her inside when she’d shown up unannounced one Saturday, seeking refuge from her mother.

  Hurt, sharp and bitter, scaled Cora’s throat with claws that slashed at her breath. Was that why her father never seemed to love her unconditionally? Because there’d been other kids who were easier to love? Athletic and charming, like Blue? Or kind and beautiful, like Amber?

  Cora, with her boring brown hair and plain brown eyes didn’t stand out and couldn’t compete for her father’s affection. She was ordinary in a land where extraordinary was worshipped. She’d tried to be everything Dooley wanted – brave and strong and smart. But she’d usually ended up with skinned knees and black eyes, which had given her mother, who prized perfection, more reason to disdain her.

  More kids? Would they resent Cora as much as she did them?

  She gripped the letter so tight, her fingernails punctured paper.

  “I was wondering how to tell you about the others.” Amber broke into Cora’s pity party, transforming hurt into something hotter and self-destructive.

  “You knew?” For years, Amber had taken the brunt of blame for everything Cora felt was wrong with her relationship with their father. Amber took the brunt of her anger now. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Blue and I found out a few weeks ago.” Amber managed to look hurt and guilty at the same time. “Blue hired a private investigator, but so far they’ve uncovered nothing.”

  Cora shook her head. “If you can’t tell me things like this, I quit. And I don’t want an inheritance if it means…if it means…” That she’d find out her father had a secret life with another daughter he called princess.

  “He had enough love for a hundred kids,” Amber said earnestly.

  “Like hell he did.” Cora stiffened her shoulders, finally ridding herself of the shakes. “When I was in high school I never spent time alone with him. My visits were shared with you and Blue, or his younger clients, like Portia Francis.” Who’d been the same age as Cora.

  “Really?” Amber’s tone was curious, not challenging. “Who else did he share you with?”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  “I’m not.” Amber dropped her voice lower still, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “He never took Blue or me to see clients. He never encouraged us to draw. And he kept his secrets in his drawings.” Pictures of gardens hiding his high profile client list and his coaching techniques, sneakier than any Where’s Waldo game. “He taught you things. Maybe he was introducing you to the others.”

  “There’s no way Portia is a Rule.” Her former best friend was more of a bitch than Cora was. “I’m not having this conversation.” To do so validated Amber’s suspicions and put faces, names, and personalities to Daddy’s betrayal.

  “Read the rest of the letter,” Amber said quietly.

  Like a magnet, Cora’s gaze was drawn back to the page.

  I didn’t always do right by my children in life, but I’m hoping the acknowledgement of my progeny can make up for it.

  Not hardly, Daddy. They’d probably all go to therapy together.

  “I don’t care about these people. His…The others.” Cora’s breath was ragged. She was falling apart in front of a former lover’s home, cracking into shards made fragile by her childhood scars. The finely cut grass beckoned for a face plant. “I sound like a bitch.” What else was new? “I mean, I’d care if they were searching for Daddy and answers about who they are, or struggling to make ends meet while battling a terminal illness. But I don’t…I can’t make finding them my goal.”

  “Cora – ”
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  “No. I’ll go on working for you for a salary. But not for a sales quota to satisfy Daddy’s will and earn my inheritance.” She was throwing away millions. What am I doing? She planted her heels more firmly on the pavement. “I have to make a stand somewhere.”

  Amber rubbed her shoulder, looking sympathetic. “Before you make any rash decisions, read the last line.”

  Remember, if you abandon your goals, princess, the monthly stipend your mother receives will cease.

  Much love, Dad.

  “Crap.” Her mother had once loved Dooley, but that emotion had shriveled to bitterness long ago, leaving Lucia with a thirst for revenge, quenched only by Dooley’s hush money – money her mother didn’t need since she’d landed a wealthy Brit years ago. And yet, Lucia had always threatened to go public with dirt on Daddy if her checks ceased. She’d claimed her mud-slinging would do more than bring the Dooley Foundation down. It would ruin Daddy completely.

  “Do you think these children are my mother’s bargaining chip?” Cora looked to Amber, who’d questioned Cora about Lucia’s stipend last month.

  Amber shook her head. “I don’t think that type of secret would mean the end of the Foundation.”

  Bummer.

  Six months ago, Cora wouldn’t have cared about the Dooley Foundation’s demise. Now, things were different. If the Foundation collapsed, Amber and Blue would be crushed. They’d been working hard to rebuild the company to its former glory. And, surprisingly, Cora cared about her work and her clients, too.

  Daddy was trying to hedge his bets and box her in, something he’d been unable to do when he was alive.

  Her hands began to shake again.

  Cora wanted to resort to the rebellious defensive tactics of her youth – to fling a dramatic comeback, to down too many tequila shots, to have hot sex with a handsome stranger.

  And then a handsome stranger appeared on the drive.

  Chapter 3

  “Holy Mary...”

  Trent stopped admiring the sex appeal of the black Ferrari parked in Jack Gordon’s driveway, and followed the direction of Randy’s gaze to admire the sex appeal of two beautiful women standing at the apex of the drive – a lithe brunette and a curvaceous redhead.

  The voice of Minister Bishop, his ex-father-in-law, echoed in his head: Put to death what is earthly in you – sexual immorality, impurity, passion, and evil desire.

  For too many years, Minister Bishop had marked every wayward glance Trent made, every inappropriate word Trent uttered, and shoved his religious wisdom down Trent’s throat. For too many years, Trent had built his coaching reputation at a strict Baptist college under the thumb of a strict moral clause in his contract. A month after his divorce from Minister Bishop’s daughter and just weeks after he’d given notice to Holy Southern Cross, Trent was ready to cuss, to desire, to indulge in some sexual immorality and passion.

  Now wasn’t the time to live the American Dream by picking up a beautiful woman and having wild monkey sex. He needed his pious image as the Reverend to succeed.

  “Hollywood bimbos. At last,” Archie said gleefully. His stride quickened.

  The redhead smiled and waved. The brunette eyed them like a savvy shopper browsing a clearance rack. Her gaze lingered on Trent, almost as hungrily as his had lingered on the Ferrari. Something primal and instinctive stirred below his belt, and it wasn’t the hamburger he’d eaten for lunch.

  “Dad,” Trent cautioned. “Please think before your jaws flap. We’re not in Louisiana anymore.”

  Archie made an unintelligible noise of complaint.

  Randy hung back as the driveway narrowed, deferring the lead to Trent and his father. “How do you talk to women like that?” He wasn’t just wet behind the ears, Randy was drenched in naivety.

  “Wave a twenty and ask what it’ll get you.” Archie’s voice was as rough and loud as oversized tires on gravel.

  Trent’s jaw ticked.

  The brunette heard his old man. She laughed and tucked a piece of paper into her bulky purse.

  “What did we talk about in the car, gentlemen?” Trent prompted.

  “Don’t cuss. Don’t drink. Don’t make a fool of yourself.” Randy was nothing if not obedient, parroting back the gist of Trent’s lecture to Archie.

  Archie said nothing.

  “Dad,” Trent warned in his earnest, Reverend voice. A voice that usually garnered respect.

  His father stopped and turned. His peppery, bushy brows lowered. “I have forty years coaching experience, and you want to tell me how to behave at a meet-and-greet?”

  Trent nodded curtly. “No cussing. No drinking. No disrespecting anyone, including me.”

  “Shoot me now.” Archie sighed, then reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out his best booster-club smile. He turned, long legs eating up the distance to the women with his distinctive swagger, Mary Sue Ellen seemingly forgotten. “Ladies, you shouldn’t be standing out here in the summer sun. I hear there’s a bartender inside who makes a mean whisky sour.”

  “I was waiting for a man who spoke my language.” The brunette grinned, falling for his father’s charm. Or maybe she was calling the shots. From the street, her lithe frame had made her seem fragile. But her smile was bold and commanding, the kind of smile Trent had fantasized putting the Reverend to bed with.

  “Is that a pooch in your pouch?” Archie eyed the brunette’s shoulder bag, which did, indeed, hold a small, black animal. “Back home, that wouldn’t qualify as a dog.”

  The brunette laughed, allowing Archie to lead her toward the front door. “Shhh, Brutus doesn’t know he’s a dog.”

  “Hot damn, honey,” Archie said. “My son’s right. I’m not in Louisiana anymore.”

  The pair disappeared into the house, leaving Trent feeling passed over.

  The redhead extended her hand to Trent. “I’m Amber, Evan Oliver’s wife.” She had a firm handshake and a steady gaze, nothing like he’d expected based on her Playboy curves or what he knew of her.

  Amber was the CEO of the Dooley Foundation. Like his former father-in-law’s church, the Dooley Foundation had some fanatical followers. Their live-a-better-life shtick – choose, voice, trust, welcome – was a gimmick, designed to suck people in and convert them to regular paying customers. He’d heard the Dooley Foundation was deeply embedded in the Flash organization, so he’d researched them. Not a sports psychologist on the payroll. Amber’s firm was at the top of his housecleaning list, along with the old regime’s coaches, and a couple of dead-weight players. The fact that Amber was married to Trent’s star player made things tricky, but not unworkable.

  Trent introduced Randy and himself.

  “Coach Parker, this is the calm before the storm.” Amber claimed Randy with one arm, Trent with the other, and led the two men toward the party. “Take a deep breath, because once you go through that door, your lives will change forever.”

  On the brink of achieving his lifelong dream, Trent felt surreal, as if he and Randy were the Tin Man and the Scarecrow to Amber’s Dorothy, entering the gates to the Emerald City. The crowd noise had faded after Archie and the brunette went in. The door remained open. Amber released them, and let them step inside first.

  If the women out front hadn’t distracted him, Trent would have prepared himself for the grandeur the expensive sports cars in the driveway hinted he’d find inside. He was used to homes with pomp – his ex-wife’s father made a damn good living as a televangelist, and Holy Southern’s athletic boosters always seemed to live in showplaces. But this…this house put theirs in shadow.

  The white marble entry led to a living room as large as Trent’s first home, opening to a two-story rotunda with intricate wrought iron banisters. On the opposite end of the house, French doors led to a large patio and pool. The furnishings were black leather, with modern, square lines, and dark wood.

  Archie and the brunette stood outside at the bar near the pool. The bartender was pouring his dad what looked like whiskey on the rocks – d
amn Dad to Hades. The man lived to make Trent’s life miserable.

  Archie laughed at something the brunette said. That feeling, like indigestion, gnawed at him again.

  “I was beginning to wonder where you were, Coach.” Jack Gordon met them in the foyer as the room quieted. The change in him from a month ago was startling. The man’s pale features and dark-rimmed eyes made Trent’s boss look as if he hadn’t slept in days. Jack was only in his mid-thirties, but he could have easily passed for fifty. “Everyone, this is the Reverend, Trent Parker, our new coach.”

  Players and staff set their drinks down and moved forward to meet Trent. Someone turned the music off.

  The Reverend had arrived and killed the party.

  ~*~

  “That season was magical.”

  On the limestone patio, Cora only half listened to Archie’s monologue about the year he’d won college football’s highest trophy – the BCS.

  Anger with her father twisted with hurt, and noosed around the need to do something reckless, until she was chafing inside her own skin. If work didn’t require her to be here, she’d be downing shots at a bar somewhere, prowling through her contacts for a man to give her release. She wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity. Nope. She’d take a mind-blowing orgasm over tears any day.

  Polite laughter from attendees washed over her, along with Archie’s thick Southern twang. The party held no appeal.

  Inside the house, men and women who made the L.A. Flash a success stood butts-to-nuts, jockeying for a get-down-on-my-knees-and-give-head opportunity with Jack, the team’s owner, and the Reverend, their new coach. She’d stopped sucking up to Jack earlier in the summer. And anyone with the nickname Reverend wasn’t likely to be good company for her.

  Outside, clustered around the pool were the demi-gods who played for the Flash and a smattering of wives and bimbos, and wanna-be wives and bimbos. Cora wasn’t interested in being a demi-god’s disposable accessory.

  Where did she fit in?

  “We scored two touchdowns to win in the last forty-five seconds,” Archie was saying, chest thrust out with pride. “Can you believe it?”