by Emerson Rose
“King?” A voice floats up from the balcony beneath mine. Every window and door to the outside is open, and the perfect Puerto Rican breeze is blowing the sheer white curtains into the room. As unhappy as I am without Holland, my childhood home provides me comfort, which in turn fills me with guilt because Holland has nothing to comfort her. I’ve taken everything she cares about, ripped it from her unsuspecting hands, and left her to bleed to death in our absence.
That’s how she sees it, but I know better. She has something to take comfort in. She’s just forgotten it. Without Juliette and me to focus on, I’m positive she will finally turn back to the thing she loved most before us, the thing that makes her who she is . . . music.
“She’s awake,” Candy calls up.
“I’ll be right down.”
I enlisted Candy to help with Juliette for a few weeks. I wouldn’t trust just anyone with my child, but Candy is a mother, and she is in a relationship with my lifelong friend and head of security. She’s safe. She didn’t want to do it. She doesn’t want any part of my plan, and neither does Sebastián, really, but he’s more tolerant because he knows how real the danger of being a part of my life is. She hated detaining Holland at the grocery store while I cleared out of the house, but she didn’t have a choice. It was in her personal assistant contract . . . sort of. Candy was so happy to have the job that she didn’t think to have a lawyer look over the terms and conditions with a fine toothed comb. She trusted me because of my close relationship with Sebastián. Big mistake. There are only a handful of people that I wouldn’t think of fucking over in this world, and she’s not one of them.
Essentially, she is contracted to be my assistant in any way I deem necessary, with the exception of sex. When Juliette and I are in a regular routine, I’ll let Candy go home to Houston. I want her to keep close tabs on Holland until I’m able to come back or until she makes the very bad decision to quit.
Sebastián will never let that happen. He loves her, and being the head of security and the disposer of problems, he would never let Candy become a problem.
Hurrying down the hall in my bare feet against the the cool marble floor reminds me of being a kid and running through this rambling mansion. Growing up in this house, we had rules—lots of them—but most were meant to keep us safe from the many enemies that my father acquired over the years. There were heavily armed guards at the gates and every entrance to the house. My father built this house so that the back yard faced the ocean. He said it was easier to guard the house. He thought it was safer and easier to guard somehow. Ironically, he was murdered in his own bed by a hit man who swam ashore after jumping off a boat.
I have triple the number of guards my father had when I was a child, and I’ve installed the best security system money can buy. I’m not taking any chances with Juliette. My plan is to disassemble the Romano drug empire piece by piece over the next three or four years while Holland finishes college. By then, she will be an established musician well on her way to fame, and with the danger of the drug business behind us, I can return Juliette.
Descending the stairs, I hear the soft cries of my little princess, and when I enter her nursery, Candy is swaying back and forth with Juliette in her arms on the patio, trying to calm the storm.
“She’s getting hungry I think. Do you want to feed her, or should I?” Candy’s hand shields Juliette’s face from the sunlight while she bounces and sways.
“I’ll do it. Here, let me take her.” I reach out and she passes me a perfect little replica of Holland.
“Thank you, Candy, really. I want you to know how much I appreciate your taking such good care of her.”
“It’s not like I have much choice, King. You’ve sort of trapped me into being an accomplice to kidnapping.”
She’s pissed. She probably hates me, but there’s no one else I trust to keep quiet about all of this. She has a lot to lose if she doesn’t.
“You know it’s for her own good, Candy.”
“No, I really don’t. You weren’t there, King. She was so happy and proud . . . when she pulled out her phone and started showing me pictures of Juliette in that grocery store, I came this close to telling her to go home and stop you.” Holding up her thumb and pointer finger a millimeter apart, she shows me just how close I came to getting caught and, unbeknownst to her, just how close she came to losing her life if she had.
“But you didn’t.”
“No I didn’t. I’d like to keep my head securely attached to my body, thanks. For the record, I think this is all wrong. You can’t make decisions like this for her. She wanted to have a family. Maybe she would have gone back to the violin, but King, priorities change. People change. She had a baby, for Christ’s sake. How do you just rip that all away from her? And she loved you, like out of this world, crazy, bonkers love, and you just threw it away.” Her hands fly up above her head in frustration.
“I don’t expect you to understand, Candy. Being with me put her life at risk. Drug dealers are ruthless and evil. Some of them like to torture people just for the fucking fun of it. Every single cartel out there knows I wanted out, and they know she’s the reason why. If my business were to dissolve, theirs would too. They would lose their lavish lifestyles, their bottomless bank accounts, their status and respect. My staying painted a target on her back no matter how you look at it. I’m trying to save her damn life.
“And Candy, have you ever heard her play? Seen the way she melts into that instrument and becomes one with it? It’s spectacular . . . no, that word doesn’t even do her justice. Her talent is profound. She absolutely cannot waste it. We agreed when we decided to be together that she would still go to Juilliard, and I would get out of the drug business, and she didn’t keep her end of the deal.”
“Neither did you.” With her hands on her hips, she squints in the sun, watching me struggle to make sense of this for her.
“I was trying.”
“But you hadn’t done it yet, and maybe she was trying, too. You just didn’t know it. Maybe she just needed some time.”
She’s treading on thin ice, making me justify my actions and my love for Holland, and I’ve had just about enough of her smart mouth. She knows that if anyone else were saying these things, there would be no sunrise for them tomorrow, but she also knows I need her, and that’s making her brave . . . too brave.
“That’s enough, Candy.” I turn my back on her and head to the kitchen. She’s quiet as I leave—at least there’s that. I sigh and hold a kiss on my fussy daughter’s wrinkled up, angry forehead. She’s had trouble adjusting to formula, but thank God she’s doing much better. Those first few days were hell. It hurt knowing she wanted her mommy instead of the rubber nipple of a bottle, and honestly, I can’t blame her a bit. I want her mommy, too, but this is the best thing for her. I’m sure of it.
Chapter 35
Holland
Right on Birch, left on Stony Creek Drive. It’s been a week since Daddy gave me a lifesaving kick in the ass, and now I’m on my way to see a private investigator.
I checked my bank account, and King left me some money . . . a lot of money. Enough to live on for . . . well shit, for forever, probably. The problem is that I can only withdraw enough for living expenses and a thousand on top of that every month, so hiring a great PI is out of the question. Daddy helped by pitching in some of his savings, and I used my allotted money for the month to hire Mr. Bond.
‘Bond . . . James Bond . . .” Daddy’s said it a million times since I told him the PI’s name. He thinks it’s hilarious. I couldn’t care less about his name. I just want him to find my baby.
I find his office easily enough and park in front of the building.
While investigating my financial situation, I found that King paid for my birthday Mercedes in full and put it into my name. I should be happy, but it actually pisses me off. I know I’ve never had a job, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have gotten one and paid for my own car and my own bills without him.
Its guilt money, and that’s why it pisses me off. He could have stayed here and avoided the guilt. I hate him. I love him. I want to kill him. I want to kiss the living shit out of him.
I slam the heel of my hand on the steering wheel and flop my head against the back of the seat. He makes me nuts. The street sign on the corner blurs, and I feel like my eyeballs are vibrating in their sockets. I take a deep breath, and when I can see clearly again, I exit the car and enter the glass office building.
The first thing I see is a Barbie doll receptionist sitting behind a large marble counter. I can only see her from the neck up, but I’d bet all the money I’ve gathered for this PI that she has double Ds and a plunging neckline. I step forward and cross my arms on the counter while she finishes a call. Yep, low cut, form fitting blouse, double Ds . . . at least add to that long blonde hair and cat eyeliner, and you’ve got a dead ringer for the iconic doll.
“May I help you?”
Oh my God, her voice sounds like a cartoon character. I stifle a laugh.
“Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Bond.” I smile and hope she doesn’t make a joke about James Bond, because I’ve heard just about enough of those from Daddy.
“Up the elevator to the eighth floor. It opens right into his reception area.” Her perfect red-lipped smile is bright and genuine as she points toward the elevator, and I immediately feel guilty for judging a book by its cover.
I’m not usually so cynical, but lately my sorrow has been replaced with bitterness. It’s a coping mechanism, or so my therapist says. I can’t believe I have a stupid therapist. Daddy thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to someone outside of the family. He said I should ‘get it all out there’. I love him and I appreciate how he’s helped jump start my life again, but it’s safe to say that I hate therapy—hate it.
I thank Barbie and ride the swanky elevator up to the eighth floor, where another receptionist greets me behind another tall marble counter. Tucked behind this desk is a stunning brunette with sharp blue eyes and flawless skin. She should be on a runway, not answering phones. It’s actually sort of funny that she works for Mr. Bond, because she looks like a Bond girl, all legs and . . . what the hell? I can’t believe I just had that thought.
Who am I to say what anyone should or shouldn’t be doing? It’s the same thing King is doing to me, assuming he knows what’s best for me when he has no idea.
The gorgeous woman clicks a few keys on her keyboard before looking up at me.
“Ms. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bond is ready for you. Follow me, please.”
I nod and follow her down a long hallway, admiring her legs and her walk, which is exactly like a runway model.
She knocks on the open door.
“Mr. Bond, Ms. Bennett is here to see you.”
For some reason, I was expecting to see a Sean Connery version of James Bond, not the Pierce Brosnan version sitting before me, leisurely drinking coffee.
“Coffee?” he asks, holding up his cup.
Ms. Model receptionist waits at the door with her hand on the knob until I answer.
“No, thank you.”
“That will be all, Sarah.”
Sarah nods and closes the door. When I turn my attention back to Mr. Bond, he’s assessing me, head tilted, curious.
“I thought you’d be older.”
Now what does he mean by that?
“Ah, sorry?” I shrug and fiddle with the edge of my sweater.
“No need to apologize. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. I sit on the edge of the chair, reflecting the way I’m feeling . . . on edge.
His office is warm and inviting, unlike the cold, modern design the rest of the building had. His desk is massive and mahogany, probably an antique. A large Persian rug, warm brown walls, and two floor to ceiling windows make the area feel very masculine.
“If you’re a private investigator, why don’t you know how old I am? And what’s my age got to do with anything?”
“You’re King Romero’s girlfriend, yes?”
“Yes. Was.” I straighten my back and perch even further on the edge of my seat.
“King’s older than you.” His brows lift, as if that answers everything.
“And your point is?”
Mr. Bond sets his coffee cup down and places his elbows on the desk in front of him, steepling his fingers.
“My point is that you’re very young, Ms. Bennett, and King is very dangerous. It’s an observation, that’s all. So you’re trying to find him?”
“Yes, and our baby.”
If the age thing had him curious, the mention of a baby has him drooling.
“You and King have a baby?” he says, lifting his brows.
“Yes, and he disappeared with her three weeks ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
Frowning, he leans back into his chair, lacing his fingers over his abdomen.
“Any idea why he would do that?”
I look at my lap, where my hands are balled into tiny fists.
“I’m a violinist.”
“And? He doesn’t like musicians?”
A smart ass. Great. His attitude makes me want to take my business elsewhere, but after researching, I know he’s the best I can get with the money I have. Actually, he’s way out of my budget. I had to clean out my savings account to pay for this.
“He likes musicians very much, or at least he did.” I thought I’d cried every tear there was left to cry. Wrong. They spring to my eyes, and one escapes down my cheek. I wipe it away. I’m so sick of these conflicted feelings I have for King.
“So why do you think he left you?”
“Our relationship was unexpected. When we decided to make a go of it, we promised each other something.” I snuff, and he leans forward, pushing a box of tissue toward me. I take a couple without making eye contact and dab at my nose.
“What did you promise?”
“I was accepted into Juilliard. We got pregnant, and he didn’t want the baby to interfere with my career, and I wanted him to . . . find a less dangerous occupation.”
“I know he’s a drug kingpin, Ms. Bennett. It’s all right, you can speak freely. I’ll admit I only saw you today because my curiosity got the best of me. I can’t take your case. Nobody can if they want to wake up and live another day. There isn’t a person alive in the state of Texas—or anywhere, for that matter—that would look for King Romero. He’s that dangerous. I understand that you’re upset that he’s disappeared, and I’m sure you’re dying inside without your baby, but being associated in any way with that man is the same as a death wish. His enemies are your enemies, and believe me, you do not want his enemies.”
I move my trembling hands from my lap to grip the arms of the chair. My heart begins to pound, and it falters a beat or two. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. King’s reputation can’t be working in his favor. It’s so unfair.
He could have left me all the money in the world, and no one would have taken it. From what Bond is telling me, opposing King is as good as nailing your own coffin shut. How did I never see the dangerous man that the rest of the world knows so well? How could I have been in love with such a monster? And now that monster with those very dangerous enemies has my baby. No one is going to help me find Juliette. I’m never going to see her again unless King wants me to, and he won’t want me to if I don’t go to Juilliard, period.
I had no idea how serious he was about my future. I thought Mama was demented, but King has her beat a million times over. Hate is winning the war over love for King big time right now. I’d like to bash his head in with my fucking violin and shove my bow up his ass. I hate him for making this decision for me. I hate that he has taken control of my life. I hate that he’s robbing me of even one minute of my daughter’s life. And most of all, I hate him for loving me. He gave me the most precious gift, and then he snatched it away.
I.
Hate.
Him.
I don’t even feel him prying my hands from the arms of the chair. He stands me up, scoops my lifeless rag doll body into his arms, and carries me across his office to the sitting area, where he lays me on the couch and places a pillow under my head. When he’s arranged my hands over my tummy, he sits on the edge of the couch with his hip touching mine.
His lips are moving. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear. I concentrate on every breath. I slide my hand over my heart to see if it’s still beating. It is. He reaches out to brush my hair away from my face. I can’t move.
“Ms. Bennett? Can I call someone for you? I don’t think you should be driving. If there is no one, I can take you wherever you need to go.”
‘If there is no one’
His words penetrate my soul. I don’t have anyone.
“There’s no one,” I whisper.
He looks away, avoiding my eyes for a moment and sighs deeply. And then he closes his eyes, and he speaks the words that keep me from driving my car off a bridge on my way home.
“I will help you.”
The sun comes out from behind the dark black cloud, and my life instantly has purpose again.
“I’m not making any promises, but I can’t watch . . .”—He waves his finger in a circle over my body before finishing his sentence—“this.”
I sit up and wrap my arms around his neck and hug him tight, so tight it hurts. When he doesn’t return the embrace, I let him go and apologize for the uncomfortable moment.
“I’m sorry, I’m just so grateful you’re willing to help.”
“You apologize unnecessarily a lot.”
I swipe the tears off my cheeks and he stands, allowing me room to get up too.
“Not usually.”
“I can see what King saw in you. You’re endearing and a tad addictive. It’s hard to say no to you,” he says, walking away. Is he flirting? God, please don’t let him think he’s going to get anything other than money in return for his services.
