by Penny Reid
Honestly, I felt like one wrong move, or word, or glance, and he might trash the inside of the private jet…or scream at me. As such, all four of us had been silent. Even Sam saw fit to keep her sarcasm bottled up as she thumbed silently through a magazine like it held the answers to the perfect tennis game.
I was again faced with the reality that I didn’t know the right thing to say to my boyfriend. As I stewed in this realization, I further recognized that being held hostage by his anger bothered me more than the possibility of getting yelled at.
My nagging disquiet grew as I watched him, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his breathing purposefully slow. He was so alone, entirely focused inward, lost in a dark place. This was where Martin Sandeke lived and how he’d learned to survive. I couldn’t stand it.
I loved him.
Watching him fumbling through the labyrinth of his wrath was akin to my unreachable itch, except this time it was in my brain and heart.
Therefore, and acting completely on instinct, I unclicked my seatbelt, crossed to him, and sat on his lap. He stiffened, his razor eyes cutting to mine, laced with a fevered fury and severe warning. I ignored them.
Instead I encircled him with my arms, threading my fingers and nails into the hair at the nape of his neck, and whispered in his ear, “I love you, Martin. I love you.”
He grew rigid for a split second, but then he embraced me. Really, he crushed me to him with his powerful arms and his forehead fell to my shoulder. We sat like that for several minutes—me gently scratching the back of his head and placing soft kisses everywhere I could, given my limited range of motion, and him holding onto me like a life raft. I silently rejoiced when I perceived the inflexibility wane, ease, relax, and his breathing grow normal, less measured.
He broke the silence with a growled, “I hate him.”
“I can see why.” I wanted to add that hating his father was counterproductive, as it gave his father all the power. But I didn’t. I figured we’d have plenty of time in the future for me to help Martin deal with his poorly controlled rage where his father was concerned.
“He sent Patrice.” He said this against my neck, his voice a broken whisper.
“On Wednesday morning? When I was in your room?”
“No. When I was fourteen. He sent her…to me.”
My eyes narrowed with confusion and I stared at the side of his head. “I don’t understand. What do you mean he sent her to you?”
I felt Martin gather a deep breath before he lifted his face from where it had been sheltered in my neck. He avoided my eyes, opting instead to stare at the cabin’s ceiling and rest the back of his head against the headrest.
“After my mother died, I moved in with my father. I’d never…I’d never spent time with him before, but I’d always thought of him as a way to escape my mother’s manipulations. During the first year he ignored me. Then something changed when I was fourteen. Everything was a test, all of our interactions were mind-games and I was always failing, and he always let me know how much of a disappointment I was. I wanted to prove myself to him. I thought I could earn his respect.”
Martin’s eyes darted to mine and he gave me a wan smile shaded with bitterness as he continued. “I was so fucking stupid, naïve. I thought no one could be worse than my mother, and I’d worshiped my father. But I was wrong.”
I studied him, thought about what it must have been like for him as a shy, beautiful boy to be at the whim of a fame-seeking mother, then thrust upon his unfeeling, manipulative father. I’d been allowed to hide in closets. He had not. My heart broke for him.
As well, his earlier statement, about his father sending Patrice to him nagged at me, filled my stomach with dread.
I prompted gently, “What did you mean, your father sent Patrice to you when you were fourteen?”
He heaved a sigh. “When I was fourteen she climbed into my bed. She was naked. I was asleep. She put my hands on her body and kissed me, touched me…” He said this like the words were sour and swallowed. “I woke up and realized what was happening, so I pushed her out of the bed and my room. The next morning I went to my father and told him what happened—this was before they were married, so I figured he’d leave her. Instead he laughed at me. He told me he’d sent her, that it was a test, and that I’d finally passed a test.”
“Test? What kind of test?”
Martin held my gaze as he explained, his tone hollow. “He had to marry her, she has something incriminating on him, but I’m not sure what. But he wanted to keep his money out of her reach, so it was a loyalty test. I think he liked the irony of using her to ensure her undoing. Shortly after that he transferred all his property into my name using a trust.”
“What about his bank accounts? Surely she can just raid those in a divorce?”
He shook his head, adding impassively, “No. In their state of residence, draft accounts existing prior to marriage, even new deposits, aren’t community property, nor are retirement, stock options, and savings. That’s why the houses—the ones he owned and the new ones he’s purchased—are in my name. They’re in a trust until I turn twenty-one.”
“So…next year?”
“No. Four months.”
I stared at him, nonplussed. I’m sure my eyebrows were drawn together in a severe frown of equal parts anger and disbelief. I shook my head at this elaborate scheming, the disgusting test of loyalty that had obviously humiliated and scarred Martin, and felt the acidity of furious indignation rise in my throat, building a concrete structure in my chest.
But before I could vocalize my horrified amazement, Martin added in a voice so quiet I could barely make out his words, “Then he told her. He told Patrice she could use me if she wanted.”
“He what?!” I blurted. Actually, it was more like a shriek.
“She didn’t—she tried, but she didn’t get a chance. I wasn’t at the house much after that.”
I was so angry. My eyes were burning and fury choked my throat. Therefore, without meaning to, I expelled my acrid thoughts. “What a goddamn, motherfucking sonofabitch.”
He laughed a little, obviously surprised, and his answering smile was small and sad. “I don’t know. I never met my grandmother.”
I huffed a laugh, but my features twisted with sadness and anger, and I wanted to make everything better for him. Yet I felt completely helpless. I noted he was avoiding my eyes again; as well, his earlier rage had dissipated and seemed to be replaced with a simmering and fierce determination.
I moved my hands to frame his face and feathered a soft kiss over his lips. “I wish I could drop a house on your father,” I whispered.
His mouth tugged to the side, so I kissed the side of his mouth.
“No...I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”
I lifted an eyebrow at this statement and leaned back just far enough so I could look in Martin’s eyes. “What he deserves is your apathy.”
His eyes flashed and I felt his fingers flex on my body as he contradicted through clenched teeth. “No. What he deserves is to be ruined and humiliated.”
My gaze moved over Martin’s features and I saw passion there. It was dark passion, potent and fathomless. I was certain he was absolutely intent on being the instrument of his father’s destruction.
It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that he might not want to work through the issues with his father. Rather, it appeared his zealous loathing for his father might currently be the driving force in his life.
“Martin—” I started, but stopped, unsure how to proceed but needing to say something. I swallowed as I searched his eyes for some thread of sanity and reason where Denver Sandeke was concerned. I found none. “Martin, maybe take a step back from this. I understand your father is a horrible man who has done horrible things, but what can be done? He’s very powerful.”
“He’s not untouchable,” he was quick to point out, his eyes growing a darker shade of blue as he added, “and I have a plan…”
“B
ut why waste your energy on him? Why not forget him, cut him out of your life like the cancer he is, and move forward with your—”
He shook his head while I spoke, his jaw tight with steely determination, and interrupted me. “No. Fuck no!”
I flinched and his grip tightened on my body as he continued with a harsh whisper, “Nothing else matters other than making him suffer. I’m going to be the one to destroy him. Seeing him humiliated is all I’ve thought about and planned for since I was fourteen. If I achieve nothing else in life, if I do nothing else…” He ended there, his eyes losing focus as his thoughts turned inward to a dark place I couldn’t follow.
My disquiet spread, trepidation ballooning with the dawning comprehension that Martin had allowed this passion—this hatred for his father—to define him.
And most of all, more than the tragic and twisted tales of his childhood, this realization broke my heart.
CHAPTER 12
Factors Affecting Solubility
The plane landed and I was in a mood. An introspective, anxious, overthinking-the-situation mood.
Whereas Martin’s mood had lightened considerably.
When we stepped off the plane and piled into the limo, my mood did not improve. Eric and Martin discussed what to do about Ben’s abdication from the team. Sam tossed me searching looks. I stared out the window.
When we arrived at the dorm and the boys carried our luggage into the building, my mood did not improve, not even when Martin pulled me into an abandoned study room on the first floor and motioned for Sam and Eric to go on ahead. Not even when he backed me up against the door, crowded my space, his eyes dark and hot with intent.
Not until he said, “I told you because I trust you, Kaitlyn. I don’t want anything—least of all my fucked-up past—coming between us.”
I held his gaze and felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders, leaving me feeling merely melancholy. “Thank you for trusting me. I’m just…I’m just so sorry you had to go through that. I know trusting can’t be easy for you.”
“You make it easy.” His eyes lit as he caught my wrists, and used his body to press me against the door. Martin’s voice dropped an octave as he added, “Being with you, listening to you play music, calling you on your bullshit…”
I lifted an eyebrow at this, feeling acutely peeved and opening my mouth to protest. He grinned and spoke faster to keep me from interrupting. “…touching you, kissing you, watching you come, making love to you…you make everything right.”
I felt my cheeks warm as he held my gaze and his lips slowly descended to mine. I lifted my chin to meet his mouth, anticipating his kiss, hungry for it.
Martin released my wrists as his mouth slid over mine, his greedy hands moving under my shirt to the bare skin of my torso. When we parted, my fingers were twisted in his hair and I was breathless; as well, he’d built a fire in the vicinity of my pants.
He was basically an Eagle Scout of pants fires.
So I groaned and pleaded, sounding silly and pathetic to my own ears, “I miss you already. Will you stay? I could spend some time calling you on your bullshit, or we could study chemistry.”
“Or make out.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
He laughed, stole a fast kiss, and then hugged me to him. I returned his embrace and felt him speak against my hair. “I have to go back to the house, make a few calls, take care of some business. But then I’ll come back and stay as long as you want me to stay.”
I nodded, nuzzling his chest, and smiled, thinking how intoxicatingly wonderful it was to have the promise of an evening with Martin in my immediate future.
***
I was in a much better mood when we walked into the suite area of my dorm room, and right into the tall, straight, hard chest of a secret service agent.
No one ever expects the secret service.
I backed up, excusing myself, and stepped on Martin’s foot as he was following close behind me. He held my shoulder with one hand, and shifted us both away from the agent. My mind went around the Ferris wheel of confusion only twice before I realized that the presence of the secret service could only mean that my mother was someplace nearby.
I was expecting her for brunch on Sunday, as per our earlier discussion.
Her plans must’ve changed.
“Oh, hello,” I said automatically, reaching out my hand to the man, “I’m Kaitlyn Parker.”
The man was dressed in a black suit, black tie, and white shirt; his sunglasses were tucked in his coat pocket and I caught my reflection in half of the lens peeking out of its home.
“I’m Stevens.” Stevens accepted my hand for an efficient shake, his dark brown eyes skating over Martin then back to me. His tone was equally efficient. “Ms. Parker, the senator is waiting for you in your room.”
“Okay.” I nodded and glanced at Martin over my shoulder as I searched for the handle of my suitcase behind me. “Hey, you want to meet my mom?”
His eyebrows jumped and he shifted on his feet, relinquishing the luggage to my care. “Uh…sssssure.”
It was easy to see he was caught by surprise, so I waited for a beat, turned, and studied his face. “You don’t have to. You can go make your calls and come back later. There is no pressure here. She can be kind of intimidating.”
He gave me a bantam smile, really just a hint of one whispering over his lips, and his tone turned teasing. “Really? Intimidating? I hadn’t heard that about your mother…who is a US senator.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and pressed my mouth into a flat line to keep from laughing; I turned back to the agent and asked, “Do you need to frisk him? I can do it for you if you want.”
Martin made a choking sound behind me.
The agent did not smile. “Yes, ma’am. I will need to search him before he approaches the senator.”
I nodded and walked around the secret service agent, then turned and walked backward toward my dorm room door.
“See you inside,” I said cheerfully. I also winked at him.
He scowled at me, but then had to move his attention to the agent who was instructing him to put his hands out, palms up.
I snickered and walked into my room. I found my mom sitting in the chair next to my microwave talking on her cell phone. She was dressed in her typical outfit: an expensive, nicely tailored pantsuit accessorized simply with an American flag lapel pin. The cut and style remained constant, but the color varied between blues, black, and greys. Today she was in black.
Her eyes lifted to mine as I entered and she smiled warmly, pointing to her phone then lifting her index finger in the universal sign for, give me one minute.
I nodded and placed my suitcase on my bed, returning her smile. I unzipped the bag and began emptying its contents to keep myself busy…because I found I was equal parts nervous and excited. I really, really wanted her to like Martin—so, nervous. And I was certain she would like him—so, excited.
Everything with Martin had happened so fast; in some ways I was still on that speeding train, because it didn’t occur to me that my mother meeting Martin would yield anything but stellar results.
Turns out, she really did only need a minute to end her call. In fact, I think she clicked off without saying goodbye.
As she stood and pulled me into a quick hug, she said, “I hope you don’t mind, I asked Sam and her friend if we could have the room for a few minutes. She dropped her things off just a moment ago.”
I shrugged and returned her fast embrace. “No, no. That’s fine. I think she has to go check in with her tennis coach anyway.”
She released me and folded her hands in front of her. She never crossed her arms. When she stood still she always folded her hands. She told me once that early in her career folding her hands kept her from fidgeting. Now she did it out of habit.
“Good. You must be wondering why I’m here a day early and without your father.” Her gray gaze moved over me searchingly, like she was cataloguing changes in my a
ppearance.
“I told George I wouldn’t be back until today when I called him last week. I hope you got the message.”
“Yes. Your unexpected trip. That’s partially why I’m here.” My mother’s eyes finally settled on mine and I detected a slight hesitation in her usually confident voice.
I frowned, casting her a sideways glance. “Is everything all right?”
Her eyes softened in an alarming way, and she opened her mouth to respond. But then she quickly snapped it shut and glanced at the door over my shoulder. I followed her gaze and found Martin hovering at the entrance to my room. I couldn’t help my giant smile.
“Oh!” I reached for his hand, not really registering the stoic mask that had slipped over his features as I tugged him into the room and turned back to my mother. “Mom, this is Martin Sandeke. Martin, this is my mom, Joss Parker.”
I knew I sounded positively giddy as I made the introductions, but I couldn’t help it. I was so excited. I loved my mother, and was so proud of her. She was my superhero. I was her biggest fan.
And now I was introducing my Martin to her, this boy I loved so much.
I figured that since they were both amazing and brilliant, and had wonderful thoughts about the future of Big Telecom and technology, the two of them would immediately fall into a stimulating conversation on the subject. I ignored the fact that Martin’s intentions weren’t entirely altruistic because the outcome of his plans would benefit society just the same.
I glanced between them as they shook hands, grinning, waiting for the stimulating conversation to begin.
It didn’t begin.
Instead I watched as my mother became Senator Parker, her gray eyes adopting their steely and coldly assessing glint as she looked Martin up and down.
“Senator Parker,” he said.
“Mr. Sandeke,” she said.
My stomach sank at their mirrored frowns and frosty posturing. I winced and tried to swallow, a thick, foggy numbness unfurling in my stomach as comprehension struggled to dawn and silence stretched.
