by Claire Adams
I nodded. “I think that’s the right choice,” I said. “Or maybe not the right choice, but the best one, given the circumstances.”
“Because what would the outcome probably be? They’d try to get custody. I could lose him and never see him again, and Sam is in no condition to raise a child by himself. Even if... even if that whole thing hadn’t happened between him and I, he very well could still be using drugs. It’s just not the sort of environment that a child should be in.”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “And Declan loves you and is so happy with you.”
Cole sighed. “I feel like shit about it, though. Deep down, I do. The whole thing is so messed up. I’m just trying to do the best that I can now within the situation that we have to work with, but I know that some people would think it’s totally wrong to raise Declan as my own when his real father is alive and only a few hours from us.”
“You are his real father,” I said. “Don’t tell yourself for a second you aren’t. The issue isn’t so cut and dry. That’s what makes it so complicated. In a perfect world, your sister would still be alive, she and Sam wouldn’t have ever touched drugs, and they’d be raising Declan together, but that’s not the way things turned out.”
“I just wonder sometimes if, later on in life, he hates me for it.”
“I don’t think he’ll hate you for being the best dad for him that you could be. If you do one day decide to tell him, he’ll be old enough to realize that you only had his best interest in mind. It’s not like this is a walk in the park, raising kids. When you’re a parent, you’re not just there for the fun stuff and then you get to leave the responsibilities to someone else. It hasn’t been easy for you, either.”
Cole stared at me for a moment. “Thank you,” he said finally. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve never let myself really say that out loud before, how hard this can be. Because it makes me feel like shit to think that because I know that Declan is a really fucking good kid.”
“He is, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.”
He shook his head. “My life has just turned out so much differently than I thought it would. And I know it’s not a bad life by any means, so I feel bad even bringing it up in the first place.”
I went over and put my arms around him. He stood and put his face against my neck, and we stayed there like that for almost a minute. More than anything, I wanted to be able to take away whatever pain or guilt it was that he was feeling—I knew that he was doing what he thought was right; he was doing something that many people in his situation might not have, whether it was because they couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“Declan is so lucky to have you,” I said. “Anyone can see that he absolutely thinks the world of you. You have done right by him so far, Cole; don’t let yourself think that you won’t be able to continue to do so.”
“That’s all I really want,” he said. “I want him to have a good childhood and be prepared for whatever it is that life throws at him when he’s an adult.”
We had pulled back from the hug, though our arms were still around each other. Cole smiled. I smiled back, and I felt so happy standing there, his arms around me, our bodies pressed against each other, and I knew, without a doubt, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Cole
It was actually a cool night, more like early fall than summer, so I started a fire in the pit, and Allie and I sat in the Adirondack chairs with our feet facing the flames. We were wearing sweatshirts, and our chairs were right next to each other, so we were able to hold hands as we watched the flames lick the sides of the fire pit.
“I should have bought marshmallows,” I said. “I feel as though I’m depriving you of an authentic Maine camping experience.”
“Next time,” she said.
When the fire started to get low, I added another log and a few smaller branches and poked at it with a bigger stick. There was some crackling, and I stirred the ashes, watching the embers glow bright and then fade to a darker orange. It had always mesmerized me, the way fire could reduce almost anything to ash, the way that ash could so easily get picked up and carried off by the wind, only to disintegrate when it finally came to rest. And, just like that, an object that was something wasn’t anymore. It was gone.
I put the stick down and looked over at Allie.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I went inside, quietly going up the stairs. I peeked in on Declan, who was sound asleep in his bed, the covers kicked off at the bottom of the bed. I went in and pulled them back up over him and brushed a few strands of hair back from his forehead. Then I went into my room, into my walk-in closet. I got the shoe box and pulled the letter out. I stood there and read it.
I just don’t want to live anymore. I know that’s not the right thing
to say, the right way to feel, but it’s the truth. I’ve caused other
people so much pain, and I’m so tired. I hope you can forgive me
and not blame yourselves because there is nothing anyone could
say that would change my mind. All I ever wanted was to be happy,
but for some reason, despite all the privilege I was born into,
I am unable to feeling anything but this overwhelming sadness.
I forgive you, Cole, for what you did to Sam. I know that’s not who
you really are, I know that we all end up doing things sometimes
that we don’t mean to do. I probably know that better than
anybody. Please watch out for Declan. Take care of him. I know
that Sam can’t, so you have to. You’ll be a better parent than
either of us ever could anyway, so maybe for once, I’ve done
the right thing. ~Marissa
I set the letter down on my bed and put the shoe box back into the closet. I left the letter unfolded and carried it with me outside. I dropped it into the fire pit and watched as the orange flames snaked up the page, the way the corners curled in, darkening, disintegrating until it was reduced to ash that flittered through the air like snow. Perhaps one day, when he was old enough, I would tell Declan the truth about who his parents were. We could look at old childhood pictures of Marissa, and I could tell him how she liked to swim as far as she could underwater, pretending she was a dolphin, or her favorite flavor of ice cream. But I would not tell him that she had killed herself, and I would let my mother continue to think that it had all been a terrible accident.
“What was that?” Allie asked.
“That was the letter my sister wrote,” I said. “And it was time for it to go. I don’t want to have it anymore.”
Maybe it was a little dramatic, a little over the top to do it like that. But there wasn’t a need for me to keep the letter, and now that I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t feel compelled to look at it. It was, in a way, like putting the past to rest, closing the chapter on that part of my life, and starting a new one with Allie.
I sat back down, but Allie got up, came over, and sat on my lap. She wrapped her arms around my neck and looked at me, a smile on her face. “I just want you to know how happy you make me,” she said. “And how I love the fact that you are so willing to put other people’s needs and well-being ahead of your own.” She kissed me, but right as I started to kiss her back, she was sliding off my lap, kneeling between my legs. She unzipped my fly. “But now I want you to let me take care of you,” she said, her smile turning coy.
The fire crackled. I couldn’t remember ever feeling happier, more content, just at ease, knowing that this was the way life was supposed to be. I leaned back in the chair and let my eyes close as I felt her gorgeous mouth press against me.
Epilogue
Allie
“I think everything’s ready,” Cole said.
We stood on the deck and surveyed the backyard, which we’d set up for the cookout we were having that afternoon. We’d strung a colored cloth pennant that I’d haphazardly managed to sew together between
two maple trees, and we had covered the picnic table and the table on the deck in embroidered tablecloths that Cole’s mother had given to us. It was actually Declan’s 6th birthday party/baby shower. Declan had had a party earlier that week with friends from school, so this party would be for our families. Both sets of our parents would be coming, as well as Amy and Ben.
“You feeling all right?” Cole asked. He reached out and touched my stomach, which, at seven months pregnant, was large and unwieldy. As he said it, I could feel the baby kick and squirm inside of me, a feeling that would never get old, even when it was happening at 2 in the morning and keeping me up.
“Yeah, I feel great,” I said, even though my lower back was a little sore from carrying all this extra weight around, and my feet were definitely tired. But aside from that, I really did feel great. I had never imagined when I moved up to Maine and into that little house that my next door neighbor would end up being the love of my life, the man I would marry. We’d gotten married last year on the coast of Maine, standing on a rocky ledge with a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean. Four months later, I found out I was pregnant.
It wasn’t exactly how we had planned it, though we were both beyond excited. Declan was, too, and everyone else was dying to know if it was a boy or a girl, which we planned to announce at the party later today.
“Do you think we should make them wait?” Cole asked. “Not make the announcement until maybe the end of the party?”
I laughed. “Yeah right, good luck with that. You know that’s all they’re going to be able to talk about. They’re probably going to walk in the door, and that’s the first thing they’re going to want to know.”
“You’re probably right,” he said. “Maybe we should just tell everyone that we decided not to find out after all.”
We almost had decided to forego finding out the gender at the 20-week ultrasound. There were so few true surprises left in the world, it seemed (the good kind, anyway), but I wanted to know ahead of time; I wanted to paint the nursery and get some baby clothes, and not just the gender-neutral kind.
“I have been thinking about names,” I said.
“Oh, have you? I’m sure my mother will come with a list of ones she hopes we use.”
“My mom probably will, too. But... I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I think I know what I’d like to name the baby. If it’s okay with you.”
“Okay,” he said. “What?”
I paused. “Marissa.”
I’d known from the beginning that if the baby turned out to be a girl, that I wanted to call her that. And after the big ultrasound and we found out the baby was indeed a girl, I’d taken to referring to her as Marissa when I’d talk to her in my head. Yet now as I stood there, having just told Cole, I felt a flare of uncertainty; was it wrong of me to suggest that? I had never met Marissa, after all, though by now I’d seen pictures of her, and Cole and his parents had told me stories about her, and she seemed like someone that I probably would have been friends with, if she were still alive.
Cole’s expression was hard to read; his face didn’t immediately break out into a smile, though he wasn’t frowning, either. But just when I was about to say that we could think of something else if he wanted to, he pressed his lips together and nodded. His eyes had misted over.
“I think that would be perfect,” he said softly. “I really do.”
“Me too.”
He put his arms around me and pulled me toward him. “I love you, Allie,” he said. “And our daughter.”
“I love the both of you,” I said. He smiled, and I leaned in and kissed him. I felt baby Marissa kick inside me, as if she was saying I love you too.
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BILLIONAIRE RIDES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Ethan
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Colson?"
"Yes: blow me," I stated.
I leaned back in my chair as my beautiful assistant Angela got down on her knees beneath my desk and went to work. I ran my hands through her red hair as her head bobbed up and down and her mouth worked enthusiastically. Within a few moments, her expert tongue would bring me to climax and I'd shoot my load down her eager throat, and then watch as she picked up her files and went back to work.
This was the life, and I was living the dream every man wished for — only it hadn't come easily. I'd started working at 13 when my mother ran out on my father and me for another man. My father had been weak and couldn't take it. He turned to drinking and could never hold onto a job, so it was up to me if we were going to keep from starving out on the streets.
It was tough, but even though I was working full time, I still managed to keep top grades in school. One of my teachers noticed and recommended me for a special internship in the Business Leaders of Tomorrow program at his alma mater. My father had remarried by then, and I knew he'd be okay on his own, so I went ahead and applied, never thinking that I'd really get in — but I did.
They admitted me on full scholarship, and when the program was over, I was offered full-time employment at one of the nation's top manufacturers of engine parts: Krueger Auto Parts. Even without a fancy degree, I could do the job of running the shipping and manufacturing warehouses in every town I was sent to, and soon I was brought to work in their corporate headquarters in Los Angeles.
I worked my ass off, coming in early every morning and staying late every night. I took on all the shit assignments nobody wanted to do and volunteered to work weekends and even holidays. I climbed up the ranks faster than anyone had ever seen, and by 30, I was running the motorcycle parts division for Krueger.
The job was my passion, and I worked closely with scientists and engineers, wanting to learn everything I could about what made bikes run better, faster, and more efficiently. I talked with long-time riders and kids just starting to learn what they wanted in a bike. On my days off, I went for long rides in the California countryside to get a feel for the wind in my face, the tires on the road, and the motor between my legs. It was a powerful feeling, completely freeing, and I wanted more. Most importantly, I understood what drove our customers and how to give them the best riding experience possible.
I took my ideas to the CEO and founder of the company Martin Krueger, but he didn't give a shit.
"Do you have any idea how expensive it would be to start manufacturing this motorcycle? We would have to sell 100,000 to make a profit," Krueger said, crossing his mushy arms over his fat belly. His balding head was always beaded perspiration, and his skin was a shade too pink, like an angry little piggy.
"So, we'll sell 100,000. I'm willing to work with marketing to get our name out there, not just as a parts manufacturer, but as a creator of the country's best motorcycle. Once riders try this bike, they'll sell themselves. I just need our factories to build them," I said passionately.
I believed in the product I had worked so hard to develop. I'd created cost estimates, profit projection reports, and even had a sample of the bike created as an example, using my own savings. The bike had been test-driven by a dozen different riders, and they all loved it. I knew the bike would be a huge success — if only Krueger would give it a chance.
Unfortunately, Krueger was too stodgy and stuck in his ways. He handed me back my research without even taking the time to look at it.
"If we m
anufactured that many bikes and they didn't sell, it would ruin us. Just stick to your job of managing the parts warehouses and leave it to Harley Davidson to build the bikes. I didn't hire you for your creativity. Why do you think I plucked you out of the intern program instead of going for someone with a business degree? It's because I want someone who will just be a cog in the engine I designed and not try and one-up me with dumb ideas. Don't forget who signs the paychecks around here. Now quit wasting time and get back to work."
That's when I quit. Krueger gave me a nice severance package, after I put the portly piece of shit in a headlock and threatened to expose some of his muddy little secrets to the media.
I used the money, along with what I made selling off all my Krueger stock, to invest in my own motorcycle company. The bank didn't want to give me a business loan at first, but I had a good reference to co-sign with me — my old teacher was now a professor at the Ivy League university where the banker wanted to send his son and the professor promised to give him a letter of recommendation.
It was all I needed, and Speed Motorcycles was born.
I named my first bike The Rebel, and it sold 200,000 units the first year and double that the next year. After that, I designed the Chrome Cruiser and then Highway Man. Each design was more successful than the last, and when Krueger came to me begging for the contract to distribute our patented specialty parts, I did one better and bought the son-of-bitch out. Now, all parts for Speed Motorcycles bikes were manufactured and sold by our own distributing subsidiary, Krueger Auto Parts, and fat, old Krueger gets his paychecks signed by me.
I could have fired him after that and destroyed his company by selling it off bit by bit, but that's not my style. People don't learn from cruelty. They learn from discipline, carefully measured and distributed with thoughtful intent.
