Quest (The Boys of RDA Book 4)

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  Crap. I definitely overshared. “Things.”

  “Will you ever trust me enough to tell me more about yourself?”

  Now I’m the one to answer with a shrug giving him the possibility of hope even though I know the answer is never. It would be a quick end for us after he learns those stories.

  **

  The last half of my perfectly round-cut filet mignon and the three little shrimp sitting on top all laugh at me as I stare down at it forlornly. It’s definitely time for me to tap out.

  I ate the salad.

  I ate the chicken tortilla soup.

  I ate most of the steak.

  But I can’t go on. I’ve never had to worry about it before, but I’m pretty sure filet mignon doesn’t taste as good coming back up.

  From his side of the table Grant’s eyes are downcast, but his lip twitches like he’s suppressing a smile. At least he’s smart enough he hasn’t made a comment. Yet.

  I toss my napkin beside my plate, figuratively throwing in the towel. Grant’s head pops up, but he looks past me. He stands quickly and reaches a hand out before I turn to see who has him excited.

  My stomach flops and the blood runs from my face. The dinner I forced down threatens to come back up. Neither of the two men next to me notice.

  Grant shakes hands with an older gentleman. His pressed black slacks with a matching suit jacket and baby blue tie scream business. It’s Saturday evening, but he looks like he walked straight out of the boardroom. There are wrinkles around his eyes making him distinguished, but he still doesn’t look older than thirty-five.

  But he is.

  Much older in fact. He and Grant appear so close in age the man Grant idly chats with could easily be his father.

  I know because he’s mine.

  Drugs wreaked havoc on my mother’s body, prematurely aging her, but William Cunningham the third escaped a similar fate with the help of his family. Too bad their charity didn’t extend to his out of wedlock baby or her once perfectly happy mother.

  It’s nice to see dear old dad doing so well for himself. A small part of me realized this day would come, but it’s not a family reunion you are ever ready to attend. With determination from an unknown source inside of me, I stare up and meet my father’s eyes for the first time in twenty-four years.

  He blinks. And reaches out a long arm to shake my hand. There is not an ounce of recognition in his eyes. Granted he only saw me a few times as an infant, but isn’t a parent supposed to know? What about those stories of parents being separated from their children and spotting them years later across a crowded room?

  “This is William Cunningham the third,” Grant introduces me like I’m meeting the pope.

  He smiles a huge toothy grin and winks at me. My stomach falls. Grant might not fully understand the name connection, but it’s obvious he plans to make a big deal of it now. “And William, this is Clare –”

  I stand from the table, jostling the water glasses. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I rush the reply before Grant discloses my last name.

  Grant shoots me a questioning expression but continues with the conversation flawlessly. “Clare works at the San Francisco youth center. She’s the director. In charge of all the operations.” His eyes light up as he talks about me. For the first time I see myself through his eyes. He sounds proud.

  William — he’s never earned the name dad — nods his head. He shoots a thin smile in my direction and then immediately dismisses me turning his attention back to Grant.

  Even as a companion to Grant I’m not good enough for him.

  “Ahh. It makes sense now, Grant.” He claps him on the shoulder like they’re best buddies. “How much has she squeezed you for in donations?” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke anyone has ever heard.

  It stings. Obviously he thinks the only reason Grant would be seen with someone like me would be over work with the center. There’s not a chance we’d be a couple or anything. It’s like watching every single fear or insecurity I’ve had about Grant and me played out before my very eyes.

  Grant leans forward like he’s about to stick up for me or do something worse like introduce me as his girlfriend. I’m not particularly fond of either option.

  “Grant and his friends raised over one hundred thousand dollars for the center earlier this year. He’s quite the philanthropist,” I say patting him on the arm.

  “That he is. I’ve never seen Grant make a bad investment.”

  The deep mahogany covered walls move a few inches closer and the air grows stuffy. The two men turn back to small talk and I sit down, my stomach tight. A few deep breaths stop the table from shaking. Or maybe it’s because I removed my unsteady hands from the edge.

  I need to get out of here.

  From the corner of my eye, a tall slender woman in a blue sequined dress approaches our table. Her hand wraps around William’s arm as she smiles up at him. Her evening attire put the single pair of black dress pants I own with the light green blouse I borrowed from Aspen to shame. My stepmother is gorgeous, but she has nothing on my mom in her twenties. Well except the right last name and breeding qualities. I’m sure William didn’t meet his wife at an Aerosmith concert and have an illicit eleven-month affair resulting in a baby.

  “William dear, our table is ready,” she says in a sickly sweet voice and tugs on his arm. The pair make their goodbyes and head in the other direction.

  I muster a small wave to remain polite, but neither of them spare me a second glance. That’s the way it’s always been. I’ve never had any desire to meet my father. Now I remember why.

  Every few years I run a Google search on him and give my mother an update on where his life went, but I’ve never wanted more. Even as we lived in rat-infested apartments and struggled to eat, she concerned herself with whether William prospered.

  Love does absolutely disgusting mutations to the human mind.

  It ruins lives.

  Starts wars.

  Tragedy.

  “Are you okay?” Grant asks taking a seat at the table again. “Your face is completely white. Are you feeling ill?”

  Oh, I’m sick all right. Tears well up and threaten to spill. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

  I slide my chair back from the table to make a hasty exit.

  My feet take a small step up to the next level of the raised restaurant when Grant calls out, “Clare, wait!”

  But I don’t stop.

  An elevator waits, its doors open, ready for the next person and I walk in without a moment’s hesitation. The first tear drips down my face as I hit the L button for lobby. The doors close, sealing me in the small room right as Grant’s face clears the restaurant doorway.

  It’s better he not see me cry. That would lead to a lot of questions. My tears grow stronger with every floor the elevator sails past until it dings, announcing my arrival on the ground floor. The taxi stand is straight to the front door and I walk as quickly as possible without running. My breath comes in short gasps and I struggle to get control long enough to tell a cab where to take me.

  So many times I’ve envisioned what I’d do when I met my father. None of my fantasies happened like this. I was supposed to be strong and independent. Flippant. Someone unconcerned with a missing father in my childhood. I never expected not to be recognized.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and approach the valet with a straight back. For what it’s worth he pretends I’m not crying like an idiot and quickly hails a cab. It isn’t until he’s holding the door open I remember I’m not carrying any cash. I keep going, sure Drew will loan me a few dollars when I make it home.

  “Clare! Stop!”

  I turn back at Grant’s voice.

  Grant continues running right up to the cab door, his hand holding on the frame to stop it from closing. He shoots the valet a murderous look and the young kid steps away. The bravado only last a few seconds before he doubles over, a hand to his side as he gasps for air.

  “Grant, how did y
ou get down here?”

  “Threw… credit card… on table,” he gasped between each word.

  “Did you take the stairs?”

  “Only the last… ten flights. Mine stopped… To let people on… couldn’t wait.”

  I sniffle and wipe away the new tears created from his dedication. Damn him for being sweet.

  “Come on.” He stands but tilts to the side obviously not fully recovered. “Let’s go.”

  Grant waves his hand shooing me into the backseat and I go without a complaint. At least until he gives the cabbie the address back to his hotel room. Right now I need to be around someone who will understand. He looks taken aback when I correct him but doesn’t complain or stop me.

  The cab cuts into traffic and Grant pulls me into his arms. His affection starts a new wave of waterworks. The whole ordeal pisses me off. Like I didn’t have enough reasons to hate my father. Now I need to add “made me cry in a public” to the long list.

  “Hey. It’s okay.” Grant rubs my arm and uses a soothing voice like he’s comforting a small child.

  My sobs and gasps make it impossible to answer. There’s twenty-four years of angry emotions to get out. It’s an acceptable reaction when your own father doesn’t recognize you. Not even my first name — the name of his firstborn child — gave him pause.

  Wouldn’t a good man at least give a second glance when he heard it? Stare into the woman’s eyes searching for whether or not it could be her? Only in my daydreams.

  Maybe he’s forgotten about me.

  Clare Cunningham, daughter of Theresa Washington, is forgettable. Everyone who doesn’t meet the Cunningham definition of acceptable isn’t worthy of his time.

  “What happened? What did I do to upset you?” Grant pleads, but it only intensifies my cries as the minutes pass.

  The cab slows. I take my head off Grant’s shoulder and pretend I didn’t get his suit jacket wet from my crying. I don’t wait for Grant to pay before I jump out of the cab with my fingers crossed Drew is home.

  The heavy wooden door bangs on the wall as I shove it open and call out to the empty living room. It takes me three more times before Drew runs out into our shared hallway, his eyes wild ready to take on an attacker.

  I fall into his arms and Drew squeezes me to his bare chest. “What the hell did you do?” One hand releases me and flies toward Grant hitting him in the upper chest.

  Grant takes a step back. “I don’t know. Everything was fine and then she started crying. Ran from the restaurant.”

  “It was him,” I force the words out.

  Drew squeezes my shoulder. “Grant?”

  I shake my head. “No. William.”

  Drew is the only person aware of my entire history. It’s hard to keep certain facts away from other kids when you live together in a foster home. I’m a lockbox for everyone except him; therefore, it doesn’t take him any other words to figure out who I’m talking about.

  He also knows about the William updates over the years. He’d stand behind me shaking his head whenever my mother would request more information and I’d spend an hour printing off news articles. Over the last few years of her sentence, he’s put his nonexistent psychology degree to use telling me it won’t help anyone move on. As if I didn’t know that. But when your mom is facing years behind bars, you give in to the small requests.

  “What?” Grant asks. “You know William?”

  “They have the same last name,” Drew sneers the words across the room where Grant stopped in the hallway.

  “She told me she wasn’t related.”

  I did tell him that.

  The first time we met.

  I saw the sliver of a connection in his eye when I introduced myself. Two Cunninghams in the same town. We must be related, right? I jumped in before he asked any of the questions I didn’t want to answer. I reassured him I wasn’t “one of the good ones.”

  Because I’m not.

  Never have been and never will be. William’s mother made sure of it when she made him choose between being a father to me by marrying my mother or the family fortune.

  He chose money.

  And for whatever stupid reason — my mother calls it love — she’s never blamed him.

  It’s okay. I blame him enough for the both of us.

  Drew continues to rub circles on my shoulder while he leads me to the couch in our living room. He sits down beside me but pulls away a fraction of an inch. “You have to tell him.”

  I shake my head refusing to lift it.

  “Yes, you do. I’ll be right here.” He squeezes me reassuringly, but it doesn’t help. “Grant, have a seat. Clare has something she needs to tell you.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Well we’ll sit here all night until you do.” Drew breaks out his big brother I-mean-business voice as Grant sits in an open chair on the other side of the room.

  “He didn’t recognize me. Not a flicker,” I say into Drew’s shoulder. Another minute passes with no one speaking while I get my breathing under control enough to tell the story since it doesn’t seem like Drew is going to step up and help me out by telling it himself.

  When I’m able to speak again, I walk Grant through my history. There isn’t much to tell. The concert, the love affair, the baby, William’s mother’s insistence he no longer see me. When he asks about my mother and what she thinks of the whole affair, I’m forced to give details. But keep her current location secret. I skim over the years of dirty crumbling apartments, abusive boyfriends, and most of the drug addiction years. But eventually Drew picks up the story and explains our fated meeting in foster care. Then he spends even more time chastising me for not telling Grant sooner.

  Grant sits quietly as each of us delivers a part of the story. A few times he nods his head or his eyes get squinty in concentration, but he doesn’t talk. When it’s obvious we’ve run out of stories to share, he still hasn’t spoken. I brace, ready for him to walk out of the room. I’ve been rejected by one rich family in San Francisco. It’s only a matter of time until he figures out I’m not worthy too.

  “You have to tell him.” Grant’s first words echo in the quiet room, but it doesn’t help their impact.

  “Oh trust me, he knows. He was there for a few months.”

  “But he doesn’t know who you are now.” Grant stands from his spot in the chair and paces back and forth.

  “Why would he deserve to meet Clare now?” Drew jumps to my defense. About damn time too.

  “I’ve known William my entire life. He wouldn’t forget a baby. He loves his kids.” His final words come at me like a knife. Grant sees me flinch but keeps going. “You need to give him a chance to get to know you.”

  I laugh, but it sounds sickly and distorted around my tears. “He had a chance.”

  Grant paces a few more times and then comes to an abrupt stop. “All his kids get a tenth of the business. It’s millions of dollars. You would be entitled to an inheritance, too.”

  As expected Grant doesn’t get it. “You think it’s about money?”

  How can such a smart man be so dumb? The last thing I want from my father is his dirty money.

  “But he’s my business partner…” Grant’s words trail away.

  “Well he’s my sperm donor and nothing more. He left my mother and me to our own devices and never once gave a shit what happened to us. I still live in San Francisco.” I throw my arms out wide. “He’s never bothered to look me up.”

  For a man Grant swears cares, he’s sure done a bang-up job of not caring the last twenty-four years.

  “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do with this information.” Grant slouches back in the chair. His hand rubs a pattern back and forth on his jaw as he looks troubled.

  “There’s nothing you can do with the information. It’s my life and I want nothing to do with him.”

  Grant’s eyes spear me. “But I signed a five-year deal with him this week.”

  Drew stands, bumping me in the pro
cess. “It’s obviously been a rough night on Clare and you have a lot of new information to work through, Grant. Why don’t we call it a night?”

  In a stupor Grant follows Drew to the front door not stopping to say goodbye. “You don’t understand, Drew. I signed a five-year contract with the Cunningham companies.”

  “No, I think Clare and I understand it well enough.” He opens the front door and quietly closes it when Grant is on the other side.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DREW: Pizza, beer, baseball game. No complaining.

  I laugh and type out a quick “fine” reply. With a finger jab to send I throw my phone back in my desk drawer. My best friend has been super nice since everything happened with Grant Saturday night.

  He made up a believable excuse for me when I missed girls’ brunch. We spent the day in our pajamas watching baseball. He even let me eat both pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the freezer. Monday he cooked dinner, a family sized dish of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. And now our Tuesday is apparently booked as well.

  It’s not hard to see his plan to keep me as busy as possible so I won’t think about Grant or the fact he hasn’t called.

  Or stopped by.

  Or sent a text.

  Not that I expected him to. There’s a reason I kept my history a secret, but a show of concern would be nice.

  Drew’s idea is a good one, but it isn’t working, not that I have any plans to tell Drew that. Like most men, he wants to fix the problem, but he can’t fix the crap family where I was born.

  Being dumped sucks. First by the father who chose money over me. Then a mother who picked drugs over me. And now a boyfriend who decides a contract is more important. It should be expected by this point.

  I’m not sure you ever get used to always being second best. Good enough for a time, but never good enough for all time.

  I should get a cat.

  Name her Mittens.

  And a friend for Mittens. I don’t want her to get lonely while I’m at work. I’d buy them one of those big scratchpad towers to lie on. The idea grows in my head and I consider sending Drew a text asking how he feels about Mittens. But hesitate at the last minute. This is one of those times when I need to ask for forgiveness later. After he’s held the kittens and bonded.