Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Jackson’s mother was even more terrifying than Dracula’s dining room. I had to physically force myself to stand still and not turn and run screaming from the house.

  “Ah!” said Brig. “Clemmy, come and meet Bianca.” He acted as if Jackson weren’t even in the room.

  Clemmy cut her gaze to me. Her eyes were like ice in an ancient arctic lake that never thaws. A cat’s hiss rose in the back of my throat, and I swallowed. Then she turned her eyes to Jackson. I glanced at him and found him white-faced and tight-lipped, in deep distress.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was it with these people? I decided I’d had enough of this nonsense.

  “Mrs. Boudreaux. I’m so happy to meet you.” I dropped Jackson’s hand and marched resolutely over to Clemmy, a salesman’s grin stretching my cheeks. The nurse looked on, alarmed, as I reached out and gently clasped Clemmy’s good hand between my own. I said warmly, “Your home is so beautiful. Thank you so much for having me.”

  You could’ve heard a pin drop. For an eternity, no one moved a muscle.

  Then the uncrooked side of Clemmy’s mouth turned up, and her iceberg eyes thawed a few degrees. In a halting, slightly distorted voice, she said, “Thank you for coming.”

  I thought the manservant would collapse into a heap in his corner.

  Deciding to push my luck, I said, “Your son has been giving me fits since the day I met him, but I know he must get his big heart from you and your husband. I’m so looking forward to getting to know you both better.”

  I’d astonished her. She stared at me with her lips parted, blinking rapidly, looking like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or put her good hand around my throat and crush my esophagus. After a moment she recovered her composure. “That’s very kind.”

  Two of the servants against the opposite wall were now openly gaping at me.

  This could actually be fun.

  I released her hands and turned to Jackson with arched brows and a look he couldn’t misunderstand. His gaze darted back and forth between his mother and me several times, then he lurched forward. He crossed to us, bent stiffly to kiss her cheek, then stood on my other side, using me as a buffer between them. He clasped my hand like it was a life vest.

  Standing on the other side of the dining room, Brig beamed. He made emcee wide open arms again and boomed, “Let’s eat!”

  TWENTY-NINE

  BIANCA

  While Brig and I enjoyed a friendly chat about nothing of importance, Jackson spent the meal staring morosely down at his plate and guzzling goblet after bloody goblet of wine. I’d never seen him so miserable, which was saying something.

  His parents were seated at opposite ends of the long dining table. Jackson and I sat across from each other, separated by a forest of food platters, wine carafes, and fruit bowls. The candelabra flickered and dripped wax. The servants stood vigilant guard against the walls. It was like something straight out of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation.

  Not once did Jackson meet my eyes.

  “So you two met at your restaurant?” Brig said as a footman or whatever he was called leaned over me with a platter of fish. It oozed a creamy yellow sauce that had a disturbing resemblance to phlegm. I politely declined.

  “Yes, we did. Jackson came in to sample my spring menu, which was inspired by Boudreaux Bourbon. Didn’t he mention it?” I said when Brig looked startled. “All the recipes are made with your family’s bourbon.”

  Brig looked as astonished as his wife had when I’d taken her hand. “No,” he said faintly, gazing at me with wide eyes. “No, he didn’t mention it.”

  I glanced at Jackson, who was gloomily pushing a grape back and forth across his empty plate with a knife.

  “It’s true. In fact, he threatened to sue me for copyright infringement on the family’s trademark.”

  Clemmy, in the middle of a swallow of soup, coughed. She dropped her spoon, and it clattered against the bowl.

  “Oh! Are you all right?”

  Her nurse scowled at me and began petting Clemmy’s chest with a napkin, blotting at little splatters of soup. Clemmy waved her away impatiently. “Sue?” she repeated.

  It came out like Shoooe? due to her disfigured lip, but she was perfectly comprehensible.

  “Oh yes. He’s very protective of the Boudreaux brand.”

  Flabbergasted, Brig and Clemmy stared at each other.

  Shiitake mushroom, another minefield! I hurried on, trying to smooth things over.

  “And then, uh, he hired me to cater the Wounded Warrior charity benefit he was hosting at his home when his chef quit at the last minute . . .” I faltered in the middle of my sentence when I saw how Jackson’s parents both reared their heads back in surprise at the mention of a charity benefit, but I was too far in to stop. “Which turned out to be an incredibly successful event. You might have read about it in the papers?” No one said anything. I enjoyed a brief and crushing sense of terror. “He raised a few million dollars to help soldiers in need?”

  By this time my voice was a pathetic, reedy thing, and I was ready to hide under the table. But then Jackson’s father exhaled and he said, “Well that’s . . . wonderful. That’s really wonderful, son.”

  I felt like I’d just scored the winning touchdown. My terror evaporated, I looked to Jackson, grinning.

  Glowering at his plate, he slowly pressed the sharp edge of the knife into the grape and sliced it in two.

  I tried to kick him under the table, but my legs were too short. “Anyway,” I said too brightly, willing him to look at me, which of course he refused to do. “That’s how it all began. Now here we are!”

  My attempt to weave a believable love story ended with a thud. I should’ve just said “Slap, slap kiss” and left it at that. We lapsed into awkward silence.

  There were never any awkward silences in my parents’ house during meals. Everyone talked over one another, laughing, ribbing, passing food and sharing stories, easy and happy in one another’s company. What had happened to this family to make things so bad?

  I could tell both of Jackson’s parents had affection for him, though it didn’t look anything like my definition of love. But mostly there seemed to be a chasm of silence no one was willing to be the first to reach across. And Jackson was visibly wilting with each passing minute. I didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to sit in his chair before he slid onto the floor and expired.

  Suddenly I missed Mama with such ferociousness it brought a stinging heat to my eyes. I dabbed at them with a corner of my napkin.

  Sounding genuinely concerned, Brig said, “Bianca? Are you all right?”

  Jackson finally looked at me. When his head jerked up, his narrowed eyes were a little too much to take, so I looked over at Brig and forced a smile.

  “Don’t mind me. I suppose I’m just homesick. A few hours away from New Orleans and I’m all out of sorts.”

  “Are you originally from New Orleans? Your accent is a little . . .”

  He trailed off, not wanting to insult me, and I laughed. “I know. It’s a mess. My mama’s side of the family is Creole, but my daddy was from Alabama. I picked up so much of both their slang and twang my accent’s all mixed up.”

  Brig said warmly, “It sounds just fine to me. What does your father do?”

  I noticed that Brig didn’t even bat an eye when I mentioned the word Creole. If there had been any doubt in his mind as to the origin of my dusky skin, now there could be none. I felt a twinge of shame at assuming he’d judge me, and scolded myself.

  “He was an attorney. But he passed away years ago.”

  His face fell. “Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that, Bianca.”

  I sighed. “It’s all right. I miss him like crazy, but I have great memories of him. He was the kindest, most honorable and generous man I ever knew.” After a short pause, I added honestly, “Aside from Jackson.”

  I took a bite of salad from my plate. It was only after a minute of chewing that I realized no one was saying anythi
ng, but they were all staring at me. Even the servants.

  But it was Jackson’s eyes that blazed.

  The head manservant, Droopy Dog I was now calling him in my mind, leapt into action to save us from whatever new disaster I’d blundered into. “More wine?” he shouted, grabbing a carafe from the middle of the table. He loomed over me, perspiring, smiling so hard it looked painful.

  “Yes. Thank you.” A loaded gun will do just fine, too, I thought, miserably embarrassed without even the satisfaction of knowing why.

  I was abruptly so mad at Jackson I could spit. How could he let me wander into the haunted forest without giving me any clues where all the ghosts and goblins were lying in wait? Did everyone in the room know about our little marriage bargain? Was everyone laughing at me? Was I sitting here in front of these insanely rich people and their gawking servants making a complete and utter fool of myself?

  I chugged the glass of wine Droopy Dog poured me and motioned for another. He looked sympathetic as he poured.

  I stabbed a chicken leg from one of the platters and deposited it onto my plate with an inelegant thunk. Then I started to saw through it, all angry elbows and flashing utensils, making a racket and a mess and a spectacle of myself.

  But I didn’t care anymore. I was fresh out of charm. If Brig and Clemmy decided to hate me because I was savaging a piece of poultry, they could go straight to the devil’s doorstep and ring the bell.

  I am my mother’s daughter, I thought angrily, sawing away at the bone like an enthusiastic medical student with a fresh cadaver. I was my father’s pride and joy. I will NOT be the butt of anybody’s joke!

  Across from me, Jackson darkly chuckled.

  I pointed my knife in his face. “Not a word out of you, Boudreaux!” I hissed. Then I jammed a piece of chicken in my mouth and started chewing like a farm animal.

  The servants were making googly eyes at one another like this was the greatest performance of theatre they’d seen in their lives.

  Apparently Jackson had finally left me twisting in the wind long enough, because he stood, making a great display of noisily shoving back his chair, and announced, “Mother. Father. Please excuse us. I think Bianca and I need to talk.”

  “You’re darn tootin’!” I muttered, prompting a hysterical cackle from a servant at the far end of the room, who quickly smothered it with a cough.

  Not wanting to let Jackson outdo me, my chair flew back as I leapt to my feet, hitting Droopy Dog in the process. He let out a pained, “Oof!”

  I apologized, then looked at Clemmy and Brig. “Thank you for the wonderful meal and your hospitality. I’m sorry if I’m being rude, and you both seem like lovely people, but now I have to go jerk a knot in someone’s tail”—I glared at Jackson—“and depending on how that conversation goes, I may or may not require a bail bondsman. Have yourselves a wonderful evening.”

  I left with my chin high, smoke pouring from my ears, the sound of Brig’s startled laughter ringing off the dining room walls.

  I managed to make it all the way back to Jackson’s room and get the door closed behind us before I let Jackson have it. I whirled on him and did my best impression of a banshee, while he made a beeline for the coffee table in the corner, which held several crystal decanters of liquor and a set of matching highball glasses.

  “Do you have any idea how unfair it is, what you just did to me?” I said. “Leaving me totally clueless, acting like a gold star idiot in front of your parents? This agreement isn’t only about your inheritance, Jackson, it’s about my mother’s situation, too! We’re supposed to be in this deal together! Why aren’t you helping me out at all?”

  Jackson filled a glass, tossed it back, raked a hand through his hair, and poured another glass. Staring down at it, he said, “Because you’re doing fine on your own.” He chugged back the second glass of liquor, grimacing as he swallowed.

  “Are you blind? Even the servants are laughing at me! What’s the big secret here? What is it that you and everybody else knows that I don’t? Just tell me what on earth is going—”

  “I killed my brother,” he said flatly.

  My words died in my mouth. I stared at him in cold shock while my stomach made a slow, twisting roll and my heart tried painfully to reboot.

  Jackson glanced at me. His face was hard, his eyes were dark, and his hand was white-knuckled around the empty glass. “Or at least they all think I did. They blame me for it.”

  All my outrage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. I whispered, “Oh my God. What happened?”

  Jackson went back to staring at his empty glass, like he was searching for answers in it. After a long time, his voice low and halting, he began to speak.

  “Lincoln and I were twins. He was older by two minutes. Two minutes,” he repeated bitterly. “You wouldn’t think one hundred and twenty seconds could make such a difference, but it did.”

  He fell silent. I crept over to the bed and sat on the edge because I didn’t think my legs could hold me up any longer. Jackson lowered himself to a chair and poured himself another drink. His energy was dark and electric, like thunderclouds before they disgorge their burden of lightning and rain.

  “Linc was the golden child from the beginning. The heir and the spare, they jokingly called us, only it wasn’t a joke. He could do no wrong. He was better than me at everything. Sports, school, girls . . . everything came easy for him. And I . . .”

  Jackson closed his eyes. His voice a low rasp, he said, “I hated him for it. I hated my own brother. Which made me hate myself.”

  I covered my mouth with my hands. His pain was so palpable, his guilt so raw, I wanted to run and put my arms around him, but I stayed where I was and listened in horrified fascination as he continued his story.

  “He looked like an angel. Literally, like a Raphael painting of an angel. Blond hair and dimpled cheeks, this smile everyone went crazy for. I was the dark one. The problematic one. The one with a learning disability and a temper so unpredictable they had to put me on medication when I was barely a teenager. I just . . . never . . . fit.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. His face was a grimace, full of anguish and bad memories, ruddy with alcohol, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

  “Linc was being groomed to take over the company. It was the logical choice, him being eldest and so nice.”

  Jackson said the word nice like an accusation. His dark gaze flashed up to meet mine. “But the thing was, he wasn’t so nice. He was like this perfect, shiny red apple that was riddled with worms and rot on the inside. Only no one could see it. No one could believe that something so pretty could be so corrupt. Except me.”

  Goosebumps erupted all over my arms. Jackson blew out a hard breath and downed the liquor in his glass. Between the wine he’d consumed at dinner and what he’d thrown back since we entered the bedroom, I didn’t know how he was still standing.

  He set his glass on the table with a crack and leapt to his feet. He began restlessly pacing back and forth, breathing erratically, his hands flexing, looking like he was on the verge of breaking something or having a serious cardiac event.

  He said, “Linc used to tell me I was adopted, that I was abandoned by the side of the road by beggars and left to die because I was so ugly and stupid that not even my real parents wanted me. He said Brig and Clemmy were getting tax credits for taking care of a homeless runt. He said I should just kill myself and stop being such a burden.” His voice broke. “Such a useless, stupid burden. But whenever I complained to my parents, they’d look at each other with sad eyes and sigh and talk about adjusting my meds.”

  I wanted to run downstairs and smack them both across the face. How could they treat Jackson that way? He was their son!

  “On our fifteenth birthday, our parents threw us a party. Linc got all the attention, of course, and by then I was used to staying out of the way, so I went to the pool house and hid. I guess Linc decided I was embarrassing the family by hiding, because he c
ame to look for me. We argued. It got heated. He called me names, I called him names. He took a swing at me but missed. I stepped out of the way too quickly. He stumbled and fell, cracked his head against the cement coping, and rolled into the pool.”

  Now Jackson was talking fast, the words pouring out in a cascade. His body movements were jerky, angry, and he was sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead in dark clumps. His eyes were bright and wild.

  “I couldn’t swim. I was terrified of the water because the one time I’d tried to learn, Linc held me under when no one was looking and I almost drowned. So I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t get to him, I couldn’t—I didn’t know what to do.”

  He broke off with a sob. I stood, helpless and horrified, already knowing where this was going.

  “I ran to get my parents, but by the time they got there it was too late. They found him on the bottom of the pool. Later the doctors said he’d been unconscious when he went in, there was the mark on his face where he’d fallen, and they all thought . . . they thought I . . .”

  I pressed a hand over my heart to try to stop its frantic pounding. “They thought you hit him and pushed him in the pool,” I whispered.

  He propped his hands on his hips and swallowed convulsively, looking at the floor, his face red and pinched. He was trying not to cry.

  “No one ever said that directly, of course. But they never looked at me the same. People started avoiding me. Dozens of kids and their parents were at the party, and from that time on I was shunned. The word got out. You can’t be alone with Jackson. Stay away from Jackson. He’s capable of anything. Then my parents sent me away to boarding school. From there I went directly to college. Which is where I met Christian, by the way, the only real friend I’ve ever had. By the time I came home from college, my parents and I were basically strangers.”