by Claire Adams
"Why I wanted to see you, of course," she said in a tone that sounded vaguely hurt that I'd assume she wanted anything but a friendly chat. "I was worried about you after the wake and wanted to see how you're doing. And it's been such a long time since we talked. I thought this was as good a time as any to catch up."
"You want something, don't you?" I said cutting through the sticky layers of her emotional manipulations.
"Why on Earth would you think that, Jack?" she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Because you never do anything for the good of anyone but yourself, Sloan," I replied, watching her closely. She shifted slightly in her chair, but the smile stayed put.
"Do you really think that little of me, Jack?" she asked softly. "Do you really think that I'm the same girl I was fifteen years ago? That I haven't learned anything, or longed for anything, or wished that I'd handled things differently?"
"I don't know what your game is, Sloan, but I trust you as far as I can throw you," I said with a wry grin. She chuckled as she leaned back in the chair and crossed one long leg over the other. I felt the blood flow away from my brain as I recalled what those legs—and the rest of Sloan—had felt like in my hands.
"Jack, I swear, I'm just here to invite you out to dinner and to find out how you're doing," she said as she looked at me intently. She uncrossed her legs and shifted forward in the chair, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "That's it. I swear. No end game."
"I don't believe you," I said, eyeing her warily. "But you do have great taste in restaurants, so if you're picking up the bill, I'd be glad to join you."
"Excellent," she smiled as she stood up. "Blue Water Grill at eight tonight. Don't be late."
"It sounds like you were pretty sure I'd agree to dinner with you," I said as she headed for the door. I admired the way her hips swayed as she walked. Sloan certainly knew how to get a man's attention.
"Oh Jack," she smiled as she turned and caught me staring. "I know you so much better than you think I do, darling."
And with that, she was gone. I sat staring at the door for a long time, wondering if I'd made the right choice in agreeing to meet her for dinner. I consoled myself with the knowledge that if I changed my mind, I could always stand her up.
As I worked through the afternoon, I told myself I could cancel, but as I breathed in the lingering scent of her expensive perfume and recalled the way she'd looked sitting across the desk from me, I knew I wouldn't.
BAD BOY BILLIONAIRE VOLUME II
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leah
"Gram is off the charts today," Riley said as I walked through the door.
After my mishap with Jack, I'd spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with the daily demands of the warehouse. By the time I climbed onto the bus that would take me home, I was whipped. I'd briefly considered taking a taxi, but when I'd checked my bank account, I realized that that luxury was one I couldn't afford.
"What's wrong with Gram?" I asked as I set the grocery bags down on the table and dropped my lunch bag into the sink.
"She's in her room playing Sinatra records again," Riley said as she rolled her eyes. "She's singing along with the sad songs and then crying when the record ends. It's crazy town in there, Leah."
"I'll go check," I said, eyeing the bags. "Can you get dinner started? It's taco night."
"Oooh, yeah!" Riley cheered as she dug into the bags and pulled out the ground beef I'd picked up. "I'll brown the beef!"
"Wear an apron, and don't forget to dump the grease in the can under the sink, not down the drain!" I called as I headed down the hallway to my mother's room. I could hear Sinatra crooning that it had been a very good year as I stood outside her door.
"Mama?" I said as I tapped on the door. "Mama, can I come in?"
"Get the hell away from me!" she yelled through the closed door. "I've got company!"
"Mama, it's the record player," I said as I turned the handle and found that the door was locked. "Mama, let me in, please?"
"Get the hell away from my door!" she shouted. I could hear movement on the other side of the door, and suddenly I felt a cold chill run through my veins as I imagined what she might be doing on the other side.
"Mama, please don't do this," I whispered as I listened to the sound of furniture being dragged across the bedroom floor. I imagined she was pushing it in front of the door in case someone tried to force their way in. "Mama, I'm making tacos for dinner. Why don't you come out and eat with Riley and me?"
"I don't want any of your dirty food!" she shouted at me. "Molly would never make such awful food! I want Molly!"
"I know, Mama," I said resting my head on the door. "I know. We all do."
Back in the kitchen, Riley was singing along with her iPod as she browned the meat and cut up the lettuce. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that she hadn't heard anything my mother had yelled. She was a smart kid that way. She knew how to avoid conflict and not hear what she knew wasn't for her ears. It bothered me that she was so effective at tuning things out, and it made me a little worried about the effect that would have on her life later on, but for now, I decided to count my blessings and be thankful for the fact that she wouldn't ask me to explain.
Over dinner, Riley filled me in on all of the middle school drama and carefully recounted the way in which two girls in her class had countered the attempted slut-shaming of another girl.
"Slut-shaming? In seventh grade?" I asked, knowing full well that this was a time-honored method of keeping girls in line. The kids in the neighborhood, hell— the adults too, had used this on Molly, but she'd resisted the attempts and had marched to the beat of her own drum. I'd loved her for it and hated the kids who'd tried to shame her, but I'd kept quiet, fearing the wrath of the kids in my own class who were the younger siblings of the ones who taunted Molly.
"Leah, please," Riley said rolling her eyes yet again. "This is not something new, and you know it. I was hoping that at this point we'd be in a post-feminist world where everyone would be equal and these petty fights would be replaced by efforts to save the planet."
"Where do you come up with this stuff?" I laughed as I marveled at her brilliant assessment of the world around her and her desire for something better.
"Leah, I watch television," she said matter-of-factly. "It's all there, ready to be consumed. Did you know that fifty-two percent of the population on earth is female, and yet they make up more than seventy percent of those in poverty?"
"I had no idea," I said shaking my head.
"It's because over 1.3 billion women don't have access to bank accounts or credit, Leah," Riley said solemnly. "The petty acts of slut-shaming are covering up a far bigger travesty and taking attention away from what we could be doing to solve the problem."
"Where do you learn these things?" I asked with a combination of concern and awe.
"Leah, we are living in the twenty-first century, in a first world country," she said looking at me seriously. "I have access to the internet."
I burst out laughing as I realized that she was right. Riley grinned and shook her head with mock sadness as she piled more cheese and lettuce on top of the ground beef in her taco shell.
"Sometimes I worry that you know too much, kiddo," I said reaching out and ruffling her already messy hair. She ducked away with a lopsided grin and bit into her taco.
"Knowledge is power, Leah," she said with a mouth full of food. I shook my head as I bit into my own taco and chewed.
The image of Jack Yates staring at me as we toured the warehouse was on my mind as I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I'd excused Riley from dish duty so that she could finish her homework before bedtime, and she'd been grateful for the pass. I thought about Jack's broad shoulders and the brief contact I'd had with his bare skin while I'd worked to remove the blood from his shirt. It had been a very long time since I'd been that close to a man and felt that kind of animal attraction.
"Stop it, you fool," I muttered t
o myself as I scrubbed the frying pan. "He's the head of the company you work for, not a guy in a neighborhood bar."
I finished up the dishes and swept the kitchen before I stuck my head into Riley's room and told her I was going out for a bit.
"Oooh, hot date?" she teased as she looked up from her homework.
"Something like that," I smiled. "I'll be back in a few hours. I've got my phone if you need me. Just leave Gram alone for now, okay?"
"Gotcha," she said, pointing her finger at me and winking. I laughed and shook my head as I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out the door.
*
It wasn't a long walk to the parish where Patrick lived now that he’d returned to town, so I used it to clear my head and organize my thoughts. It had been two years since Patrick and I had been in the same room together, so this conversation felt heavy before it even began.
I stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the church and looked up at the building. The spire reached up into the sky as if it were stretching out to touch God, or at least that's what we'd been told since we’d started attending mass there. Every Sunday, we'd get up and get dressed in time to walk to mass with my parents, who would drop us off in Sunday school despite our protests that we'd be good, just this once.
Patrick, Molly, and I would sit together in the back row as the Sunday school teacher quizzed us on the Bible verses we were supposed to have memorized. Patrick was the only one who actually knew his verses, and he'd always be rewarded with a toy or a cookie or a piece of candy for his effort. Molly and I would often commandeer his treats before he got a chance to enjoy them, but he never really seemed to mind. For Patrick, the reward was in the knowledge.
Molly and I had teased him about being so well versed that he'd have no choice but to become a priest. I don't think it ever occurred to us that he'd actually do it. It wasn't until he graduated from high school and sat my parents down to tell them that he'd decided to join the seminary that the reality of our brother, the priest, hit us, and we'd all responded in very different ways.
My mother had spent the following week attending Mass every day so she could personally thank God for choosing her son to become his apostle. My father had cursed God and then dropped dead of a heart attack a few weeks later. My mother said it was God's vengeance for having left his family and cursed his son’s decision. None of us believed her because they’d been split up for years and my father had been sick for a long time at that point. But she insisted that it was deserved punishment, and she dealt with it by drinking more heavily.
Molly and I had spent many nights lying in twin beds in our shared room debating the reasons why Patrick had chosen to enter the seminary, but neither one of us wanted to be the one to ask him why he'd done it. We were happy for him because he'd found his calling, but we were worried about what it would mean in terms of losing our older brother.
Two years older than Molly and four older than me, Patrick was our protector. He'd watched over us and kept us out of harm’s way the best he could, which often meant taking a beating from my father rather than letting one of us girls suffer the physical consequences of our actions. As a result, Patrick had a complex relationship with my father that ended with his sudden death.
I took one last look at the church and then walked a little further down the street to the parish house that Patrick had recently returned to after having lived abroad for several years. I rang the doorbell and waited.
"Good evening. Is the Father expecting you?" the plump nun asked. She was wearing a modern habit, which only covered part of her head. She was wearing a grey dress that was more of a shift than a fitted garment, but she radiated warmth and brightness when she smiled.
"He is," I nodded. I wasn't sure how much Patrick had told her, so I didn't say anything about being his sister.
"My, you look like the spitting image of Father Patrick!" she declared as she motioned me into the parsonage. "Are you related to him, or is it just a lucky coincidence?"
"I'm his youngest sister," I said, looking down at the floor before looking back up to meet her friendly eyes. "Leah."
"Well, Leah, I'm Sister Josephine, and I've got pot of tea brewing and a fresh pound cake cooling on the windowsill. Can I get you some?" she asked. "I know Father Patrick will want some!"
"Yes, please, Sister," I smiled as I sat down on the sofa and looked around. The living room was small and slightly shabby, and I smiled as I thought about how Patrick probably felt right at home here—for many reasons.
"Leah?"
"Patrick!" I cried as he walked into the room. I stood up and, like a small child, ran across the room to throw my arms around him.
"Well, well, well, isn't this an interesting turn of events," he said as he hugged me briefly and then stepped back. "It's good to see you, Leah."
"I'm so glad to see you, too," I said as the tears welled up in my eyes. Patrick patted my shoulder and offered me a seat as Sister Josephine carried a tray of tea and cake into the living room and set it down on the coffee table.
"Here is something to sweeten the conversation!" she said brightly as she poured us each a cup of tea and cut two thick slices of cake and set them on the delicate china plates. She nodded at us and then backed out of the room saying, "Have a lovely catch up!"
"She's really nice," I said as I sipped my tea and carefully watched Patrick.
"She's definitely a good person to have here," he agreed. We sat in silence as we drank tea and ate a little cake. I wanted to blurt everything out and pepper him with questions about where he'd been and why he'd left me all alone when Molly disappeared. But I knew that wouldn't work with Patrick, so I waited until he asked. "What's going on with Mama?"
"Patrick, she's sick," I began. "She's drinking way too much. She’s forgetting things, and she's become dangerous."
"So what do you want me to do about it?" he asked a little defensively, sounding more like the brother I grew up with than the priest he'd become. That gave me the in I needed.
"We have to get her into rehab before she does something irreversible," I said. "She won't listen to me. She wants Molly."
"What makes you think she'll listen to me?" he asked as he looked at me over the edge of his teacup.
"You're a priest!" I cried. "And she's always listened to you!"
"Right," Patrick said shaking his head as he set his cup down. "She's never listened to me, Leah. It's always been Molly."
"But can't you try?" I begged feeling like the pesky little sister again. "She's putting Riley and me in danger with her drinking and her smoking and the way she locks herself in her room for days at a time. I'm worried that she's going to hurt herself or burn the house down!"
"And you think I can convince her?" he said as he rubbed his hand across his cheek. I smiled as I recognized the habit he'd had since he was a small child. My brother was still in there somewhere, even if he was holding back and hiding from us for now. I wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened after Molly had disappeared, but I didn't dare try and broach that subject while we were trying to solve the problem with my mother. We’d deal with one thing at a time.
"I don't know if you can convince her, but can you at least try?" I asked.
"Bring her to Mass," he said. "I'll talk to her afterwards."
"And what if I can't?" I asked. He had no idea how bad things had gotten, and I was loath to tell him.
"Then we'll go from there, but let's not invite trouble, shall we?" he said as he stood up. "I need to prepare for my early morning service now."
"I'll try and bring her," I said as I moved toward him. He slipped around the sofa and was out of the room before I could tell him how much I'd missed him and how happy I was to have him home again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jack
When I stopped by the house to change clothes before meeting Sloan for dinner, the ever-present butler opened the door. I shook my head as I walked past the man I didn't recognize. My father had insiste
d that there always be a butler present in the house when he was there, but he couldn't seem to keep one consistently employed. As a result, I had no idea what this man's name was.
"Thank you …" I said trailing off uncomfortably.
"Martin, sir," he said as he stood stiffly, holding the door for me. He was dressed in a uniform that called to mind England and royalty.
"Thank you, Martin," I said as I moved toward the stairs, wondering how long it would take me to convince my mother to stop this nonsense and live like a regular person.
"Jackson, is that you?" she called from the living room. "Come here and talk to me."
"Mother," I nodded as I entered the room and found her reclining on the chaise that looked out over the lawn. She looked pale, and when I sat down and took her hand, I realized it was cold. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she said withdrawing her hand and waving me off. "I've just had a long day, and now I'm trying to relax. Is this blood on your suit?"
"Yes, but I’m fine. A little accident at work, nothing to be worried about," I said as I turned the conversation back to her and the full glass of bourbon in her other hand. "Should you be relaxing so much?"
"My husband just died. I think I'm entitled," she said in a brittle voice. "Don't nag me like your brother does."
"I'm not one to nag you, really, Mother," I said standing up and walking over to the window. "But are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm sad, Jackson," she sighed. "But under the circumstances, I believe that's normal, don't you?"
"Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I stared out at the manicured lawn. My father employed seven gardeners to keep the lawn meticulously groomed, and while they did an outstanding job of it, right now it seemed like yet another example of his ridiculous excesses. No one else saw it that way, though. Just me.
"Why are you home so early?" my mother asked as she sipped her drink.
"I'm going to dinner with Sloan," I said. "I need to change before I go."
