A Special Obsession

by A. M. Hargrove

  “Shut up, Quinn. You should leave the riffraff at home. Father is going to rupture that vein of his when he sees her.” Then she marches off with Evelyn following in her wake.

  “That was pleasant,” I say in a cheery tone.

  “She’s harmless, really.”

  “I have another word I would use to describe her, but I’ll keep it to myself.” Weston laughs at my comment.

  “Let’s forget about her. How about some food? You don’t want to miss the delicacies they serve here.”

  We start moving in the direction of the food, but someone wanting to talk business stops Weston every few moments. When we finally get there, I’m stunned. There are tables and tables laden with all kinds of seafood, beef, pork, vegetables, cheeses, pretty much anything you could want.

  “How many people are they expecting?”

  Weston says, “It’s the same every year. I think they invite several hundred.”

  “This isn’t a cocktail party. It’s a wedding reception.”

  He shakes his head. “Everything they do is completely over the top. As kids we weren’t allowed to attend. We had to stay up in our rooms with the nannies.”

  “Nannies, as in plural?”

  “Yeah. We had several to entertain us. Come on. Let’s eat.”

  We circle the room, filling our plates, and find two seats at a table. Weston is constantly interrupted about business. I don’t mind. The people rudely stare at me, but have no interest in speaking. I don’t want to waste my time in having a conversation with someone who cares nothing about me and thinks I’m beneath them. When we finish, Weston says it’s time to hunt down his parents. It’s not difficult finding his mother. She’s holding court by the desserts.

  Mrs. Wyndham is a tall, angular woman, so thin I want to tell her she should eat something. A gentle breeze would probably knock her on her ass. Her collarbones stand out, and the skin wrapped around them reminds me of tissue paper. The diamond necklace she wears lies heavily over those bones, and I wonder if she’s having trouble standing under the weight of the jewels. She smiles, which looks more like a grimace, but her eyes don’t change. She’s probably had a shitload of Botox because the upper half of her face doesn’t move a bit. I watch her eye Weston as we approach. Then she sees me. Disdain instantly coats her features—well, the lower half anyway—as her grimace becomes even more pronounced. It’s obvious she’s not pleased with Weston’s choice of date.

  “Hello, Quinn. How are you?” You can tell by the tone of her voice she doesn’t really give a shit.

  “I’m wonderful, Mother, and you?”

  “Could not be better.”

  “Mother, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Her name is Special O’Malley. Special, this is my mother, Caroline.”

  A bony claw reaches out and only the tips of her fingers touch mine, as though she’s afraid I’ll infect her with something. It reminds me of Evelyn’s. They must be in some kind of don’t touch Special club. Then Caroline says, “A pleasure, Sandra.” I almost laugh in her face when she speaks because nothing about her expression conveys pleasure, as her mouth pinches in, making me wonder if she’s in pain. At this point, I don’t bother correcting my name. This family is rude and evil.

  “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am.” I wink at her. I want her to realize I’m not as dim-witted as she may think.

  With a slight nod, she wanders off. What mother does that? Well, mine would. But mine’s a dumbass and an airhead; Weston’s mom is cruel and uncaring.

  “Christ.”

  “Ditto,” I say. I gulp more liquid courage, then add, “How did you end up normal?”

  A bitter sounding laugh escapes from him. “They finally sent me away to boarding school where I met my two best friends, Prescott and Harrison. They knocked some sense into me. I was getting into a shit ton of fights, but they fought back and it was the two of them who eventually made me realize I was worth a damn. I shared my dirty family secrets with them and finally recognized why I had such an urge to rebel. It was because of my cold, unemotional, unloving parents. The ones who kept ripping out my heart, leaving it in a mangled, bloody heap every single time I thought of them. I was lashing out at them in the only way I knew how. After Harrison found out about my parents, he invited me to go home with him when we had breaks at school. He had an amazing family and I spent as much time with them as possible. I still stay in touch with his parents.

  “God bless your heart and soul.” I mean it as I squeeze his arm. “Thank God for your friends.”

  We continue to stroll through the rooms of the mansion, taking in the people chatting and laughing. Eventually, we run into his father. There is no mistaking Weston and his dad are related. They look so much alike, but that’s where the similarities end. Weston the fourth is cold and calculating. There isn’t an ounce of warmth in his eyes.

  “Quinn.” He dips his head. His icy glare tells me he’d rather I’d slit my wrists than be here with his son.

  “Father. This is Special O’Malley. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Special. Interesting name,” he clips.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Weston agrees.

  His dad harrumphs but doesn’t respond. Then he turns his unwanted attention to me, his eyes rake me from head to toe. When they get to my ink, they narrow as he scowls. “Such a waste.”

  “To each his own,” I say.

  “So, Special, what exactly do you do?”

  “I own a restaurant.” I beam, as my chest swells with pride.

  “Is that so? What kind of establishment is it? Are you professionally trained?”

  “Lord, no. It’s called A Special Place and it serves bar food.”

  “I see. Bar food.” He enunciates the words like they’re poison. His head shakes from side to side as he chuckles and he looks pointedly at Weston.

  “You sure can pick ’em, son.” He sneers. Though I expected as much, his words still sting.

  “Sir, I’m proud of my restaurant. I opened it with money I’d saved and built it into a thriving business. I wasn’t born into the kind of wealth you were, so I didn’t have disposable income at my fingertips. I scraped and saved and did everything on my own—something I bet you’re not able to say. So, yeah, it might make you feel good to look down your nose at me, but I wonder how successful you’d be if you had started with nothing. Where would you be at this very minute if all you had were a few thousand dollars in the bank, no rich parents, and no college degree?” I march off, leaving the two of them behind.

  Weston calls out after me, but I keep going. I need to find a bathroom. These people are awful. Who would want to spend time with them?

  I locate a powder room, pat some cool water on my flaming cheeks, and take a ton of deep breaths. When I come out, I head back to the bar to grab a glass of wine. As I roam around, searching for Weston to see how he fared with his evil dad, the older Weston cuts off my path. Before I can think, he forces me into a room and slams me against a wall with his hand on my chest. I’m so shocked by this I can barely breathe.

  It takes me a moment to find my voice. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

  He holds me in place as he growls, “What exactly is it you want with my son?”

  “What do you mean?” He frightens me, but I refuse to allow him to see it.

  “I think it’s pretty clear.”

  I try to break free, but he shoves me again. “It’s not. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your son is a fine man and a great friend.”

  His face is now inches from mine. “Then let me spell it out. How much?” With one hand, he pulls out a checkbook from his coat pocket. The other still holds me prisoner against the wall.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You think I’m hanging out with Weston because I want you to pay me off?” I’m appalled and insulted. Using both hands, I push him away from me.

  “Why else would you be here?”

  My chest heaves. “I came here because I’m Weston�
�s friend. No other reason than that. You call yourselves high society, but this is the most insulting, nasty, and ill-mannered group of people I’ve ever met. I may have been brought up in the country, but at least I have manners. My grandmother has a term for people like you —poorly bred.”

  “You think you can march in here and insult me like this?”

  A defiant laugh emerges from me. “I’m not the one who started it. You insulted me by trying to pay me off.”

  “Let me tell you something, you little slut. My son brings his flavor of the week around here all the time. Look at you with that disgusting crap covering your arms. I won’t have you parading around here thinking you can sink your hooks into his wealth. Get out of here, you fucking cunt, because you aren't getting a penny of his money.” By this time, spit is flying out of his mouth. Tears build behind my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s hurt me with his vicious words or if it’s because I’m angry. Either way, I don’t stay to find out. Spinning on my high heels, I stumble out of that horrible man’s presence.

  People gape at me as I run out of the house. I don’t know where the hell I’m going. I didn’t grab my coat and it’s freezing outside, but anything is preferable to staying in that ninth ring of hell. Weston wasn’t joking. How did he tolerate growing up in this loveless household? My heart aches for him just thinking about it.

  Puffs of steam rise from my mouth as I pant. The more I think about what his asshole of a father said, the angrier I get. How can he judge so easily? What a douchebag. His sister and mother aren’t any better. The way people stared at me, you would’ve thought I had leprosy instead of beautiful art on my arms. Well, that’s it, I’m done. I will never let anyone make me feel inferior ever again. And it begins now.

  Grabbing the worn sleeves of my dress, I begin to tug. The seams on the shoulders give easily, tearing away after several hard jerks. Now my tattoos are exposed for everyone to see. The beautiful ink on my arms makes me proud.

  A moment later I question my logic when I’m standing in the freezing weather wearing a sleeveless dress. A hysteric burst of laughter explodes out of me, which captures the attention of the parking attendants. They eye me like I’ve escaped the local mental ward. Too motherfucking bad.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I yell. “You ought to get a load of the assholes in there.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. One of them starts to laugh, but the other elbows him and he instantly shuts up.

  The front door swings open and Weston runs out.

  “Christ, you must be freezing.”

  “Just a little.” A half-hysterical laugh erupts out of me as I rub my arms up and down with my hands.

  Then he looks closer and asks, “What the hell happened to your dress?”

  “I tore off the sleeves.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I’m making a statement.”

  His lips press into a thin line. “What did he say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He angles his head and his mouth is still tightened. “Special.” He says my name with a warning behind it.

  “It’s nothing, Weston.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says, barely disguising his anger.

  “Great idea.”

  He talks to the valet. A few minutes later, his car arrives. We get in and buckle up, then he looks at me.

  “So now you know.”

  “What? That you were raised in the ninth ring of hell?”

  He lets out the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. Even after everything his vile father said to me, I find myself chuckling right along with him.

  22

  Weston

  Glancing at her briefly as I drive, not only do I see but I can feel the tension radiating off her. The asshole must have said some terrible things to her. I can only imagine what.

  “So, how much did he offer you?” I ask.

  She whips her head around so fast, it’s scary. “What do you mean?”

  “I know him well. He’s my father.”

  “I have to say, you have my sympathy. He is one mean bastard.”

  Then I get an idea. “Hey, do you want to go someplace? Someplace that means a lot to me?”

  She glances at me again and answers softly, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

  I pull into a wine shop and pick up a bottle of chardonnay for her. I already have beer and scotch for myself. I also grab some cheese and crackers in case we get hungry. Then we’re off.

  When we get to the warehouse, she eyes the parking lot with curiosity.

  “What is this place?”

  Cutting the engine, I say, “You’ll see.”

  I help her out of the car and we walk to the entrance. Entering the code for the electronic entry, I disarm the system. When we step inside, I hear her sharp intake of air.

  “Wow.”

  We move further into the building. Along the way she stops to inspect each piece of furniture, cabinet, and table that I’ve built.

  “Weston, this is incredible. You’ve done all of this?”

  “Yes. It’s my passion.” I point to the right half of the warehouse. “This side is all new wood, and that side is all reclaimed wood.”

  “You mean old stuff?”

  With a smile, I say, “Yeah. I hunt for old buildings, houses, even barns that have been torn down, dismantled, what have you. Old wood is really something. It’s my passion, Special. Building anything out of wood too. I love it. It’s my de-stressor.”

  She touches everything, runs her fingers along the grain of the smooth wood, and examines each piece exactly as I would.

  “These doors,” she points to a set I recently finished, “did you make them, or were they reclaimed?”

  “They were reclaimed. But they were in terrible shape. I brought them back to life. I love old doors.”

  They’re huge, ten feet tall cherry wood doors. I found them in an old home they were tearing down in Tennessee. They had ten or more coats of paint, so I went to town on them. In the end, they turned out gorgeous.

  “Someone will pay top dollar for these.”

  “Oh, they’re not for sale. I’m going to put them in my house someday. When I build it.” Who knows when I’ll have time for that?

  “Oh,” she grins, clapping her hands, “that’s wonderful.”

  “But this,” I gesture toward the newer items, “is all for the Habitat homes.”

  “Habitat in Atlanta?”

  “Yes. It’s what I’d like to do part-time, like I was telling you.”

  She smiles and it’s as though the sun has brightened the room. “I remember.” Her beauty sets me on fire. Why did I promise her friendship when I want so much more? So does my fucking dick. There he goes again, trying to ram his head through my damn zipper.

  “Can I pour you a glass of wine?”

  “Do you have glasses in here?”

  “I have a kitchen, a bedroom, and a small living area. Some nights I get here and am too tired to go home. To be honest, I could probably live here.”

  “May I see?”

  “Sure, come on back.”

  She follows me through the warehouse until we get to a door where my living quarters are.

  “Hey, this is pretty cool back here.”

  “Basic necessities.”

  “Oh, come on. Nobody has granite countertops as a basic necessity.”

  They’re actually quartz, but I don’t tell her. She wanders around and I hear her little exclamations of, “Oh, my God,” and, “This is awesome.” When she resurfaces, she says, “I love your bathroom. That shower is so cool.”

  “I actually did the tile work in there.”

  “How do you know how to do that?”

  “I’m on a ton of job sites and have a few connections. They taught me. It’s pretty easy, actually.”

  Handing her a glass of wine, I pour myself a scotch and we sit down on the sofa.

  “How often do you come here?” she asks
.

  “Almost every night if I can. I’ve not come a lot lately because …” I gesture toward my rear end.

  “Yeah, I know.” A lovely pink flush flourishes over her cheeks. “I’m sorry I’ve cut into one of your pleasures.”

  “Nothing to worry about. I’ll have plenty of time to work on this stuff.”

  “But still, that was really stupid of me to shoot you in the butt.”

  I take a drink and swirl the scotch around in my mouth. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why all the alarms at your grandmother’s. It seems like a pretty safe place out there.”

  Her gaze immediately breaks contact with mine as she fidgets with her dress, picking at the thin fabric. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this is a taboo subject.

  “I’m a great confidant. If you tell me something, I’ll take it to my grave. I swear to God.” I hold up three fingers, giving her the Boy Scout Oath.

  She flicks her gaze over to me, then away again. “It has to do with Cody’s father. We’re not sure if he’ll try to take him back.”

  “I thought he was permanently out of the picture—as in deceased.”

  “That’s just it. We don’t exactly know for sure. I don’t want to get a phone call from Mimi and her tell me—guess what, Cody’s dad came and took him away.”

  “Do you have legal custody?”

  She puffs out her cheeks. “Of course. But that doesn’t prevent people from kidnapping their own kids.”

  She makes a good point.

  “We don’t know who his father is. Sasha never told me. It could be you, for all I know. What I do know is Cody’s mom was whiter than Casper in the middle of summer and had the palest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Cody’s skin is darker than mine and I’m olive skinned. His eyes are dark brown and he has hair to match. So what does that tell us?”

  “That I have gray eyes and can’t be his dad?”

  “Funny guy, you are.” She fists me on the shoulder.

  “Were you close to his mom then?”

  Her throat bobs as she swallows and pulls her lower lip in. She doesn’t answer immediately, so I don’t push her.