It's Not Love, It's Business (Young In Love Book 2)

by Elle Wright

  “Right. He showed up every other weekend,” I muttered dryly, “and sometimes at Christmas or Father’s Day—when you would let him.” I didn’t want to get into how she’d micromanaged my relationship with him from the moment they’d separated. To steer this conversation back to the matter at hand, I asked, “Who is my father? Just answer the damn question.”

  “Your father is who I say your father is.”

  “Was Parker Wells Sr. my father?”

  Mom’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Parker Wells Sr. Was he my father?”

  My mother stood, hastily pacing back and forth, muttering something incoherent under her breath. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?”

  She grabbed her robe off a chair and pulled it on. “I’m not talking about this.” She tied the silk fabric at her waist and stomped toward the closet.

  I followed her, stood near her but not too close. I needed to keep my distance. “Tell me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Dropping to her knees, she opened her trunk and tossed pieces of clothes behind her. She was looking for her stash. Interesting. The mere mention of the man had made her run for the liquor.

  “Ma?” I touched her shoulder.

  She jerked away from me. “Stop. Just…no.” She pulled out a full bottle of Tito’s, opened the top, and took a big gulp.

  I dropped my head. In the back of my mind, I knew it was true. From the moment she’d told me, I’d felt it. And my mother’s reaction had confirmed it. Even if she didn’t know for sure, she thought Mr. Wells was my father.

  She shuffled toward the recliner in the corner of the room and plopped down on it. Then, she took another sip from the bottle. “This conversation is over.” She held up the bottle. “See what you made me do?”

  “Don’t put that on me. You could’ve just as easily drank a bottle of water.”

  She leaned her head against the cushion and stared out the window. “News flash. Parker is dead, anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.”

  “You would’ve never even told me there was a possibility I had a different father.”

  “I told you what you needed to know.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

  “You’ve manipulated me my entire life.” And I’d let her, even after I was old enough to know better.

  The late-night calls begging for money, the guilt trips for not being there when she needed me, and the emotional distance she’d insisted on keeping between us had done irreparable damage through the years. I didn’t have to spend hundreds of dollars on therapy to know that being Kenya Hayes’ son had somehow tarnished my life. The notion that I could have a healthy, committed romantic relationship had died a long time ago. Any hope for a semblance of normalcy seemed like a far-off dream, not even possible in light of my past. I’d spent so much of my time building walls to protect myself from more pain, more anguish, that I didn’t even know if I could fall in love.

  She snorted. “Please, you put me through some shit too. Always getting in trouble, going to court.”

  I would be the first to admit I wasn’t perfect. Never pretended to be anything but me. I had to fight to keep from getting my ass kicked in the streets. I had to beat the shit out of many of her boyfriends just to get them off her. And I wasn’t proud of it, but I had to steal to eat some days. Yes, I had an anger problem, but I fully believed that stemmed from the things I’d had to see, the things I’d had to do to protect her and to stay alive.

  “I wonder why,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my words. “It’s not like I had a good example. Instead of acting like my mother, you alternated between treating me like your nuisance or your man.”

  Her expression hardened. “I took care of your little ass.” She stood and stalked toward me. “I gave up my life for you.”

  I let out a humorless chuckle. “You never let me forget it, either. You never passed up a chance to tell me how great your life was before you got pregnant with me. And when exactly did you take care of me? Between stints in rehab and abusive boyfriends?”

  The sting of her palm against my cheek startled me. I took a reflexive step back, but she slapped me again. And again. While she hit me, the liquor in her bottle splashed in my face, on my clothes. I tried to snatch the vodka from her, but her grip was tight.

  When I finally wrestled it from her grasp, I held it up. “And this? This is more important to you than I ever was.” I tossed it behind her. The glass crashed to the floor, shattering on the hard wood.

  “Get out.” She swung at me again, but I easily dodged the contact. “This is my house,” she sneered. “And I don’t want you here.”

  My throat went dry as anger pulsed through me. And since I’d never raise my hand to her or any other woman, I pounded my fist into the wall. The hole I’d left there would be a reminder of what she’d done and why this was the last time she’d ever be able to get under my skin. Straightening my shoulders, I glared at her. “Actually, this is my house. I’m the one who pays the bills here. I’m the one who takes care of you.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stared down at my wet palm. “But you’re right, it’s time I get the fuck out of here.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Reaching for me, she took a step forward. “Preston.”

  I backed away and lifted my hand up. “Don’t touch me. I love you. But I…” I let out a shaky breath. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what? I’m trying to get better. It’s not my fault. You just piss me off.”

  I raised a brow. “Piss you off? Wow.”

  “You’re always judging me, making me feel like I’m nothing.”

  “You make yourself feel like nothing. Ma…Kenya, you need help.”

  She winced as if I’d smacked her. “Preston…babe? You can’t do this. You have to understand—I’m not myself.”

  “You’re definitely yourself.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her two hundred dollars. “For groceries. I noticed you didn’t have anything in the refrigerator.” I walked out of her bedroom.

  “Preston!” she shouted, following after me, grabbing my arms to keep me there. I kept going, all the way to the front door. “Please.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry.” She was crying now, but I didn’t turn to look at her. Because I knew what would come next. The begging, the promises to stay sober. “Forgive me.”

  It felt like my heart had cracked open. The pain was so consuming, I couldn’t catch my breath. For once, though, I was going to put myself first, even if I had to walk away from my own mother. Lowering my head, I sucked in a deep breath and left.

  Dallas

  “Who is the hottie in the picture? #SendMeOneOfThem #Dayum” Scroll.

  “Yasmin needs to whoop that ass for effing wit’ her man. Kimball + Yasmin FOREVA!” Scroll.

  “Sources say Kimball is divorcing Yasmin? Does she have something to do with that?” Scroll.

  “That Bitch! She’s a homewrecker!” Report.

  “Who cares! This isn’t news.” Like.

  “Kimball Payne is a punk with his little whining ass self. Maybe he should try scoring a touchdown. Dallas is better off without him. Go girl.” Love.

  “She’s beautiful. I’m down for a threesome.” Block.

  Annoyed, I closed my Facebook and opened Twitter. I probably shouldn’t have been checking social media right now—or ever again. I should’ve been working or drinking. Anything other than reading the comments about me and Kimball, me and my homewrecker status, me and mystery guy, me and anything that didn’t matter.

  After a quick scroll down my timeline, I blocked several people and posted a GIF of a woman looking bored, along with the caption #unbothered. The good news was I wasn’t trending anymore. The bad news was I had a ton of mentions because one of the paparazzi had managed to snap a pic of Preston and I leaving Real Seafood Company after our dessert. Fortunately, it was an innocent photo, but it still made the rounds.

  The interest in m
y love life was astounding. I wasn’t a celebrity. I hadn’t published any viral articles like Blake. I wasn’t a celebrity chef like Duke. I didn’t traipse all over the world giving seminars to couples and parents. And I definitely hadn’t introduced a line of sex toys. I was just me, plain old Dallas. I loved my under-the-radar life, which was why I’d been very careful about who I associated myself with. I’d only dated two professional athletes in my life, and one of them was Kimball. The other was… I was just ready to get back to normal.

  My phone buzzed, alerting me to a new message—from Kimball.

  Dumb Ass: Hey beautiful.

  More proof that he was a dingaling. No originality, no sense. I almost didn’t respond. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d ignored his ass. He’d been texting me nonstop for the past few days, right around the time those pics of me with Preston hit the web. I had time today, though. My response was brief: Fuck you, Muthafucka.

  I set my phone down on the table, but picked it up again when my watch beeped. Smiling, I accepted the video chat request. Burrowing into the sofa, I grinned. “When are you coming to save me, Skye?”

  “Girl, delete that damn tweet. The last thing you need is more mentions.” Skye Palmer-Starks owned Skye Light PR. She was one of the best in the business, but more importantly, she was one of the best people I knew.

  Although we weren’t related by blood, she was family. The enduring relationship we had with the Starks had sustained us through good and bad times. Jax Starks and his wife, Ana, were the official godparents for all eight of us. Uncle Jax and my father had grown up together and remained closer than brothers. Together with the Starkses and Reids, we’d gone on vacations, celebrated milestones, mourned losses, and had even lived in the same Brentwood, Los Angeles neighborhood for a time. We’d spent more time with them than we had with our actual relatives. Our lives were so intertwined that I’d had many of my firsts with them—from my first kiss to my first drink.

  “Did you delete it yet?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do it now. I guarantee you someone got a screenshot, but at least it’ll be gone.”

  I reopened the app and deleted the tweet. “Done.”

  “Good.” Skye was walking briskly through what appeared to be an airport.

  I tucked my feet under my butt and sipped my glass of wine. “Where are you going?”

  “Cali,” she answered.

  “So why are you FaceTiming me, then? You could’ve just sent a text.”

  “I wanted you to see my face when I told you to take that shit down.” The noise that I’d heard faded away. “Okay, I’m in the Sky Club.” She let out a deep breath. “I needed Garrett here to carry my bags.” Skye had recently gotten engaged to Garrett Steele. They both worked to mitigate scandals for their wealthy clients, but he was a crisis management attorney. “Anyway, what’s going on with you? Duke told me to call you. He said you fucked up.”

  I laughed. “Tell my brother to mind his.”

  “He’s just worried about you,” Skye said.

  I nibbled on my thumbnail. “Are you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nah, girl. You got this. I noticed you cozied up to some mystery man.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Who is he?”

  “That’s Preston.”

  Frowning, she asked, “Who the hell is that?”

  “Cooper’s friend. My friend. I don’t know.” I cracked up. “He’s somebody.”

  She lifted a questioning brow. “Somebody you like?”

  I didn’t even bother answering that question because it was irrelevant. “Did Duke tell you I’m thinking of running for office?”

  “He did,” she replied. “He also told me something about a law organization?”

  “Right. My mentor approached me about taking a leadership role in the org. They would then put their resources behind me for an eventual campaign.”

  “That’s pretty amazing, Dallas.”

  “Thanks. After that Kimball debacle, though, there was some concern that I wasn’t the right pick. Preston agreed to help me out, attending events and such.”

  “Great. So, he’s your good publicity. I like that. And since you didn’t answer my question earlier, I’m going to assume you like him.”

  “It’s just business. A favor.”

  Skye smirked. “Not sure I believe that, but okay.”

  “Why don’t you believe me?”

  “Because I know you. And I know that look on you.”

  I swallowed. “It’s not that.”

  “Whatever you say, sis. I told Duke you didn’t need me, though. You’re already doing what I was going to suggest. A public relationship with someone not Kimball Payne will work. Just no dramatic breakups. Adults can and do end relationships all the time without fanfare.”

  “I know. It won’t be like that.”

  “Although, I would’ve suggested doing this with someone else.”

  “I didn’t want to do it at all,” I told her. “But then someone snapped a picture of us in front of my house, and the rumor mill went crazy.”

  “What was he doing at your house? Before you say it was innocent, don’t try it.”

  I shot her a mock glare. “I can’t stand you, heffa.”

  She laughed. “You love me.”

  “You’re lucky I do, because I would’ve cussed your ass out.”

  “So…?”

  “He’s cool.” I shrugged. “We’re sorta friends.”

  “You had sex with him, didn’t you?”

  I gaped. “No. I mean…not recently.”

  “I knew it!” She did a fist pump. “I’m so damn good. I figure shit out. Does Duke know?”

  I thought about the immediate aftermath of my bathroom tryst with Preston, and how Duke had correctly surmised that I’d been fucking. “What do you think?”

  Skye giggled. “Yeah, that’s Duke. Always knowing shit.”

  “And never afraid to let you know that he knows,” I added.

  “That part,” she chirped.

  “Anyway, it hasn’t happened since then, and it’s not going to happen.”

  “Okay.”

  “I hate when you say that.”

  The corner of her mouth curved up. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. But you know…it’s always better to be honest with yourself at least.”

  “Girl, I’m—” A knock at the door interrupted my thought. Frowning, I stood. “Hang on.”

  “It’s okay. I have to board in a few minutes. I’ll keep an eye on things, and I’ll be in touch if I need to.”

  “Thanks, Skye.” I ended the call and walked to the door. Speaking of my fake boyfriend… I smoothed my hand over my clothes and checked out my reflection in a small mirror by the door. It was no use. My hair was a mess and my clothes were hanging off. Basically, I looked like warmed-over shit. But I opened the door anyway and forced a bright smile. “Preston, hey. I thought we weren’t meeting up until later.” The fundraiser I’d agreed to attend wouldn’t start until seven.

  Preston didn’t meet my gaze. “Hey.”

  The first thing I noticed was the angry bruise on his jaw. Frowning, I pulled him into the house. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer me right away and he still hadn’t made eye contact. “Preston. What happened?”

  When he finally glanced at me, I gasped. My hand flew to my chest because… Oh my God. He was crying.

  Chapter Nine

  Halfcrazy

  Dallas

  I’d mastered the art of the silent treatment right around the age of nine. I remember it like it was yesterday—what I had on, where I was. Duke had told Jonathan Matthews that I had the cooties. And I’d crushed on Jon so hard, it felt like my world was ending. To make matters worse, Jon spread the rumor in school. Embarrassed was an understatement. I was humiliated.

  I didn’t speak to Duke for seven days. By the time that week was over, Duke was begging me to talk to him, and Jonathan was pleading with me to forgive him. While I’d eventually relented and let my br
other back into my good graces, I never talked to Jon again. Not years later when he gave me a bouquet of pink carnations during the eighth-grade formal. Not even when he took out an “I apologize” ad in the high school yearbook.

  Yet, as good as I was with giving the silent treatment, I hated when someone gave it to me. Hate it. For instance, it’d been half an hour since Preston had shown up at my door and he’d said no more than three words. No and Thank you.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked after another long moment of silence.

  He shook his head.

  “Okay,” I murmured.

  Thinking back, it occurred to me that Preston had been dealing with something for quite some time. My mind floated to the bar, the sad look in his eyes, his untouched shot of liquor. He hadn’t talked about it then either, but I’d hoped he would. And now…I could see he wasn’t in a good place. I could feel his anguish, his despair. The tears I’d seen in his eyes earlier were still there. I wanted to fix it.

  “My mother is a drunk,” he whispered.

  My eyes flashed to him. Good thing I hadn’t gone with my first mind and offered him a shot, but…what do I say to that?

  His brows drew together, and a lone tear streaked down his face. “She’s an addict who made my life a living hell.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I always tried to be there for her, to love her. I gave up pieces of myself to support her.” Preston squeezed his eyes shut and more tears spilled on his cheeks. “Only for her to choose her vice, her liquor, over me time and again.”

  Oh shit, I’m crying too. I dashed a tear away.

  His eyes bore into me, and I was struck by the intensity of his stare and the despair in his watery gaze. “I don’t even remember her before she turned into what she is now.” He stood and paced the floor like a caged animal. “I mean, I have some good memories, but they’re wrapped in bad ones, because Sober Mom was never around long. And I’d have to pick up the pieces.”

  I peered up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”