by Shandi Boyes
Once again, I don’t see this being a coincidence.
Athena hands me my glasses when I drag my laptop in close so I can input the trading number on the bottom of my email into my search engine. Since I’m logged into Metric Insurance’s mainframe, my search returns more results than a standard Google search and adds even more evidence onto my pile.
“Markham Proprieties owns the insurance company suing The Drop Zone.” Athena is confused, which is surprising. She is usually more suspicious of people’s motives than me—especially when it comes to this man. “Brad mentioned Markham Properties wanted the land The Drop Zone is on many times during our relationship.” I see the pieces clicking together in her eyes. “He also jumped with Colby a couple of weeks ago. What if this is his way of getting The Drop Zone’s doors closed since he couldn’t coerce me to bark on command?”
“Goddammit. I knew I should have packed my blowtorch today. I would have if someone hadn’t already gotten to him before me.”
Her reply lowers both my heart and my jaw. “What?”
She peers at me with wide, shocked eyes. “You don’t know?” When I shake my head, she fills me in. “Brad ‘supposedly’ jumped again Saturday night. They messed him up a little more this time around. Made him as ugly as his insides.” She stops talking, her brows joining. “Do you think the two could be related? When was the file claimed?”
I check the paperwork in front of me. “Sunday morning.” My high heart rate chops up my next set of words. “I told Colby that Brad was responsible for the bruise on my wrist Saturday afternoon.”
Athena leaps up from her seat. “He bruised you.”
“It was an accident, and if what you’re saying is true, blowtorches aren’t required.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah, they are. He was still walking. He won’t be by the time I’m finished with him.”
“You’ll have to get in line.” Athena watches me place my jacket on with her mouth hanging open. “This is my mess, so I’m going to clean it.” After snagging my purse off my desk, I pivot around to face her. “While I’m gone, update Hugh on our findings before contacting Mr. Celest. If he was coerced by Markham Properties to sue, he could be entitled to a much higher settlement.”
My brisk strides to my office door slow when Athena shouts my name. When I pivot around to face her, the panic on her face slips away. “You’ve got this.”
Although she isn’t asking a question, I answer her as if it was one. “I do. I promise.”
After wrapping her up in a tight hug, I dash for the elevator banks. With Christmas quickly approaching, I walk to Markham headquarters instead of hailing a cab. Although it is many blocks away, I need the time to unjumble some of the confusion in my head. This is more than bogus insurance claims. This is my life, and how Colby placed himself in the middle of it if he’s responsible for Brad’s second mugging in two weeks.
When I walk through the rotating doors of Markham Properties Corporation my head is still woozy. I didn’t sleep last night, and I only nibbled on the bagel Tyrone forced into my hand this morning, so it could be more than confusion clouding my judgment. I’ve never felt this way before. The weird twisting sensation in my stomach is more terrifying than the snarl Brad’s receptionist gives me when I glide past her desk without waiting for her to give me the all-clear.
Brad is on a call, but he’s quick to notice me. “I’ll call you back.” He doesn’t wait for his caller to reply, instead places the receiver of his phone back onto its base before spanning the distance between us. For a man with a battered face and a cut lip, his walk is way too arrogant for my liking. “Jamie, I’ve been trying to reach you for days…” His words veer into a growl when he spots the stitches in my forehead. “What happened? Why are you injured?”
I hiss when his inspection of my stitches arrives with poky, explorative fingers. “I’m fine.” I step out of the firing zone, away from him and his stupid beliefs I’m not smart enough to see through his ruse. “And shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re more damaged than I am.”
“This?” He waves his hand over a smattering of bruises the world’s best concealer couldn’t hide. “It’s nothing. People grow desperate this time of the year.”
“I wasn’t talking about your face. I was referencing your emotional wellbeing.”
When he acts clueless, I fold my arms in front of my chest. The disdain in his eyes grows when he realizes I didn’t dress for the occasion. Since I went straight to Metrics after the cabin, I’m wearing snug jeans, a fitted shirt, and a cropped jacket. I’m casual, but in no way dowdy. He won’t see it that way, though. Brad’s always been about putting your best foot forward. He did gift me a makeover for our one-month anniversary. Pig.
“Should you even be working in your condition?”
“As I said, Jamie, I’m fine.” The cockiness in his tone makes me sick.
“And as I said, Bradley, I’m not talking about your supposed ‘mugging.’” I air quote the last word. “If you’re so emotionally distressed you need thirty million dollars to recover, how can you adequately fulfill your role as the procurement manager for a multibillion-dollar company? Surely, you’d be on stress leave. Bedridden even.”
Panic flares through his eyes, but he’s quick to shut it down. “What are you talking about? What thirty million dollars?”
I’m about to hit him with everything I have, but before I can, a knock sounds through his office. “Mr. Valeron, I have an urgent call—”
“They can wait!” I feel bad about mistreating his receptionist when she jumps at his brittle tone. If the panic on her face is anything to go by, this isn’t the first time she’s been reprimanded by him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Valeron, but he was adamant this can’t wait.” She races into his office, her steps thunderous even though her feet barely touch the floor. “It’s Mr. Burgess.” She strays her watering eyes to me. “He’s seeking Jamie.”
I snatch the cordless phone out of her hand, my mind spiraling. My father isn’t a fan of Brad’s, so he’d only reach out to him if it were extremely urgent.
“Daddy,” I say down the line at the same time Brad requests for the valet to bring his car out front.
My dad replies, but I can barely hear him through his heartbreaking sobs.
Chapter 29
Colby
I dig my thumbs into my temples when the brutal knock of someone banging on my hotel room door overtakes the thump in my head. They’ve been knocking for twenty minutes. I successfully ignored them for the first nineteen.
“I swear to God, Casper, I’ll kick your ass if you don’t open this door right now.”
If Tyrone wants me to open the door, why the fuck is he threatening me?
“I’ve visited every hotel in this damn town searching for you, so I wouldn’t suggest testing my patience. It’s Christmas fucking Eve. I should be with my family, not seeking clues of your favorite haunts from Four-Button Betty’s.” A loud bang chops up his words like he’s literally kicking down my door. “You better be alone. If you aren’t, your ass will be as black as mine by the time I’m done with you.”
After a final bang, the hinges on my hotel room door give way, then Tyrone’s big black ass comes storming inside. His nostrils flare while he scans the Presidential Suite of the Wiltshire, seeking the women he won’t find. This isn’t my usual type of bender. I’m still drowning my sorrows. I just used alcohol instead of women.
“What the fuck, Colby? Have you heard of a shower? This place smells like a homeless camp in Venice Beach.”
Tyrone rips open the curtains, blinding me with mid-morning rays, while also unearthing my companion of choice this time around. Nearly every surface of the thirteen-thousand-dollar-a-night suite is covered with beer bottles. A handful of whiskey decanters line the stained floor, and although most of my nutrients the past four days have been in a liquid form, flies are buzzing around half-empty takeout containers.
I want to say this is the first time
Tyrone has seen me like this. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. This is our fourth foray into Drunkenville. The first time was when my mother died, the second was when my brother was charged with rape, and the third was when the man responsible for the fabricated charges finally relented to the dead cold organ in the middle of his chest. Some would call it a heart, but they’d be wrong. My father didn’t have one of those.
I thought the misery in my life would be done and dusted when my father died. I was a fucking idiot. He left a legacy no amount of money could fix.
“Get up.” Tyrone throws a towel into my face before nudging his head to the shower. “And get your ass in the shower before I fucking drag you there by the pretty blond hairs on your faultless fucking head.”
“Jesus, Ty. Chill—”
“Chill? You want me to chill?” He drags his hand over his clipped afro, amplifying the furious shake hampering every inch of him. “I’ve always known you were arrogant, but I never thought you were heartless. I get your pissed, Colby. I understand you want a better hand than the one you’ve been dealt, but now isn’t about you. Not every moment of every day has to be about you.” He plucks me off the mattress before shoving me toward the bathroom. His movements are so quick, I stumble over my feet in my drunken state. “If Jamie doesn’t get to drown her sorrows with gallons of alcohol and greasy Chinese, you sure as fuck don’t get to either. Move your ass, Casper.”
When he continues shoving me, I push back, my anger overtaking my confusion. “If this is the same shit you were preaching at the cabin, walk straight back out that fucking door, Ty. I told you I’m done. I told you it’s over. So why the fuck are you still guilt-tripping me?”
“Because I’m not doing this for another forty years, Colby. I’m sick of bailing your ass out. I’m fucking tired of always needing to be one step ahead of you all the time.”
I thrust my hand to the door he just stormed through. “Then walk. Fucking leave! I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”
The anger lining his face doubles a mere second before he rams into me like a linebacker taking down a quarterback. Even with my head clouded with beer, I give back as good as I’m getting. I slam my fists down on him as I wish I could have Brad. I hated sending someone to do the job for me, but Isaac was adamant it was the only way I could keep my hands clean. Since he’s good at doing precisely that, I took his advice.
Tyrone and I roll around on the floor of my suite for several minutes, going punch for punch. I loathe admitting this, but we’re evenly matched, and if his ragged breaths are anything to go by, he will feel our fight for days to come as well.
The power behind my next hit is half its strength when Tyrone grunts, “You’ve wasted so much time making sure you don’t get attached to anyone, but not once have you sat back and wondered how that affects the people already attached to you. You’re the one who’s going to forget, Colby, so why are you so worried about protecting your heart? It’s not the one set to be broken.”
His words hit me harder than his fists, and they have me rolling off him with a groan. Even though I’ve backed down, Tyrone doesn’t understand the meaning of the words. “We’re supposed to remember your love once you can no longer remember, but you’re not giving us the chance to do that.”
After dragging his hand under his wet eyes, he moves for a leather satchel he dumped upon entry. The sheets of stark white paper he digs out makes the red splits in his knuckles more paramount. “I had these drafted up months ago. I had hoped never to use them, but you’ve given me no choice.”
When he hands me a transfer of assets form, I shake my head. “You’re not buying me out.”
“I’m not buying you out. I’m selling you my half.”
My eyes snap up to his. “The Drop Zone is your family.”
“No, Colby. You are. Or should I say ‘were’?” Tyrone shakes his head, the disappointment in his eyes unmistakable. “Now, I don’t know who you are.” He scans his eyes over my trashed hotel room. “Was it worth it? Did it take away her hurt?”
He doesn’t need to say Jamie’s name for me to know who he’s referencing. “I didn’t want to hurt her, Ty. That’s why I stepped back.”
“And as I said before, that isn’t your choice to make. It’s also too late. She’s already hurting.” He dumps an opened Los Angeles Times onto the coffee table next to me before returning his eyes to mine. “The sale will be processed on close of business on the thirty-first of January. I’ll continue running operations until then. You keep doing you… like you always have.” His last four words are whispers.
“Ty…” He stops just outside my suite door, but he doesn’t turn around to face me. “This isn’t what I want.”
“Then fix it.” He cranks his neck back to me before lowering his eyes to the newspaper he left on the coffee table. “Help her through this because she doesn’t deserve the hand she’s been dealt any more than you.”
I stare at the door he walked through for a few minutes before snatching the open newspaper off the coffee table. Busted knuckles are the least of my problems when my eyes scan the half dozen funeral notices in front of me. One stands out more than the rest since it has a name I’d never forget in the middle of it. Ms. Jamie Burgess.
It’s a notice for her mother’s funeral, that’s being held today, in not even an hour.
Fuck.
Chapter 30
Jamie
Christmas Eve is supposed to be about feasts, tree-decorating, and the final finicky preparations every household undertakes before the fat man in the red suit slides down your chimney. It shouldn’t be about funeral directors, coffin selections, and using the credit from your canceled wedding bouquet to purchase flowers for your mother’s funeral.
Although it’s an odd day for a funeral, the turnout reveals my mom was loved despite her inability to remember those she loved. The ten rows of chairs flowing from each side of her coffin are filled with a bottom. I recognize most of the people here. Just not all of them recognize me. They most likely don’t even remember the person now lying in the white lacquered coffin which is suspended above the ground by black straps. They still came, though. Because they care—somewhat. Even Brad is here. Despite my many requests for solitude, he hasn’t left my side since our arrival at my mother’s assisted-living facility had us stumbling upon a cold and empty bed. People say Alzheimer’s steals the life from your eyes years before God does. That isn’t true. My mom’s room always felt warm and inviting. Four days ago, it was miserable and bleak.
“Are you ready?”
I peer up at Athena with big, watering eyes before nodding. I gave my eulogy and said my goodbye, so I’m more than ready to crawl back into the bed I only left today because I had to attend the funeral of a woman I’ll never stop loving. I can’t imagine what my dad is going through. His heart must be in tatters. He’s never been a man of many words, but even those infrequent few have dwindled the past four days.
“Where are we going?”
Athena’s clutch around my waist tightens. She’s right next to me, yet she still feels far away. “Back to your penthouse. Brad organized for the wake to be held there.”
“Oh.” Don’t ask me if that is a good or bad ‘oh’ as I wouldn’t be able to answer you. I’m so hollow right now, I can barely feel anything.
As we make our way to a procession of black vehicles, I scan the crowd one final time. Every pair of eyes I take in are brimming with moisture, but only one is filled with remorse. Colby stands at the back of the group. He either arrived in a hurry or his respect for me is so low, shaving wasn’t on his to-do list today. His beard is thick, his eyes are sunken, and his hair is oily. He looks like the anger and grief that has festered inside of me the past four days.
I should walk away. I should acknowledge that the grief inside of me has me thinking carelessly, but instead of doing either of those things, I break away from Athena’s side and charge for Colby. “Are you happy? You were right. This is what you predicte
d. She’s dead! She died just like you said she would.”
The remorse in his eyes doubles as he shakes his head. “This isn’t what I wanted, Jamie.”
“Then what do you want, Colby?” I scream at him like I wish I could scream at the disease that stole my mom away from me. “To gloat about how much better your life is than mine…” When my words become stuck by the thick black grief sitting where my heart once sat, my fists take up their campaign. I whack them into Colby’s chest on repeat, hoping for just the slightest bit of reprieve from the heaviness drowning me.
“You did this. This is your fault. You killed her!”
Colby accepts both my beating and my blame without a word spilling from his lips, only moving when the exhaustion of not sleeping for five days crashes into me. When I slump into his chest, he wraps his arms around my torso, then buries his head into my hair. As the heavy stream flowing from my eyes unchecked doubles, he holds onto me tight, only stopping when his arms are replaced with my dad’s.
“Daddy…”
“I know, sweetheart. I know. The pain will ease soon. I promise.”
He tugs me into his side, sheltering me from the world that feels too cruel to live in. It hurts so much. Everything kills.
Once I’m seated in the back of the lead car in the funeral procession, he gestures for the driver to leave. We ride to the penthouse with Athena, the silence as unbearable as the look on Colby’s face when I belted into him.
I don’t want to attend my mom’s wake, but since my dad will be there, and I want to support him as he has always supported me, I will, even if it makes me feel like I’m back below the surface, drowning in despair so thick I’ll never be free of it.
Much like my mom’s funeral, the next four hours pass in a blur. No one says anything about my breakdown at her gravesite or the fact Brad was noticeably absent for the first half of her wake. It’s like every family gathering the Burgess’ have had. Aunt Janet keeps attendees entertained with stories of when she tried to become an actress, while Uncle Irish seeks attention from anyone willing to sit through his hour-long recount about how he narrowly escaped a triple bypass with a strict kale diet and a diverse range of essential oils.
