Dawson Family Boxset (Books 1-3)

by Emily Goodwin

  I beam. “You won’t regret it. It’ll be a huge help to you! What could possibly go wrong?”

  SIDE HUSTLE, a single-dad/nanny romance featuring Weston Dawson is coming Fall 2018.

  Side Hustle

  To my dad. Thanks for teaching me to never give up. (Ps…skip the sexy parts when you read this.)

  Copyright

  Side Hustle

  A Dawson Family

  Copyright 2018

  Emily Goodwin

  Editing by Ellie McLove

  Editing by Lindsay, Contagious Edits

  Proof reading by Jessica Meigs

  Cover Photography by By Braayden Photography

  Models: Dale Guthrie and Carly Tolman

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.

  1

  Scarlet

  For as long as I can remember, there’s been an emptiness inside of me. The more I try to ignore it, the deeper it sets into my bones, seeping down, deep down, until it becomes part of me. It’s easy to blame the emptiness on my shitty upbringing. Having to give up my dreams of a future to take care of my brother and sister. Growing up with an addict for a mother and being the one who found her cold, stiff body after an overdose.

  But I felt it before then, and sometimes I wonder if the emptiness isn’t empty at all. Maybe it’s darkness, and it’s always been a part of me. And when you have darkness inside of you, you have two choices: hate yourself for it or embrace it.

  I chose the latter.

  The bathroom door closes with a heavy thud, and I step up to the mirror, pulling out cherry red lipstick from my purse. I carefully apply it, fluff my hair, and stare at my reflection, avoiding the tiny bit of judgment my moral compass is giving me. That thing’s been broken for years anyway.

  I close my eyes and think of homeless puppies, conjuring up images from those heartbreaking commercials I usually fast-forward through. It doesn’t take much to make myself cry fake tears. If my cards had been dealt a different way, I’d be one hell of an actress.

  Fake crying? No problem.

  Real crying? I haven’t done in years. Crying means feeling, and feeling isn’t a luxury I can afford. My life is such a mess that if I stopped and looked at it—really looked at it—I’d be a blubbering fool.

  Tears well in my eyes and I let a few fall, smearing my mascara, before heading back out to the bar. It’s a little after noon on a Tuesday, and the bar just opened up. It’s inside a swanky hotel, and I can afford exactly half a watered-down whiskey here.

  Spotting my target, I take a seat at the bar and order a vodka tonic with top-shelf liquor. I’m getting cocky, perhaps, but I didn’t wear this uncomfortable-as-fuck pushup bra for nothing today.

  I slowly sip my drink, crossing my legs and leaning back on the bar stool. I squeeze my eyes shut and more tears roll down my cheeks. Setting the glass down, I angrily wipe them away, looking down at my phone and shaking my head.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the man in the blue Armani suit says, striding over. He extends a designer monogrammed handkerchief, flashing his Rolex at the same time. “But I have to ask who made a pretty thing like yourself cry?”

  I’m not a thing, asshole. I’m a human-fucking-being. “Thank you,” I sniffle, taking the handkerchief. I blot up my tears and turn to him, doe-eyed. “My boyfriend is here on business and I thought I’d surprise him. But when I got to the room…he wasn’t alone.” I turn away, waterworks in full force. I wish I could give myself an Emmy.

  “He’s a damn fool,” Blue Suit says, taking a seat next to me. I can feel him eye-fucking me. “You’re exquisite.”

  I shake my head. “Tell him that.” I pick up my drink and down it. “I just want to forget him.”

  Blue Suit signals the bartender and orders us two martinis. “Here’s to forgetting,” he says, sliding the drink in front of me. I angle my body toward his and reach out, putting my hand on his bicep.

  “Thank you,” I say slowly, giving his arm a little squeeze. Blue Suit narrows his eyes and grins.

  “Drink,” he orders, eyes dropping to my cleavage. I know his type, and I can’t fucking stand them. Relatively young for making so much money, they usually hail from trust-fund families to begin with. I bet Blue Suit posts selfies with his Lamborghini at least twice a week on Instagram and has to constantly remind people of how much pussy he gets.

  Overly full of himself, he thinks wearing that fitted suit makes him the living embodiment of Christian Grey. Sorry, buddy. I’m not going Fifty Shades on your cock today.

  “I hardly ever drink,” I say, making my voice a little breathy after I take a big swig. “I’m such a lightweight.”

  His thin lips pull into a grin again, and I wish I could take the toothpick from my drink and stab it into his dick. I’ll be doing all women a service from this snake in a suit.

  “Well, sweet thing,” he starts, leaning in and brushing my blonde hair over my shoulder. “That’ll work in both our favors.”

  I giggle, doing an impressive job of hiding my cringing on the inside. I sip at my drink again, purposely spilling it. A little stream of alcohol runs down my chest, and I make a show of wiping at my breasts.

  Like a hungry dog, Blue Suit has sunk his teeth into me, but it’s only a matter of time before I walk out of here as Best of Show.

  “I’m such a mess right now.”

  “You’re too sexy to be a mess.”

  I mentally roll my eyes. You’re a beautiful mess was a much better line, dude. “I’m so embarrassed. It’s been one hell of a day and I get a little flustered around attractive men. Oh—” I bring my hand to my face and right on cue, my cheeks flush.

  He chuckles and moves in. I rub my hands up and down my arms, shivering. Blue Suit takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, smoothing it out just so he has a reason to touch me.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” I coo, pulling the jacket around my slender body. I can feel his wallet press into my side, and it only takes another few minutes of small talk for me to reach inside and pull out his cash. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but I always get a little rush. I’m right there literally in front of him, picking his pocket under his nose. I’ve yet to be caught, but there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.

  I fold the bills up in my hand and reach for my phone with my other. Sandwiching the money between my palm and my phone, I tell him I need to use the bathroom. I leave his suit jacket hanging on the back of the bar stool and slip right out of the bar, through the lobby of the Four Seasons and fall into step with the fast-paced Chicago foot traffic.

  “This’ll cover what insurance doesn’t.” I hand over crisp one hundred dollar bills, silently cursing the woman behind the counter. She holds each bill up to the light, making sure they’re real, and proceeds to ring me up.

  “You need to confirm the address for delivery.” She slides the paperwork to me, and I can feel her judgment digging into me like a knife hot out of the fire. I’m still in my strappy Valentino dress, still showing more cleavage than your average street-corner hooker, and still have mascara smeared across my cheeks. I wiped it up the best I could, but I really don’t give a damn right now. I changed out of my heels for two reasons: I’m down to one pair of designer shoes, and they’re not the most comfortable to be trekking along the south side of Chicago in.

  I’m now wearing a pair of worn-out Nikes and have twisted my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head. I had to hurry to get to the medical supply store in time to put in the order and have it delivered with tomorrow’s shipment.

  I
’ve had this wheelchair on hold for weeks now, and after arguing with insurance for days on end, I knew it was either make my father suffer in his current ill-fitting chair that pinches his thighs and causes sores on his lower back or do whatever I can to get the money to get him this new one before the sores open up and turned into pressure ulcers. Again. We’ve been down this road before and it almost ended his life. The sores get infected, and he’s too old and too weak to fight off another infection. It would take me weeks if not months to earn enough from my waitressing job to cover this expensive as fuck wheelchair.

  I confirm everything, making double sure the wheelchair will get delivered to the nursing home and then the right patient tomorrow afternoon. The cashier throws out a catty, “Well you could be there if you’re so worried,” that I respond to with a glare and a roll of my eyes. I don’t have time for her shit.

  The wind picks up, carrying a cool fall breeze with it. It’s the end of September and it’s been unseasonably warm all week. Not that I’m complaining though. The lake-effect snow will be here before we know it, and I’ll be trudging through it to work and back.

  But today, though it’s nice enough out to walk, I have enough leftover cash from Blue Suit to take public transportation and buy myself something for lunch. I put on my headphones and sit at the back of the bus, ignoring the world around me.

  I get off a block away from the nursing home, intent on grabbing a taco from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place. My stomach grumbles and the last remaining twenty is burning a hole in my pocket. I round the corner a little too fast and almost step on a homeless woman sitting close to the side of a building. Her eyes are red and glossed over, but not because she’s high. It’s because she’s been crying.

  A sleeping toddler is tucked under her arm, wearing dirty clothes. They’re both in desperate need of a bath, and suddenly tacos seem irrelevant. I come to a stop, digging the twenty out of my purse.

  “There’s a church three blocks over that’ll take you in for the night,” I tell her. I know this because I stayed there before years ago, back when it was me, Heather, and Jason against the world. “They’ll have clothes for her too.”

  The woman takes the twenty from me, bottom lip quivering. “Thank you. My boyfriend…he got arrested and we’ve had nowhere to go.” She starts to get to her feet, struggling to keep her child nestled against her body and pick up her shit at the same time.

  “Want some help?”

  The woman eyes me suspiciously, and if you’re going off my looks, I can’t blame her. Two-bit whores aren’t known for their generosity.

  “I’ve been in your shoes,” I offer.

  “You have kids?” The woman gets to her feet and grabs a duffle bag full of baby clothes. She only has a backpack full of stuff for herself.

  “Not my own, but I looked after my siblings for a few years.” I take the duffle from her and lead the way down the street. We walk in silence, and when we get in front of the church, the woman tells me a tearful and heartfelt thank you.

  I hike back to the nursing home, sweating by the time I get there. Dammit. This dress is dry clean only. The smells of body odor, urine, and bleach hang heavy in the air, mixed together like some sort of stomach-churning perfume. I turn down the hall and head in the direction of my father’s room. I slow, seeing the curtain pulled around his bed.

  The nursing assistant behind the curtain hums “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” and I hear him plunge a washcloth into a basin of water.

  “Hey, Corbin,” I say, knowing who he is without having to look.

  His shoes squeak on the tile as he steps over to peer at me. “You pulling tricks again, hooka?”

  “Magic tricks,” I say, snapping my fingers. “And for my next act, watch that new wheelchair appear tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I did.”

  He waggles a finger at me. “Girl, you are something else.”

  “How’s he doing today?”

  “We’ve had some good moments today, haven’t we, Mr. Cooper?”

  I perch on the edge of the other bed in the room, not wanting to go behind the curtain. My father’s been in this shithole of a nursing home for the last several years, thanks to heavy drinking in his youth, a brain injury acquired during a bar fight, and most of all, early-onset Alzheimer’s.

  “Good.”

  “I’m going to take him down to Bingo after I get him cleaned up. He got a little messy during lunch.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “New CNA. Let him alone with a bowl of soup.”

  I let out a sigh. You can’t leave food out around Dad. He’ll try to feed himself and will end up spilling it everywhere. I pull my phone out of my purse, checking the time. I’m going to have to cut my visit with Dad short today if I want to make it over in time to see Heather, which I need to do. It’s been a few days, and I have to make sure she’s staying out of trouble.

  Once Dad is up and dressed, I wheel him down into the cafeteria and sit him at a table along with a few other residents. I stay through one round of Bingo and then give him a kiss on the forehead and rush out, getting to the prison with only minutes left of visiting hours.

  I’ve gone through the process of signing in and going through security so many times I could do it in my sleep.

  “Hey, Scarlet,” C.O. Benson says as I pass through the metal detector. “Looking good.”

  I flash him a smile and bat my eyelashes, just enough to keep him hanging on. “You too. Have you been working out?”

  “I have,” he replies with a wide smile. “Starting some new supplements.”

  “Keep it up. I can tell.” I grab my purse, holding the smile on my face until I turn away. He’s not a total loser but isn’t my type. And by that, I mean, I’m not into guys who live in their parents’ basement and find taxidermy a fun way to pass the time. But I know how helpful it can be to have that flirty relationship with someone in his position, and I never know when I’ll have to ask for a favor.

  For my sister, that is.

  I get seated in the visitor area and lean back while I wait. My mind starts to wander, and I quickly reel that fucker in. Don’t think. Don’t feel.

  “Scar!”

  I look up and see my sister quickly walking over.

  “Jesus Christ, Heather.” My eyes widen, and I shake my head. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

  She flops into the chair with a huff. “I knew you’d hate it.”

  Reaching over, I run my fingers through the rough cut. A natural blonde like me, Heather has butchered her long locks into a terrible above-the-shoulders bob with streaks of black and red throughout.

  “It looks like a prison haircut.”

  “Well, it is a prison haircut. I’m in fucking prison, Scar,” she spits out, nostrils flaring. We glare at each other for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. She reaches over the table and gives me a quick hug, ignoring the C.O. telling us not to touch.

  “How are things?” she asks.

  “As good as they can be,” I say with a shrug. “I got Dad the new chair, and Jason was able to call home a few days ago.”

  Heather’s face lights up. “God, I miss that little shit.”

  “Me too.” Two years ago, our younger brother shipped off to the Middle East with the Army. I hate that he’s away, but I’m proud of him for making something of himself. He’s the only Cooper to do so…so far. We’re a dysfunctional family, but we care about each other something fierce.

  “Hey,” she says, lowering her voice and leaning over. “I was talking to one of the girls in here.”

  I raise my eyebrows, knowing what comes next. It’s usually a harebrained idea like all of her ideas are and never ends well for her. Hence why I’m visiting my baby sister in prison.

  “And?”

  Her lips curve into a smile. “I have a job opportunity for you.”

  2

  Weston

  “Dad, catch
!”

  I make a wild dive, over-exaggerating everything to humor my son. He throws the football, which only makes it a few feet before hitting the ground. I slide on the grass, making Jackson laugh.

  “I won! I won!” Jackson chants, jumping up and down.

  “Ouch!” Owen shouts from the patio. “Did you break something, old man?”

  With a dramatic roll on the grass that makes Jackson laugh even more, I grab the football, pop up, and throw it at my younger brother. He’s holding a beer in one hand and lazily reaches out with the other to catch it and misses. Luckily our sister, Quinn, is standing next to him and catches it before it crashes into the house.

  “Seriously, guys?” She laughs and tosses the ball to Jackson. Shaking her head, she goes back to her fiancé, who’s holding their sleeping baby. Emma looks so small in Archer’s arms, reminding me of when Jackson was that little.

  They really grow up so fast.

  “Try to catch me!” Jackson shouts and takes off through the yard. I don’t know where this kid gets his energy from.

  “How about Uncle Dean come and chase you around?” I ask loudly so both Jackson and Dean hear. Jackson loves the idea and runs over to Dean, grabbing his hand and pulling him off the bench. Logan steps out of the house, carrying two more beers. He hands one to me and cracks the top back on the other, and we both find a place to sit on the patio with the rest of our siblings.

  It’s a rare afternoon when we’re all off together, and while my parents don’t usually have us over for a big dinner on a Tuesday, we couldn’t pass this up. It’s nice out for late September and might be one of the last times we can grill and eat outside before the cold sets in.