HEAT: A Bad Boy Romance

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© 2016 by Jess Bentley and Natasha Wessex

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I
take a deep breath
, and unclench my fists. Looking down at the stinging in my palm, when it opens I see the deep crescent indentations of my fingernails. Since I was a little girl, that sight was more or less the definition of home.

Inside the little brick single-level cottage, behind the yellow, ratty yard, I can already hear my stepfather screaming. I’m still on the sidewalk, so chances are everyone else within a three-house radius can hear him as well. Why he was there when my mother called me, I can’t imagine.

Mom called me about a panic attack.

George is pretty much the opposite of helpful for that.

No one knows I’m here yet. I look back at the car—I could still leave. No one would know. I could just say I got busy, or that someone quit at the restaurant and I have to cover. That’s what the owner does; what I always do. They’d believe me.

But no amount of fantasizing actually will make that dream a reality. Pushing the chain-link fence gate open with a sigh, my heels tap up the cracked walkway through the dead yard and up to the screen door where I don’t bother to knock. It’s not locked.

Besides, Gloria’ll just tell George that I’m lying if I try to make something up. And George would ask. George is an asshole.

“Jesus Christ, Gina,” George is barking when I open the door to the scene. “You said you were dying! You get a little nervous on your own. Can’t you just piss in a corner like a dog instead of—what the fuck are you doing here?” He turns on me the moment I close the door.

I give George a long, flat look. It‘s better not to engage. So instead I turn my eyes more softly on Gina. “Sorry it took me so long, Mama,” I say. “You know you didn’t have to call anyone else.” I shoot George another brief, flat glare.

Gina takes my hand when I’m within arm’s reach, her pale lips widening into a wobbly smile. Her eyes are still wide, her pupils small, and it doesn’t look like she’s showered today. After almost fifteen years, George still can’t tell the difference between “nervous” and a full-blown panic attack by looking at it. The sleeve of Gina’s sweater is frayed from constant picking, which she’d have been doing for hours before the worst of it finally peaked.

“Oh, Janie,” my mother breathes, her bony hand squeezing mine as she says my name like a prayer. Probably a prayer for deliverance. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but by now her cheeks are dry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you. George… he came over, so… I just never see you and I think this time I… I just missed you and you know how I get. I just—”

“Shh, it’s okay, Mama.” I let her draw me close, until she kneels by the old recliner she’d been sitting in and smiles up at me.

It’s not true; I drop everything to come and help her manage panic attacks sometimes as often as twice a week. During really bad weeks, it can be three or four visits. But she rarely retains much in the way of clear memories of the worst attacks.

This time looks to be one of the easier ones, George’s outburst notwithstanding. I’ve come through for my mother on everything from flies wriggling through the window and porch screens, to checking every closet in the house to assure her there’s no one lurking in the dark corners of the house. Once, I had to check the gas lines in the basement and prove that the house wasn’t in imminent danger of burning down.

Every time I do it, I know I’m enabling her, letting her get through another attack without having to self-manage the symptoms the way her many therapists have taught her to do. But I’m a problem-solver; a chronic micromanager. It’s true at the restaurant, it’s true at Mom’s house. Hell, it’s true of ordering takeout and getting my clothes dry-cleaned.

“Come on, Mama,” I urge as she stands, tugging her up to her feet. “You’ve got to be exhausted. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Yeah, right,” George grumbles. “I come all the way home from work, and you tuck her in for a nap. I ain’t on salary, you know.”

I roll my eyes and ignore him.

“You come in here when there’s a problem, sure,” he goes on. “Now you’re a big shot, you can’t be bothered to come spend time with your mother. That’s why she gets these fucking attacks in the first place. On account of you think you’re better than us. How do you think that makes her feel, you coming in here in your fancy dress and high heels like you’re—”

Drawing myself to my full height, with said heels on, I’m at least at eye level with my stepfather, and when I want to I can put the fire in my eyes. When I turn them on George now, his teeth click shut. I force my hands to relax, again.

“The least you could do,” I say, struggling to keep calm and rein in my fury at the man, “is not be a complete bastard when she’s vulnerable like this, you self-centered son of a bitch. Go the fuck back to work. I can take care of my mother.”

In the typical fashion, George sneers at her, but says nothing. When George Acropolis speaks, people listen… or he pretends not to have spoken in the first place. What a keeper.

“Janie,” my mother whispers.

I bite the inside of my cheek, and draw her toward the back of the living room, to the hallway where the bedrooms are. “You’re okay, Mama,” I say as she clutches her arm for the trip. “Do you have your pills here?”

Gina hesitates before she gives a nervous affirmative.

“Mama, you have to take your pills,” I sigh. “If you take them like the doctor said, this won’t happen.”

“George doesn’t like me on them,” she says. “He says they make me lazy. And they do.”

“No, Mama,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth, “they make you normal. George is… he just needs to understand that.” It doesn’t matter what I say about George, or how often I air my opinion of him to my mother. All it does is make her more agitated.

Almost the same time I open the door to my mother’s room, the front door slams, startling us both. George is going back to work, at least. Hopefully it’s one of the days he works overtime. Or, maybe he has a mistress. I don’t even care as long as it keeps him away long enough for Mom to get some much-needed rest.

As she takes her slippers off and lies down on top of the blankets, I dig through the bedside table for her pills. I find the orange bottle nearly empty, and as I tip one of the little pills out and hand it to my patient, I frown. I grab a plastic cup from their bathroom, fill it with water and bring it back to the bedside.

“Take your pill, Mama,” I say.

She does, and then lies down on the bed, still breathing heavily but no longer quite so pale. It’s like the life comes back into her when George is gone.

He’s the reason she’s been having more and more frequent panic attacks. I get called for the worst of them, but the lesser ones, the attacks she just needs to hear a voice to get her through them—for those she calls my brothers—one of the twins, Chris or Derek. They answer about half the time.

Not for the first time and likely not for the last, I have to remind myself not to try and convince her to leave George and come stay with me. She’d just go back to George in just a few days, claiming they’ve worked it all out and that his temper won’t be an issue again.

No. All I can do is what I’m already doing—being supportive, and helping her cope with her growing list of irrational fears. A list that I worry is one day going to encompass everything.

I
t no longer surprises me to
find my father defiling one room or another—any room with a flat surface, at least—with someone who’s not his wife. Once, it did surprise me. The first dozen or so times, in fact. After that, it went from being shocking to merely offensive. That’s what I feel when I slide open the door to the grand dining room on my way to the garage.

I don’t recognize this one. Reginald Ferry manages his regular flings the way some people manage their wine cellars. You drink a fine bottle slowly, and when it’s all used up, you toss the useless glassware that’s left and order in a new bottle from somewhere exotic. This girl looks vaguely South American. Probably a twenty-year vintage. I doubt she can buy her own drinks—not that she probably ever needs to—though she at least looks like she’s legal. Reginald is a narcissist, not an idiot.

My father spots me a heartbeat after I enter the room, but before he can backtrack. He smirks, and pinches the girl’s nipple so she barks a plaintive, but obviously pleasure-filled curse in Spanish.

“Close the door,” Reginald pants, not even slowing down, or letting go of the girl’s tits to cover anything up. “Give us a little privacy, will you?”

With the greatest enthusiasm, I do as I’m told. Then I shove the disgust I feel for the old man far, far down, like I have countless times before. Shocked? No. But I’ll probably never get used to it. Not like my stepmother, Toia. Or “Toy” as my father likes to call her.

Toia had once considered herself the lucky one. Reginald actually married her—with a pre-nup, of course, that left out any mention of fidelity on his part. Once, early on, Toia had run into one of his playthings, and then another, and another. There had been a fight about it and for a moment I thought she might actually leave him.

But she didn’t. Instead, she fell into her place naturally, the way any grateful, over-thirty supermodel who knows there‘s a clock ticking on her figure would do. At least, one with little to no self-respect. A daily diet of spas, champagne, Valium, and yoga probably helped as well.

Now, she probably does much the same thing as I do. Shrug, and move on with life. Reginald’s not about to change for anyone.

There‘s another route to the garage, but it’s long. Three elaborately decorated sitting rooms, two gilded hallways, and one pink marble staircase later, and I’m free.

Sure, I grew up with money. The Ferry estate is pointlessly massive, slathered in gold leaf and marble and antiques that sometimes are hundreds of years old, and carpeted with handmade carpets of fine wool that have to be specially cleaned by people that fly in from across the country once a month.

All of that is just set dressing. I’ve seen people go wide-eyed and gush over one object or feature or another; I know it’s impressive to people who’ve never lived in it before. Those people have never known the confusion of a kid who didn’t understand why they couldn’t sit in a single chair in a
sitting room
. A chair that was worth three of him. But to me now, the billionaire life is just “life.”

But if there’s one thing I genuinely fucking love about this life, aside from the bottomless credit card, and of course the fully-equipped MMA gym in the mansion—it’s the cars.

The garage is large enough that when I flip the lights on, they don’t all come up at once. Row by row they come to life, illuminating the long line of sports cars near the house, all the way down to the black SUVs at the far end, used by the help when they’re needed.

I’m just here to get the Benz, and the sight of my father’s trembling ass hasn’t dislodged that intention. If anything, it solidified it. That baby gets zero to sixty in just a hair over two seconds, the kind of speed that you can feel in your chest.

I make damn sure the tires screech on my way out.

In the early evening hours, it’s time to get the night started. My father’s newest lounge is both a place to do that as well as something of a PR job. I’m required to show up at least a few times a week to be seen, shake hands with whatever celebrities have been invited—assuming they show up—and generally make it look like Reginald gives a shit about the place.

Fact is, Reginald has only walked through the doors of the Ferry Lights lounge three times. Once before it was built out, once after, and once for the grand opening. After that, it became my job. It’s not a hard job—show up, be social, get fucked up, pick a girl from the inevitable lineup, go home, get up the next day and do it all again.

No, the job’s easy. It’s just distasteful. It’s right across the street from Janie Hall’s up-and-comer, Red Hall Eatery and Lounge. I watch the place as I drive past it to get to the VIP valet curb in front of my father’s lounge. It’s not dead—but it sure isn’t as busy as it had been before Ferry Lights opened, either.

And for what? Another drop in the bucket that is the Reginald Ferry diversified assets? When you have the kind of money Reginald does, driving small, high-profile businesses out of town is the closest thing to a hobby you have. If you’re an asshole.

Reginald is that. Ferry Lights’ location isn’t an accident. My father had passed up a significantly larger, far more flexible waterfront property to take this one. He did it on purpose.

Once on the curb, I toss the keys to the valet, and try to remember the kid’s name without looking at his name tag. It’s… “Thanks, Austin,” I say to the kid when we pass one another. I give the guy a Benjamin. “Take her for a spin; but don’t be gone long.” I wink.

Austin smirks and bobs his head. “Yeah, sure thing, Mr. Ferry.”

My eyes flicker to the kid’s name tag, just in case. I’m relieved to have gotten it right. The turnover at this place is probably setting records, especially for valets. Austin has lasted an impressive four weeks so far.

Inside, I go on autopilot. Shoulders straight, chin up, smile confident and inviting—but not too inviting. The walk of ownership, of importance. Straight to the bar. A few flashes catch the corners of my eyes, but I don’t follow up on them.

I also ignore the weight of hungry eyes that claw at me from all sides. Ferry Lights is thoroughly stocked with the sorts of women that marry men like Reginald—and the sorts of women that men who want to be like Reginald often rent.

I never had to pay for it, and neither has my father—yet—but I’ve taken advantage of the “all-you-can-fuck” buffet more than a few times. Times when I didn’t just see my father screwing a girl who looks exactly like every one of these girls. The sight of that makes the thought of taking any of these women on my arm nauseating. At least while I’m sober.

Thus, the bar.

The new bartender—so new that I don’t know the girl’s name—eyes me up and down with a smile that quickly vanishes when she recognizes me. Someone’s probably filled her in on the reputations shared by both the Ferry men. At least she serves me first.

New though she is, I don’t need to tell her my drink order. That’s more or less orientation information for new bartenders in the open lounge. If I know Reginald, everyone on staff is required to memorize a small dossier on himself and me. God forbid one of them prove to be of some small inconvenience—like mixing a drink wrong—to the great and powerful Reginald Ferry by accident.

The glittering, bronze-powdered vampires that haunt the glamorous crowd at least have the good sense to wait until I’m two drinks in to descend on me with their hungry eyes. One by one they make those passive aggressive advances that I hate—leaning on the bar to show off some cleavage, or squeezing in between me and some other patron, pressing breasts or ass against me when they do with quiet, sultry apologies they don’t mean.

One by one I ignore them, until one of them won’t take a hint.

She’s petite, redheaded, with elaborate braids piled on her head. She’s stacked so far out with nipples so perpetually hard, that she’s probably legally considered an artificial person.

“Don’t I know you?” she asks, flashing white teeth and green eyes like the professional she very likely is.

I sigh and finish my fourth tumbler of thirty-year-old whiskey from the Ferry private collection. “No,” I tell the redhead, with what I hope is the appropriate degree of finality.

“You’re Jake Ferry,” she says, triumphant, like she just gave the right answer to a pop quiz.

“That’s my name,” I reply.

“Told you I knew you.” She beams, and giggles, her hand brushing my shoulder.

I glance at the bartender, who promptly goes about pouring me another whiskey.

“You know my name,” I say, not looking at the redhead. “Congratulations. So does everyone else.” Then, I look her dead in the eye. “That’s not the same as knowing me, sugar.”

She pouts her bottom lip out, unperturbed. “Well… we can fix that, I bet.”

“I’m not in the mood,” I say. It doesn’t get more direct than that.

“I bet we can fix that, too,” she breathes, and leans toward me.

I catch her wrist as she moves her hand toward my thigh, and she freezes. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars to leave me alone,” I say, loud enough that anyone within a few yards would hear.

That’s apparently what it takes. The redhead pulls back, and I let her wrist go when she does. Flirtatiousness turns on a dime into vitriol, and she looks like she might slap me. I kind of hope she does.

Instead, she huffs, rolls her eyes, and stalks away muttering, “You’re not all that, anyway, jerk.”

Just as the next tumbler is set down in front of me, another stranger maneuvers into the space on my other side. This one isn’t a pretty girl, but a dude. I don’t remember his name—some B-list celebrity my father paid to make an appearance, but I barely keep track of the A-list.

“You’d think they’d teach social graces in high-end boarding schools,” the man says. He’s the sort of handsome that gets you into lots of panties, but not into the lead role of a Michael Bay film; the kind you have to milk for all it’s worth until it disappears.

“They don’t,” I scoff. “They teach investment banking, economics, and whore-spotting. All valuable skills, I assure you. I think they have a learning annex for the general public. I could hook you up.”

“Fuck you, prick,” the man mutters, and gets ready to leave.

Maybe it‘s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the leftover disgust from seeing my father balls-deep in South America. Maybe it’s the magic of those last lingering traces of adrenaline still in my system from desecrating the speed limit on the way to the lounge. Whatever the case is, I take exception at that very moment to any loser who’s so desperate to hang on to a last shred of career that he’d whore himself out for Reginald’s PR circus talking down to him.

I turn, and deliver a left cross right into almost-pretty-boy’s plastic fucking jaw.

Every member of security knows who I am; that’s a given. It doesn’t stop them from intervening with impressive speed, and it doesn’t stop the police from very publicly handcuffing me and marching me to a squad car while half the population of the lounge, as well as the paparazzi vultures who live in the bushes near the place, whip out cell phones and cameras to record the event for posterity.

Just like they always do. After all, it’s so much more satisfying to watch the mighty fall than to bother having a life of your own, right?

T
he cops don’t talk much
as they cart me across town, and they don’t have to. We all know where we’re headed, and it isn’t a cell.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later we pull up in front of the family mansion and they let me out with a cursory, polite indication that I should be more careful.

“I’ll do that,” I tell the officer, rubbing my wrists where the cuffs had chafed me on the drive over.

He glances down at my hands. “Sorry about that, Mr. Ferry. Procedure.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I sigh. The house looms over me, and by the time the cops pull away from it I’ve forgotten them. Inside, Daddy is no doubt waiting to deliver his disapproval.

I straighten my jacket, and put on my best shit-eating grin as I push through the great carved doors and stroll into the foyer. Sure enough, Reginald is waiting in the receiving room, eyes hard, jaw clenched, fingers steepled. How long has been there? Did he sit down just like that the moment he got the call? That would be like him; Reginald does like a show.

“Just what the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks. Entirely rhetorical.

“A complete lack of consequences,” I say anyway. “What can I say? I’m spoiled.”

Reginald’s face darkens, well past the point of show business and into serious territory. Cut-out-of-the-will territory. I don’t flinch—I never flinch—but I give up the grin in exchange for the flat affect that hides the twinge of nervousness in my guts.

“Get out of my sight,” he growls.

For the sake of dignity, I stand there a moment longer, locked in a staring contest that I know I’m going to lose—but by God, I’m going to show him it’s my choice to leave. Five, six, seven, eight, nine…

Ten seconds seems like enough. I jam my hands into the pockets of my slacks and turn on a heel, stroll casually away, and only let out the breath I’m holding when I’m well out of sight.

My suite is on the third floor, and when I get there I shed clothes in a trail to the bed. The room tilts dangerously back and forth, like a yacht on the open sea, and I let it tip me over and onto the bed. Above me, the sunroof is, for now, a moon roof and the sliver of white looks down disapprovingly. Everyone gets a free shot at criticism tonight, I suppose.

I hate that my father has that effect on me. Like a trained dog, there’s something Pavlovian about his disapproval, about his heavy, stony glare that turns me into a petulant toddler again. I’d give anything to get out from under his thumb. The longer I’m here, the stronger his hold is. If there’s one thing that can be said about my father, it’s that he never lets go of his possessions. Especially one of his own flesh and blood.

M
orning slaps
me in the face, digging at my eyes with its thumbs. Groaning, I roll over and reach for a pillow to fend off the assault. Just past my sanctuary, a note stands on my bedside table. I have to squint to read it.