Sustained (21 page)

“No shit, Sherlock!” I have to yell. “I’m the one who petitioned them to drop the charges. And let me just make sure I have this right—you thought it was a good idea to celebrate drug charges being dropped by going to a party where fucking drugs are everywhere? Do you really not see the problem with that?”

He just shrugs.

Twenty minutes of blessed silence later, I pull up in front of Milton’s mansion. With the car idling, I ask, “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know,” he answers petulantly. “France, I think. Mother said she needed a vacation.”

Probably from the dumbass that is her son.

But even still—his parents aren’t going to be getting any Parents of the Year awards.

“So . . . you guys, like . . . wanna come in and hang out?” Milton asks.

I rub my eyes. “No, Milton, I don’t want to fucking hang out with you.” I point my finger at him. “Just go inside, lock the door, and go to bed. Maybe you’ll wake up smarter tomorrow.”

He pouts. “All right.”

I make sure he gets into the house and then I pull away.

After a few minutes, Raymond says quietly, “He seems lonely.”

“He’s a fuckup.” No sympathy from me.

“He seems like a lonely fuckup.”

“Watch your mouth,” I bark over my shoulder.

“You just said it!”

“And when you’re thirty, you can say it as much as you like. Until then, keep the language PG.”

“That’s, like, the definition of hypocritical, Jake,” Raymond argues.

“Your point?” I shoot back.

Rory’s unusually quiet during the ride. And I wonder what he thinks about the things he’s seen. His family doesn’t have the same kind of money to burn as the Bradleys, but they’re close. And without even realizing it, I channel the Judge.

“Do you know why he’s a fuckup, boys?”

“Because he drinks and does drugs?” Raymond tries. “Only losers do drugs.”

There’s something wonderfully heartwarming about Raymond’s answer. So simply black-and-white—so innocent.

“That’s true. But that’s not the whole reason.” I turn onto Chelsea’s street and continue. “Milton promised me he’d stay home. And then he broke that promise. When you take everything else away—money, clothes, nice cars, big houses—all a man has is his word. That he says exactly what he means, and he does what he says. If a man doesn’t have his word, he’s not a man.”

They digest that for a moment. Then Rory asks, “Did your dad teach you that? Did he show you how to be . . . a man?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. And I wonder if he’s concerned about himself and his brothers and sisters growing up without their own father. With no example to guide them. So all I can give him is the truth.

“No, Rory. My dad was . . . the kind of man I didn’t want to be.” And then I add, “But there was another guy, a friend—the best kind of friend—who wouldn’t put up with any of my shit. He taught me everything I needed to know.”

•  •  •

Later that night, hours after the kids are in bed, Chelsea and I writhe between her sheets. It’s slow, almost sweet. Her long, pristine arms stretch out above her, glowing with smooth flawlessness. I kiss her neck, worshipping that skin, as my hips flex between her legs. I ride her in smooth, steady strokes, the muscles in my back tense with rising pleasure. She sucks on my earlobe, whispering how good it feels, and my thrusts quicken of their own accord. My body takes over—it’s mindless, carnal perfection that I never want to end.

But what a fucking ending it is.

Chelsea’s hands grip my ass, pushing me deeper as her own hips rise to take me in. We go over the edge together—she stiffens beneath me as I go taut above her, pulsing inside her, both of us silently gasping.

Afterward, I wrap around her from behind. She laughs at nothing and kisses my hands before tucking them under her cheek, like her own personal pillow. I inhale her scent as I drift off, my nose against the nape of her neck.

But a small, scared voice breaks the quiet.

“Nooo. Noooo . . .”

It comes from Regan’s baby monitor. Chelsea jerks, opens her eyes, and starts to drag herself out of bed. Without thinking, I kiss her temple. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get her.”

I slip on my pants and a T-shirt and pad barefoot up the stairs.

Regan is sitting up in her miniature toddler bed, eyes bleary, hair a mess, her room illuminated by a Cinderella nightlight. She raises her arms up as soon as she sees me.

And my mother’s words, from decades ago, come out of my mouth.

“What’s the trouble, bubble?”

I lift her up, her warm little body instantly clinging. I rub her back and smooth her hair. Regan’s lower lip trembles as she points to the long drapery in the shadowed corner of her room. “Nooo.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

I move the drapes, showing her there’s nothing hidden, nothing to be afraid of. She squeezes my shoulders with tiny arms and lays her head down against me. I sit in the rocking chair beside her bed, patting her back and whispering softly.

“There’re no monsters, Regan.”

In real life there are, but not in this house. Not while I’m breathing.

“I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re safe. Shhh . . . go to sleep.”

I kiss the back of her head and rub her back, rocking her until she relaxes in my arms and falls back into a peaceful slumber.

A
few days later, Rosaleen scares about ten years off of Chelsea’s life when she disappears. I’m working late, Chelsea is helping Riley with her homework, and the rest of the kids are scattered around the house . . . doing what kids do. When it’s time to start getting ready for bed, that’s when Chelsea notices the little blonde is missing. They call her name, comb through the bedrooms, the closet, the playhouse in the backyard, the fucking swimming pool and garden. Chelsea calls the neighbors and they check their backyards too.

By the time she stops searching to call me, she’s a mess of frantic tears, ready to call the police and the national guard. In the car, driving to the house, I’m the one who asks if they checked the third floor—Robert and Rachel’s room.

In a breathless rush, Chelsea says they didn’t—and she bolts up the stairs. There, curled up on the floor of the walk-in closet, wrapped in her mother’s robe, is Rosaleen, fast asleep. I get to the house a few minutes after the discovery, when Chelsea is still teary-eyed and shaking. Rosaleen feels bad but says she likes to go into her mother’s closet sometimes. To remember what she smelled like.

The explanation makes Chelsea cry more. And just about breaks my fucking heart too.

After an unusually long bedtime, when Chelsea can’t seem to pry herself away from her niece’s doorway, I broach the subject of the bedroom. It’s been months since Robert and Rachel died, and the room stands exactly as it did before.

I don’t know much about grieving—I know even less about kids—but it doesn’t seem . . .
healthy
to me. Chelsea is adamant—she claims the kids aren’t ready for the change, to have their parents’ most personal things boxed up and relocated. Or worse, given away. But I don’t think it’s the kids who aren’t ready.

I think it’s her.

She shoots the topic down, refuses to discuss it. And when those gorgeous eyes turn icy, I let it drop. Because it isn’t really any of my business, so it isn’t worth an argument.

•  •  •

Late on the Wednesday afternoon after Rosaleen’s Houdini imitation, Chelsea calls me at the office. “Are you free?”

“Depends. What do you have in mind?” I say, my tone weighted with suggestion about what’s exactly in
my
mind. It’s right along the lines of what’s in my pants.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Chelsea sighs. “I’m on my way to pick up Raymond at school.”

I check my watch. “Shouldn’t he be home already?”

“He should be, but they kept him after. Apparently he got into a fight.”

A smile slides onto my lips. “Did he win?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Ah . . . the only one that matters?”

She chuckles. “I don’t know if he won. Principal Janovich would like to see me in his office to discuss it. Do you want to meet me there? I have a feeling your lawyering may come in handy.”

And I have a feeling she’s right.

“I’m packing up now—I’ll meet you there.”

By the time I arrive at the ivy-covered grounds of Raymond’s private school, the meeting is already under way. A secretary ushers me into a large office, where a dignified, gray-haired man sits behind a presidential desk—awards and accolades line the walls, and dark wood bookshelves are filled with important-looking, gold-leafed, thick leather volumes.

Chelsea sits on the opposite side, an empty chair between her and two very wealthy-looking—very pissed-off-looking—parents. The woman is blond, in a royal-blue suit and pearls, with long bloodred fingernails. The husband looks quieter, smaller—the remora to her shark.

“And you are?” the gray-haired guy—Principal Janovich—drones.

I hand him my card. “Jake Becker. I’m the family attorney.”

The blonde raises one scathing eyebrow. “I’m an attorney as well,” she tells me—like it’s a warning.

“I thought you might be,” I volley back.

Takes one to know one.

I sit beside Chelsea. She looks nervous, hands clasped on her lap tightly. “Where were we?”

“They want to expel Raymond,” she says in a strained voice.

I lean back and nod. “Interesting.”

Janovich clears his throat uncomfortably. “We have a zero-tolerance policy here for fighting, harassment of any kind. Raymond injured his classmate gravely.”

“Did he break his nose?” I ask casually.

The principal is a bit taken aback. “No . . .”

Too bad—better luck next time, kid.

“. . . but there was excessive bleeding. It was a frightening experience for all involved.”

Unable to stay silent any longer, the blond mother rises to her feet. “I do not pay thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition to have my child
assaulted in the hallways. I demand this . . . delinquent be brought up on charges!”

“Let’s pull the tapes,” I suggest.

“The tapes?” Janovich asks, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“The tapes.” I nod. “I passed no less than nine hallway security cameras on my way in. There must be video of the altercation. And since it just occurred hours ago, surely the footage couldn’t have been recycled already.”

The principal’s eyes widen—and I almost expect him to say,
Don’t call me Shirley
.

“Unless . . . you’ve already seen the footage?” I narrow my eyes. “I see what’s going on now.” And it fucking pisses me off.

They won’t like me pissed off.

“What do you think you see, Mr. Becker?”

I address the blond viper. “You’re booster club people, aren’t you? Patrons? You donate money to the school on top of that thirty grand—for libraries, new wings, and things like that?”

The father at last finds his voice. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.”

My eyes swing back to the old man behind the desk. “It has everything to do with this is because Mr. Janovich here thought it’d be easier to hang this whole thing on Raymond—who has a legal guardian who may be too busy to put up a fight—rather than ruffle a benefactor’s feathers. Is that accurate?”

“It most certainly is not!” he chokes out. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

He fiddles with his tie. “I have viewed the footage Mr. Becker is referring to. Although behavior on both sides was less than exemplary, I feel given the violence of Raymond’s assault, he does warrant harsher punishment.”

And now I’m laughing. “So because Raymond is the better fighter, you’re gonna come down harder on him?”

He starts to speak, but I wave him off. “Let’s put a tack in that for now and discuss your ‘zero-tolerance’ policy. Where was that policy when Raymond was being bullied since January?”

Chelsea’s head turns sharply to me. “What?”

I keep my focus on the principal, and my voice is deadly calm. “I have it on good authority that Jeremy has punched, pushed, tripped, and demeaned Raymond numerous times. Either you’ve chosen to ignore those instances, or you don’t know what’s going on in your building, Mr. Janovich. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for you.”

His face goes red, but I don’t let up. I lean forward. “And let me be perfectly clear on this point: if there are any further instances of harassment in any form against Raymond McQuaid from this day on, I will sue the ever-loving hell out of this school and you personally.” I tilt my head toward Chelsea. “By the time I’m done with you, she will own every building on these grounds—and your house.” I pin him to the wall with my stare. “I don’t make threats often, Mr. Janovich, and when I do . . . they are never idle.”

I turn my head to the seething blond shark. “That goes for you and your son, too.”

And the seething turns to a full boil. “You wait just a damn minute! My son is the victim here! He was—”

“Lady, I hate to break it to you, but your son is a mean-spirited little shit who enjoys lording it over those who are weaker—and smarter—than him. And it stops today.”

She stands up. “Jeremy would never do such a thing!”

Oh boy—she’s one of those. I see a lot of parents like this in my line of work: people with selectively blind not-my-angel syndrome.

“And if Raymond McQuaid said he did, then he is a filthy, disgusting little liar!”

And now Chelsea is on her feet, too. “I’m not going to listen to you
call my nephew names. He is kind and thoughtful, and if your son hurt him in any way—”

She gets in Chelsea’s face. “Perhaps if your brother had been a better father, he wouldn’t have a son who acts like an animal!”

The breath rushes from Chelsea’s body. And her face goes white. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me! Instead of going out and getting himself splattered across the highway, maybe he should have stayed home and—”

I’ve heard the expression
Fathers will die for their children; mothers will kill for them.
But I’ve never fully understood it until this moment. Gone is the sweet, smiling woman I know, and in her place is a scrappy cage fighter gunning for the Hulk.