“When did you find out about the cancer, Pam?”
I needed her to tell me it was this morning, so I could look at her face again without wanting to do something horrible to her. But she lifted her hands in surrender and took another step back, her posture already defensive.
“A couple of days after the test.”
My stomach churned. I’d had time to tell him goodbye. I hadn’t gotten to hold him when he took his last breath. I hadn’t even been there to comfort him. Couldn’t make sure that he felt comfortable and loved. That he was lying down on one of my hoodies—he loved sleeping on my clothes—and looking up at me, and I would have said something soothing he would somehow understand. I hadn’t even had the chance to give him what no one else in this house deserved—the respect you give to a family member who’d been there for you when no one else had.
When Shadow had taken his last breath, I’d probably been messing around with Roman in his shower, grunting and clawing at his flesh.
This is what happens when you take a chance on life.
“I hate you! I fucking hate you!” I screamed, launching at Pam out of nowhere. She tripped backward and fell into the deep end of the pool. Pam wasn’t a good swimmer. For all the sunbathing she did, she never bothered to dip her toe inside the pool.
Her arms flailed hysterically, and she gasped for air, swallowing water in the process. She shrieked, looking like an ant in sticky honey, and although I knew she would get out of there eventually, I enjoyed the first time in our relationship where she did the squirming.
I crouched down, staring at her emotionlessly. “But you know what the worst part is?”
“Jesse!” She gulped more water. “Je-ssse! Help me out!”
“I can’t drown my demons. They know how to swim.”
I LOVE YOU, BUT YOU chose the worst fucking time to call.
Like all thoughts, it was mundane, spontaneous, and gratuitous. It flashed through my mind as I waited outside Darren Morgansen’s office to tell him thanks for the six million bucks, but I’d really rather bury my dick in his stepdaughter. In-fucking-definitely. Problem was, the person calling me was said stepdaughter.
And, I’d just said that I loved her.
Or at least thought it.
Yes. I’d thought it.
No, wait, I was sure of it.
Shit, I loved Jesse Carter.
Was in love with Jesse Carter.
But, of course, you are, little prick. Do you make a habit of impulsively pissing over six million bucks from an oil tycoon and breaking a contract with them?
This morning, in my dingy kitchenette, I’d known that I wasn’t just fucking Snowflake. I was also fucking SurfCity to death, because I would never come up with the money for the investment, and more than that, I was fucking myself over, because holy shit, I was about to be one million dollars indebted to someone. Wasn’t that the ultimate irony, though? I made so much money fucking people for a living, but in the end, it was one fuck that would cost me a million bucks.
Darren opened his office door and motioned for me to come in, so I let the call die rather than send it to voicemail. For the first time in a long time I didn’t feel cocky as a rooster. I was actually nervous. Not about the breaking the deal part. Fuck him. But about owing someone so much money. Usually, I was on the owed-to side, not vice versa. I could come up with the money, but not right away. I needed twelve months. Minimum. No one said he was going to give them to me.
“How are you feeling?” Darren asked as he led me to his underwhelming office. The thought occurred to me, for the first time, that Darren designed everything around him—himself included—to come off as unthreatening and harmless. A red alert started flashing inside my head. Ding, ding, ding.
He never wore expensive suits.
Always stood crouched, his chin down.
His lips. His offices. His relationships. He was almost conveniently weak.
“Please don’t pretend like you give a fuck.” I dumped my wallet and cell phone onto his desk, taking a seat. “Life’s too short for that.”
“Fair enough.” He watched me carefully, making his way to his seat. This time he didn’t offer me a drink, or a cigar, or his left lung. He offered me a pissed look that told me that he already knew I’d come bearing bad news.
Then he actually beat me to it. “You thlept with her.”
The gentleman code dictated that I shouldn’t deny nor confirm this statement, but the contract I’d signed indicated that I’d better speak up, unless getting slapped with a lawsuit was a turn-on. I settled for somewhere in between. I wasn’t ready to throw Jesse under the bus in case she hadn’t told him. And I strongly wanted to believe Jesse hadn’t shared her sexual exploits with her stepdaddy, because: super. Fucking. Gross.