Next to Never (Fall Away #4.5)

I laugh to myself, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. “Did you learn anything else?”

A smirk crosses her face, and she reaches behind her to dig in the desk drawer.

Pulling out a small forest green booklet, she hands it to me, and I open it up.

I see several transactions printed, and I can tell it’s a bankbook. I widen my eyes, spotting the balance on the bookmarked page. “Oh, my God.”

“I learned that it’s okay to love and to feel vulnerable and to make mistakes,” she says, “but it’s not okay to live a trapped life. Never give up your control to someone else.”

“Where did this money come from?”

“After I finished the book, I realized a woman should always protect herself. So I gave Jax some of the money I had saved, and the smart investor he is, he multiplied it.” She laughs. “Many times.”

Oh, my God.

I shoot my eyes back up to her. “Was this your security? In case you and my dad broke up?”

“No,” she answers. “It’s yours. I didn’t really need the savings when I married your dad, so I let Jax create an account, and it’s been collecting interest ever since.”

“It’s mine?” I can’t take this. What if she needs it some day?

“As long as you remember, Quinn . . . when you fall in love, take care of him,” she explains, “but take care of yourself, too. Make yourself happy. Spend it. Save it. Give it away. Your choice. Your life.”

Chapter 13

I slip the bankbook into my back pocket and make my way down the hall toward my father’s office.

My mom had just given me a crap load of money, and I shouldn’t take it, but she said it was a gift, and I could do anything with it. Save it, donate it . . . spend it on something.

My heart has started hammering in my chest, and I’m on autopilot, but I just keep going. I’m not sure what’s going to happen or what I’ll say to my dad, but it’s probably going to be something he doesn’t like, since why else would I be so nervous?

The hardest part is jumping. I can’t retreat, and I can’t keep trying to please the world.

I’d hate myself. There’s no choice.

Opening the cracked door wider, I step inside and see him standing at the bar against the wall, pouring himself his favorite GlenDronach to wind down before he heads to bed.

“Hey,” I broach, my voice surprisingly light.

He twists his head and replaces the top on the decanter, smiling at me. “Hey. I missed you tonight. Were you at the track?”

“For a bit.” I nod and walk into the room. “Dylan had her first race, so I rode with her.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and I immediately laugh. He may as well find out now before it shows up in his Facebook feed.

“Madoc all but forced me, okay? I’m still in one piece.”

He twists his lips to the side, scowling. “That kid, I swear . . .”

Yeah, that kid. I almost laugh.

My dad still sees Madoc as a cocky teenager, but I think he understands completely. We’re all helpless when Madoc decides he wants something.

Walking over to the large brown leather chairs by the bookcases, he sits down and takes a sip of whiskey. I follow and sit in the identical chair next to him, a small round table between us.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make your game today,” he says. “I heard you ‘kicked major ass.’”

I snort, knowing those aren’t my father’s words. “Madoc lies.”

Dylan and the rest of the team carry me. I’m simply there to make sure there are eleven players on the field.

But my father corrects me, anyway. “Lawyers don’t lie. We invent truth. It’s an art.”

Yeah, I’m sure. Lucky enough for him, he has clients willing to pay such huge amounts of cash for his “art.”

I lean back in the chair, pushing my hair behind my ear and studying him for a brief moment. His gray hair has a good amount of blond left, but while there are wrinkles around his eyes and the lines on his forehead have grown deeper over time, his blue eyes still pierce like lightning in a storm, and his hands are still so strong. I can remember the feel of my little fingers in his when he’d help me cross streets in the big city as a kid.

After all he and my mother went through and put each other through, I understand how he has so much hope for me. I was a long time in the making.

“You really love Mom, don’t you?” I say, holding his eyes.

“Of course,” he answers and then looks down, looking lost in thought as he takes another sip. “I can’t live without her. I never could.”

“What made you finally realize it?”

“When I realized that she was fine without me,” he admits. “I’d always loved her, but when she got sober, and she was working and paying her bills . . . doing everything just fine on her own, I realized I had lost her, and the finality of it hit home.”

I narrow my eyes on him, still not sure I understand. He wanted her, because he no longer had control of her?

He seems to see my confusion, because he continues explaining.

“I was so arrogant back in those days, honey. I took everything for granted.” He swirls the liquid in his glass, staring at it, probably because it’s easier than looking me in the eye. “But seeing her turning her life around—happy—honestly, it hurt. It hurt my pride. It hurt my confidence. It hurt my equilibrium. It hurt everywhere.”