Loving Mr. Cane (Cane 3)

“Come with me,” he insisted, killing the engine and getting out.

What? Was he serious?

He pushed out of the car, shutting the door behind him, and I looked around, my heart pumping as I got out. I rubbed the back of my arms with my hands, even though it was nearly eighty degrees outside. “Cane…why are we here?”

“Because this is where I grew up.” He stared at the house, and I lowered my guard just a notch, realizing what this was.

“Oh.”

He inched forward, giving the house a complete sweep with his eyes. “It used to look much better than this,” he laughed dryly.

“What happened to it?” I stayed close to him when I heard deep laughter in the distance.

“When I sent my mom to rehab, she couldn’t keep paying the bills for the place. She wasn’t working after all. The house was in Buck’s name. He tried selling it, but couldn’t make anything happen, probably because no one would be dumb enough to buy a home in this neighborhood. Technically, he still owns it, but I highly doubt he’ll be coming back to this piece of shit. It’s paid off, though. When I’d saved up a few checks from selling for Jefe, I paid the mortgage off myself so Mama wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.”

I stood at his side, looking at the house too. “That was nice of you. I can’t believe you grew up in this neighborhood, though. Doesn’t fit you.”

“Funny enough, it’s all I really remember about my childhood. There were good and bad days. I heard gunshots all the time. Got into a shit ton of fights. I even got robbed…but that only happened twice before I learned to stand up for myself.” He looked to his left as a kid rode a bike across the street. “This neighborhood was a fucking hellhole when I stayed here—way worse than it appears now. I constantly promised Lora, my mother, and myself that I would get us the fuck out of here. I told them I would do something great—make a change in our lives so that we didn’t have to deal with struggling, or wondering what we would eat for dinner some nights.” He snatched his sunglasses off, and I realized his eyes were red and damp.

He huffed a laugh, dropping his head. “I sold drugs here,” he confessed. “When I was eighteen, I ran every street in this neighborhood. I owned it…and then I met your father.” He turned to look at me. “And I realized there was still a chance for me to do good. Be good. What I was doing wasn’t right. I was a terrible kid, but he saw potential in me. He saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself.”

My throat thickened with every word he shared. I had to tear my gaze away so my vision wouldn’t become blurry.

“I’m not proud of what I did here to get to where I am now. The people I had to threaten. The lives I almost took just to be at the top of the food chain…but I did what I had to do for my family. They were all I had, so I did what I could, until better solutions arrived.” His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he stared at the house. He stalled for a moment, and then he moved, walking up the dirt walkway. “Let me show you something.”

I followed behind him, and he went around the back of the house, where a broken-down shed was leaning. Pulling the doors open, he coughed and fanned the air with his hand as dirt and dust clouded him. I stayed back, waiting for it to clear up, and when it did, he stepped inside. He turned halfway, offering a hand, and I took it, gingerly moving into the shed.

It was mostly empty and smelled of mold and moth balls. “Watch your step,” he cautioned as he stepped over a hole in the floor.

He stood in front of a shelf that had empty wine bottles on them. The bottles didn’t have labels. “What’s all this?” I asked as he picked up a stack of papers that was beside one of the bottles.

He handed them to me, and I swiped the dirt and dust off with my hand, reading it over.

It was a business plan for Tempt. A complete outline, with income goals, types of wine, and everything. I looked up at him.

“Buck claims to be the one who thought of Tempt and all it represents, when the truth is he overheard me talking to a friend whose family makes the wine. I had to be about twenty, twenty-one. I went to school with this friend of mine, and he had a father in Italy who owned a vineyard. He’d bring me some of the wine to try, but his father never sold it. He made it because he loved it, but the taste was absolutely incredible. These were the bottles he’d bring or send to me,” he said, pointing at the shelf of empty green bottles. “My friend, Joey, visited one night, and I told him we could sell that wine and make his family a fortune. All we needed was his father to agree—which he did—a plan, and a name. We did a lot of the planning at school, but Joey came here a few times when I had to do something for my family. While we were planning, though, I couldn’t for the life of me think of a damn name for the brand. Unfortunately, when I was thinking of names one night, going over a list with Joey, I was on the front porch and Buck was around. He came outside and said I should have called it Tempt, because he was tempted to hit me with one of his beer bottles if I didn’t shut the hell up so he could hear the game. His words exactly.” He huffed a laugh, head shaking. “I never thought there’d be a day when Buck had a good idea…but even Joey said that name wasn’t bad, because the wine is strong and still a little sweet, and it sneaks up on you…so we went with it, but he didn’t have shit to do with building Tempt. I was the one who came up with that business plan, working hard on it every single night in college when I should have been studying. I was the one who went to Draco and risked my life, all for a dream, and all while still selling his drugs. All Buck did was mention the word during one of his annoying tirades, and it stuck with me. He didn’t own the word. He threatened me with it. I don’t even know how he remembers that conversation, given that he was drunk like always, but he’s used it against me for years, claiming he thought of Tempt and everything it stands for. I was tempted to change the name, but I was stubborn back then and wanted to prove a point to him, that he didn’t own the fucking word.” He smashed his lips together. “You know that he actually tried to go to court over it while he was in prison? Of course it didn’t get anywhere. No one wanted to represent a man in jail. But he’s had time to think. He’s going to come with some bullshit, and he’s going to want a lot of money.”