A Sweet Mess - Jayci Lee Page 0,95

Landon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Twenty percent.”

“That’s too big of a risk,” his financial advisor sputtered on the other end.

“It’s just 20 percent of one portfolio.”

“It’s still a huge amount of money.”

Landon was fighting the madness clawing at his mind by focusing on his investments. His advisors thought he was taking unnecessary risks, but he knew exactly what he was doing. Taking calculated risks for high payouts. He studied the market for hours on end. It was the most effective way to distract himself from the gaping hole in his chest. Drinking was a shitty excuse of a crutch. It only made him feel as physically miserable as he was inside.

“Don’t worry, Stu. The payout is worth the risk.”

His financial advisor made a choking noise on the other end.

Landon’s brief spurt of amusement left him. “Do it.”

“I can’t stand back and watch you bankrupt yourself.”

“Stop being dramatic. I don’t have all my eggs in one fucking portfolio. Do it.”

Landon hung up on him without waiting for a response and dialed his property manager. Unlike his finance guy, his property manager didn’t question Landon’s requests even when they seemed reckless. After five minutes of listening to “Yes, Mr. Kim,” Landon grew tired of the call and the property manager. He made a mental note to replace the yes-man. Stu cared enough to argue with him. He was irritating, but he had a backbone. Landon couldn’t work with someone who let him make seemingly stupid decisions without a fight.

Not that his plans were anywhere near stupid. He wasn’t like his father with his unrealistic schemes. Landon worked his ass off to accrue his wealth. It gave him the power to protect his family and his future. He wouldn’t do anything to risk that.

He drove in silent contemplation, pushing his car far beyond the speed limit. His fingers resumed their restless drumming on the steering wheel. It wasn’t enough, though. None of it was enough. His cell phone rang, and Landon answered without looking to see who it was. He figured it was another one of his frustrated advisors.

“Landon.” His mom’s warm voice traveled through the lines.

“Is something wrong?” His question came out gruffer than he intended.

“Why do you ask that every time I call?” his mom responded in Korean. “Can’t I call my son to say hello?”

“Of course, you can.” He ran a hand down his face. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, baby.”

Landon could feel her smile, and he was suddenly homesick. “But seriously. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Did Seth say something to Mom?

“There’s nothing to tell.” The now-familiar burning spread in his chest. The pain tore at him as he fought to push away thoughts of Aubrey. “I’m fine.”

“Seth says you’re behaving like a madman. Like you’re trying to destroy yourself.” His mom’s voice trembled. “Landon, whatever it is, come home.”

“I don’t—”

“For me. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine, but I need to see for myself that you’re okay.”

His heart clenched at the helpless worry in his mom’s voice. “I’ll be there in about four hours.”

Landon changed routes and headed toward his childhood home. He’d flown his mom out to Europe or had her stay at his place in Santa Monica, but he’d avoided going home for several years.

* * *

Landon arrived at the house and sat in the driveway as the sun set behind it, and he understood why he’d avoided it for so long. The house reminded him of how wonderful life had been when he’d cared, and how much it had hurt to lose the things he cared most about.

As soon as he stepped out of his car, the porch door swung open, and his mom bounded toward him. He met her halfway and lifted her off the driveway in a bear hug. She laughed and cried and laughed, and warmth thawed his frozen heart.

“Come on.” After a long while—but not long enough for Landon—his mom pulled back and tugged on his hand. “I made your favorite.”

His stomach growled vociferously. Everything his mom made tasted incredible, but her spicy fish soup had no equal. He couldn’t wait to fill himself up with it. But when they walked into the kitchen, he saw a precarious tower of sandwiches on white bread without the crusts.

“Peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches,” said his mom, doing a decent Vanna White impression. “Your favorite snack.”

He grinned as happy memories flooded him. He’d been about ten or eleven when their neighborhood had a long blackout that lasted a good fifteen hours.