already have plans?” A slow, sexy smile grew on his face.
A ball? A new gown? With him? It could be worse.
I shook my head, and looking past him, I sensed Britney would soon plot my murder.
I returned her dark glare with a sweet smile. With Lachlan in charge, my job would be safe for now.
It was 5:00 p.m. when I left work. I called the stylist, and an appointment downtown was arranged for 6:00 p.m.
I thought of Ava. I’d promised to pick her up from my parent’s house. I’d never make it in time with the traffic, so I called my mother.
“There you are, stranger,” she said.
“Sorry, I’ve been so busy lately, what with this new job and all.”
“Yes, your sister told me.”
“I would’ve called, but it’s been really full-on.”
“Full-on? Is that the best you can do?”
“Oh, Mom, let’s not get into semantics now. I’m really under pressure.”
“When are you going to tell us all about your new job?”
“Soon. I promise.” I took a breath. “I’m meeting a stylist. My boss has asked me to accompany him to a ball.”
I should have expected what would follow. “A ball? Your boss?”
“It’s platonic. Really. I promise to tell you all about it when I see you this weekend.”
“Mm… I’ve got a private student coming over at nine. But I can get your father to drop Ava off later. He’ll like that. We like having her here. It seems that we only ever see her when you girls need something.”
“Life’s like that. It’s kind of frantic. Even for Harry. She’s working the graveyard shift so, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. I hate that saying.”
“Okay. Love you. Bye.”
I hung up quickly before she went on one of her rants about the modern day’s corruption of language.
10
LACHLAN
The dread of seeing my emaciated father filled me with gloom. I sank into a chair and stared blankly out the window, welcoming the view of the ocean.
What happened to the fun times?
He stirred. “Is that you, Brent?”
“No, Dad, it’s me, Lachlan. Brent passed away nine months ago.”
“I know when Brent died. I just get your names mixed up sometimes.”
Despite his lack of apology, I’d stopped being hurt long ago.
When Brent died, my father fell into a deep depression, followed two months later by his cancer diagnosis.
Sharing the same cavalier attitude to life, they thought themselves invincible. In my brother’s case, he believed he could conquer nature, to which the ski slopes in Aspen proved him wrong. And my father’s years of heavy drinking and smoking was just as unmerciful.
“How are you doing today?” I asked.
He lifted his frail frame, and I leaned forward to adjust his pillow.
“Close to dying.”
“You look a little more rested,” I said, hoping to distract him from more of that talk.
“Where’s that bimbo wife of mine?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen her around for a while.”
“You were right about her,” he said.
I was right about all of them.
“Hank was here yesterday.”
“How’s our family attorney doing?”
“He assured me that the prenup’s solid. She’s not getting a fucking dime.”
I nodded slowly. “And Manuel?”
“That’s not my fucking child,” he snapped. His next words were cut off by a sudden coughing fit.
I touched his shoulder. “Don’t get too worked up, please.”
Recognizing disapproval in those faded blue eyes, I could tell my father wanted to bark at me but lacked the energy. He’d always hated my creative lifestyle as though it was a disease, accusing me of being my mother’s son. While Brent treated each day as though it was his last, I learned to play four rhythms at once. Drumming was not an easy pursuit. My mother, who always encouraged me, was dazzled by my achievements. I didn’t do it for her compliments, even though I liked them. I drummed because I loved playing music. I loved jazz. Even though that made me a little different, it didn’t justify my father’s cold treatment toward me over the years.
“Hank suggested a paternity test.”
“How the hell do I do that?” I asked.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, haven’t your balls dropped yet? Grab a sample of the kid’s fucking hair or something.”
“I haven’t seen Tammy for weeks.” I kept my voice even despite the fuck you clawing at my vocal cords. “She’s probably in Miami.” Switching to another uncomfortable subject, I said, “We had the SEC sniffing about yesterday.”
“Britney told me.”
“Should I be worried?” I asked.
“She’ll take care of it. Any incriminating files have been removed.”
“Incriminating?” I studied him, hoping he’d explain.
He ignored my comment. “That child’s not mine.”
I wanted to ask him