Cash (Sexy Bastard #2) (9 page)

My phone goes off, and I grab it. Small
miracles. Ryder’s too good at getting secrets out of me.

Unknown
Number
. I’ll take it. At this point, I would even
talk to telemarketers in order to get out of this conversation with
Ryder.

“Hello?”

“You’re not getting out of
it that easy,” Ryder says.

“Cassius,
darling, don’t hang up, please.”

My thumb hovers over the red button,
but I can’t—it’s the sound of
her
voice. The strain that she doesn’t let show except when
something’s bad, or she needs something.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I say eyeing
Ryder. He raises an eyebrow. Just because I’ve never mentioned
my family doesn’t mean I don’t have one. If I were smart,
I would hang up and block the number, because this phone call will
suck me back into the world I’ve tried so hard to leave behind.
But she’s my mother, and as much as I want to ignore her,
sometimes I just can’t.

“Your father’s had a heart
attack. He’s in the hospital. We don’t…they don’t
know…Please come. We’re at Piedmont
Hospital. He’s coming out of surgery soon, I’ll
let the nurses know to direct you to his room when you get here.”
There’s a level of panic in her voice that crosses the phone
line and infects me.

“Sure thing,” I reply. No
matter our differences, Emmett Gardner is still my father. Even if he
is a swindling bastard.

I end the call, already sliding out
from behind the bar, my pulse speeding. I grab my jacket from the
counter and head for the door. It’ll be just a quick in and
out. I’ll go see my father and be back in time to sling drinks
tonight.

I make it about four steps before I
remember:
keys
. And when I
turn back, I’m face to face with my friend.

“I gotta go,” I say.
There’s not much more I can tell him.

Keys. Keys. I pat my pockets and then
backtrack to the bar to grab them.

“Your mom okay?”
Ryder asks.

Mentioning my mother was a mistake.
Ryder may not have the school bought pedigree of Jackson or Parker,
but the man connects the dots faster than anyone. Not to mention he
hates liars, and lying’s all I seem to be doing about my
family.

“It’s nothing,” I
say, trying to get past him. “I mean it’s serious —
I gotta go.” There isn’t time to explain what’s
happening or going on, because it’ll raise more questions. And
more questions about my past is the last thing I need right now.

“I’ll grab the car. You’re
about as able to drive as a drunk at last call.” He gets up and
grabs for his keys, finding them instantly.

“No.” The last thing I need
is for my friend to get involved with my parents. I’d have to
explain everything, and I can’t stomach that. “I mean
thanks, I just…”

“Cash, man, whatever it is,”
Ryder says, taking a seat again. He’s a better friend than I
deserve right now. “You don’t have to go it alone.”

If I stick around it’s not going
to end well. I’ll spill everything, and then they’ll hate
me when they find who I am and where I come from.

Ryder’s
confused by my fast exit, but doesn’t chase after me. When I
get to the door, I know why. Jackson’s just come in.

“Where’s the fire?”
he asks.

“Another girl,” I say,
brushing past him. “You know the drill,” I lie.

My parents poison everything good in my
life. Now they have me keeping secrets from the guys who are supposed
to be my family. We all worked our way up to something, and now, just
like they always have, my parents show up to destroy it.

“I’ll be back later,”
I tell them, ignoring the concern on their face. “Don’t
worry.”

* * *

Peidmont is close to the bar, and it
doesn’t take me long to get there. I hate hospitals, and even
with all the money my family has it still isn’t enough to mask
the smell of disinfectant and death. Mentally, I start to prepare
myself for the one thing I’ve wanted and now can’t face:
my father’s demise.

He deserves it. As head of the
investment company that screwed thousands of people out of their life
savings, his karmic payback should be a good one. I was in college
when it all went down: the collapse of my whole life, everything I
took for granted my whole childhood: the fancy house, the cars, the
vacations. One minute he was respected, a stock market genius, they
said. The next, the company went under. Risky investments, bad loans,
whatever you want to call it, one minute the money was there, the
next, it disappeared into thin air.

Not our money: theirs. We were
protected, of course. Limited liability, legal loopholes, a million
different ways for my family’s lawyers to say fuck you.
Hard-working people lost everything, their pensions, their savings,
even their homes, while my parents sailed through it all, unharmed.
We kept the big house, and the cars, and the vacation home by the
lake. He never paid a dime in compensation either. Sure, they tried
to press charges, but the court case collapsed on the second day of
the trial.

He walked, scot free. And I vowed I
would never live another day off the dirty money from all those
people’s despair. I cut them off, took out loans to finish
college, and turned my back on the shame of my family’s greed.
You would figure maybe that would make my father wake up to what he’d
done, but you’d be wrong. He started a new company, raked in
the money again, and a few years later, it was like nothing ever
happened. I get those checks from the family trust every month, and I
send them on, to the people who lost everything to him.

It’s not enough to pay my
family’s debt to them, but it’s all I can do.

The waiting room’s empty, except
for the fancy and uncomfortable chairs that wait for visitors.

“Emmett Gardner, please?” I
ask the no-nonsense nurse at the front desk.

“2167.”

I nod in appreciation and head in the
direction she’s pointed. Outside room 2167, I stop and take a
deep breath. This is it. Get in, make sure he’s not dead, and
get out. I shove open the door and freeze. The room is large and
spacious, my mother sitting by the bed.

There’s dear old Dad, sitting up,
reading the paper, eating—and complaining—about the lunch
they’ve served him.

No tubes.

Barely an IV.

What the hell?

My panic fades – replaced with
anger. If it weren’t for the paper-thin hospital gown he’s
wearing, he could be lounging by the pool at the country club. Mom
sits next to him, perfect in her sweater set and pearls. She spots me
as I try to back out of the room without a word, and she rises,
coming after me.

I turn away but she grabs me and pulls
me in for a bone thin hug. Whatever diet she’s mainlining this
month isn’t doing her any favors.

“Do not make a scene, Cassius.
You will not embarrass us here,” she whispers.

“You told me he was
dying
.
He’s fine. I don’t need to be
here.”

“No, I told you he had a heart
attack, and he did. I didn’t know what to do, Cassius.”

“Mom —”

“You think it’s just about
you and him? My family is split apart. I worry about you night and
day, and then your father just drops. I didn’t know if he’d
make it. I needed you. Is it so wrong that I needed my son? To know
that the two most important men in my life are safe?”

“Do not play this crap with me.
You could have picked up the phone anytime. I didn’t stop you.
This is just your way to force my hand.”

“The doctors say it could happen
again. Do you want to go through the rest of your life hating
yourself for not fixing this stupid rift? Let it go, Cassius.”

“Stupid? Mom, people lost
everything.”

“And we did, too,” she
sniffs.

I clench my jaw and try to remain calm.
“Last time I checked, your bank account was just fine.”
But my comment rolls right off her.

“You’ve never known pain
until you’ve had someone you love walk out on you—and you
miss the chance to make up with them. Someday you might, but I hope
you never have to live with that regret. Talk to him before you miss
your chance. It’s time to put the past behind us.”
I have half a mind just to keep walking and never look back.
That’s been my way of dealing with it since the beginning. Once
I realized what he was really like, I wanted to be nothing like my
father. Nothing like the man who lost millions of other people’s
money and then saved everything for himself. He ruined lives, and
what’s worse, he has no remorse.

My mother opens the door, returning to
the room, and giving me a stern look that I remember well from my
childhood. It’s the look she gave me when I got into my first
fight. When I tried to quit baseball. When I wanted her to convince
Dad to give those people back what was rightfully theirs. It was a
look that said ‘do not disappoint me.’ Backing down is
not an option.

My father doesn’t look up from
the paper when I sit in the chair beside his bed. He finishes going
over the stock reports before he gives me his attention. All these
years, and those reports are still more important to him than his
kids. Than anything or anyone else.

“Cassius.”

“It’s
just Cash, Dad.”

“Ah. I see you’re still on
that
kick
. Pour me some
water.”

I do, even though I’m gritting my
teeth the entire time. Mom looks on approvingly. “Yep, still on
that kick.” I pass him the plastic cup, and he drinks.

Dad leans back and pauses.

“And you’re still working
as a bartender?”

Are we really having this argument
again? The muscles in my neck tighten. “Is there something
wrong with earning an honest wage?”

“Just because something is honest
doesn’t mean you’re not meant for better things,”
he says disdainfully. “You were top of your class at school,
you have a good mind for business, and this fantasy you have about
being ‘of the people’ is a waste of your talents and
breeding.”

His words disgust me, as usual.

“You know, Dad, if you looked
beyond the fact that, yes, I am a bartender, you might realize that I
am also a business partner. I own not one, not two, but five
successful, well-regarded bars in Atlanta. They’re packed every
night, and at least it’s real work that I do with my own two
hands. Can’t say that for everyone in this room.”

My father rubs his chest. Maybe this
heart attack finally reminded him where he could find his heart—no
matter how small and shriveled it might be.

“Don’t you talk to me like
that. You have no idea what it’s like to take care of a
family.”

“And what about the people who
had to take care of their families with nothing?”

“Boys.” Mom cuts in, moving
toward us. Dad silences her with a look.

“Enough of this, talking about
it—it’s aggravating my heart condition,” he
rattles.

I can’t help it. I roll my eyes.

“Don’t you roll your eyes
at me. Do you know how many nights your mother’s lost sleep
worrying about you? How many times I’ve had to tell her that if
something bad happened to you, we’d know? You can hate me, but
think about your mother. Do you even care about her?”

It’s like a bad soap opera, only
I can’t change the channel. “Of course I care. But I
think we’re remembering the wrong mom. Do you remember how many
drinks she’d down at the club when I was a kid? Or the way
she’d pass me or Tasha off to someone else—nannies,
tutors, coaches? You only care about us when it’s convenient
for you.”

“And I guess those monthly checks
from the trust are a nice benefit.” He says sharply. “They
get cashed like clockwork, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Yeah, by people who deserve the
money. Not by me.”

“I didn’t think your high
and mighty morals would allow for it.”

“They don’t. I send that
money to people who lost it. People you screwed in that deal, Dad.
They get my trust checks because I know they got nothing from you.”

There. I’ve said my piece. And
he’s got nothing to say back to me. Fine. Good.

“Good luck with your heart,”
I grind out. It’s the nicest thing I
can manage.

A person I barely recognize is in the
waiting area when I exit. Tasha’s flung in a chair, feet up on
the one next to her, phone out. She’s older than I remember.
She’s got to be what, nineteen, twenty? College age, I decide.
Sure doesn’t look like the kid sister in braces and school
uniforms that I remember. This girl has on too much make up and a
look that she definitely learned from our mother. A look caught
somewhere between boredom and sleep deprivation.

“You make them angry again?”
she asks without looking up.

“A little. Keeps ‘em on
their toes. How’s college?”

Tasha glances up. “Like you
care,” she sneers, going back to her phone.

“I asked, didn’t I?”

She gives me the finger.

“Classy, Tasha.”

“With a K.” She still won’t
look at me. “Just go on home then, you’ve stirred the
pot. Now hopefully they’ll go spend a week in Bermuda
channeling their chakras or find an ashram again—that was
great. Go back to your
awesome
life and leave me to clean the rest up.”

“I’m here if you ever—”

“Whatever.”

“I mean it, Tash.” I
scribble my number on a crumpled gas station receipt in my pocket and
set it on the table beside her. “Call me if you need anything.”

She ignores it and pulls out
noise-canceling headphones. Even if I say something, she’s
never going to listen. Wherever my kid sister went, I don’t
think she’s coming back. Just another casualty of my father’s
corruption. Except with Tasha, there doesn’t seem to be a way
to save her. This isn’t about money, and I don’t know how
to fix it.

Tasha finally picks up the paper and
just when I think she’ll rip it up, she inputs the digits into
her phone. My parents may have screwed up the both of us, but we’re
still siblings. I should have been there for her more. I was so busy
running from my own personal hell my Dad created, I really didn’t
think about her. I hold out my fist, and with a roll of her eyes she
fist bumps me, just like when we were little. It warms me up a bit,
but I know I probably won’t be hearing from her anytime soon.