Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (6 page)

“And you’re just now telling me? Three years later? Bullshit!”

“I NEVER wanted to have this conversation.” I didn’t correct him that it was now five, not three, years later. “I never wanted to bother you.” Here I stopped at the very idea of my child, the best thing to ever happen in my life, being a bother. “I’m only calling you now because…”

“Because?” he prompted, not as patient when I was the one letting the clock tick.

“Because of—”

“Money.” His tone was disparaging. “You’re wanting money aren’t you?”

“No!” Even though I had envisioned that deduction from him, it stung. “No. Well, sort of. But it’s—”

“That’s what I thought.” Matter of factual was the retort. That drawl, even from hurtful words, still had the ability to tease my eardrums.

“No it’s NOT what you thought— think. You see, our son—”

“This conversation is over. Continue it with my lawyer if you must.”

“Jack—” But the disconnect tone rang in my ear.

Angry and embarrassed, I dropped the phone on the table and squeezed my eyes closed again, this time against the threat of tears. Once before, I had explained ‘Mommy crying’ to a toddler. That task had been enough to keep the water works at bay through even the most heartbreaking times—and, there had been a lot of those in his young life.

Straightening to my feet, I slid open the door and forced a smile for the tot who was intently humming out car sounds. A massive collection of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars were strewn about the wading pool. Kneeling beside him, I randomly picked one out and rolled it around for a few seconds before fiddling idly with the tires.

“You ready to eat, sweetie?”

When he nodded, I plucked him from the couple of inches of water, draping a towel on him as I settled him in a chair. A brown lab rose from the patio and plodded over to sit down again. The pet was never more than a couple of feet from his young master.

Pulling at the Velcro straps, I slipped tiny braces on each leg before tightening them again.

“Okay.” Helping him from the chair, I passed his crutches over. “Let’s get out of this sun and get into some spaghetti!”

“Momma?” Mere minutes later, he was looking up at me, his face slightly smeared with marinara sauce. “Does surgery hurt?”

“No. You’ll be asleep. Then, you’ll wake up and feel sick for a few days. But that won’t matter because you will know that soon you’ll be able to throw those crutches away.”

“Will Bally sleep with me in the hospital?”

Looking over the laptop and the bills I was paying, I frowned at the dog and hurriedly snatched my son’s utensil from his hand. “Tristan Jack Duplei! Do not feed Bally from your fork!”

Tossing it into the sink and leaning back on my bar stool enough to reach for a clean one, I passed it over. “Bally will stay home, and Aunt Liv will take care of her. Because we will only be away a few days, and a pup wouldn’t be happy without a backyard.”

“Because Bally can’t use the potty.”

“Because Bally can’t use the potty,” I agreed with his logic. Then, with a sweep of my pen, I signed the first hefty check sum– the down payment for medical procedures which would eventually allow my son to literally stand on his own two feet.

I
n my gut I’d always known I’d hear her voice again—that I would see her again. But when destiny decided and collided our universes for the second time, I never dreamed it would be under these conditions.

With each unreturned text and that last ignored voicemail I’d told myself I was ignoring her because I wanted to call her on my terms. Not because after five fucking years she decided she wanted some of Jack Storm again and hit me up. But maybe instinctively I’d known the vibe wasn’t right in her recent attempts to contact me. Maybe somehow I’d felt I wouldn’t hear from her lips what I wanted to hear.

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this.” Gripping the phone, I strode to the edge of the patio and stopped just short of the glass balcony.

“Believe it since I’m looking at your child right now.”

I closed my eyes against the sun, the sway of the trees, and the cottony clouds. I closed out my pool and the three smokin’ hot babes who drifted on floats—completely nude.

“Not mine, you’re not. You’re not looking at my kid.”

“You’re wrong.”

My eyes flew open. “And you’re just now telling me? Three years later? Bullshit!”
I call bullshit Marissa!

“I NEVER wanted to have this conversation. I never wanted to bother you.” She seemed so sincere. So sincere that it scared the shit out of me. Her voice cracked, and something inside me cracked as well. A soft breath bled through the phone before she continued. “I’m only calling you now because…”

“Because?” I shut the world out again, and the lack of visual stimulation eased my overactive senses.

If this is the truth, if she has my baby, why is she just now saying so?

Somewhere in the darkness of my head I searched for enlightenment.

Money.

The truth always came down to the dead presidents. I’d been through it before. And I didn’t want to fuck up the memory of Marissa with the superficial shit that was my life. But she’s to blame. Years later, she has come out of nowhere and screwed up my happy place. The place I retreated to when I was so exhausted I was floating between wake and sleep. A tourbus with her. Was my worst fear her falling off her sexy pedestal and revealing herself as a money hungry bitch? Or was I more afraid of the rest of the truth?

“Because of—”

I can’t! I can’t listen to the truth in her sweet voice.
So I blurted it myself. My worst fear. The poison previous women had coated their backstabbing blades with. “Money. You’re wanting money, aren’t you?”

“No! No. Well, sort of. But it’s–”

“That’s what I thought.” In my peripheral vision, I saw a flash of movement. The brunette beauty was advancing on me fast. I turned my back to her, hoping to appear unapproachable and hoping she would get the message.

“No it’s NOT what you thought– think. You see, our son–”

Son of a bitch!
I smelled tanning lotion. The girl was that close. She was directly behind me. Right on my six.

“This conversation is over. Continue it with my lawyer if you must.” I ended the conversation with Marissa in a panic.

Although I didn’t have the phone speaker on, the nature of our conversation made me paranoid of anyone hearing or figuring it out. Also although it was irrational, I didn’t want Marissa from the other end of the phone to hear this girl.

“You look like you could use a drink.”

I racked my brain, trying to put a name to the voice for a split second before deciding I didn’t give a shit. Worried my feelings would be on my face, I counted seconds and composed myself before turning around. She seemed like a nice girl. She had no way of knowing that was no ordinary business call like the couple of calls I’d taken before it.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Despite my cooling down time, I snatched the cup from her hand, and I must have glared because she skittered away.

Again I felt nothing. No remorse for being a dick. In fact, I was about to add to my asinine sins.

Crossing the patio, I paused by the pool. “Look, I’ve got some things to do. Just let yourself out that way when you go.” I pointed to the gate that opened to the front drive and walked over to unlock it.

I felt their stares and disappointment but refused to look. The house was seamlessly open to the perfect weather, but the moment I stepped across the threshold, I pressed the button that slid the glass closed.

“Hey! Jack! Wait! My things are inside!”

I owned being an asshole, but very few times in my life had I been a complete douche. Yet it seemed I was now, because I ignored the frantic shout. Hitting the next switch caused the vertical blinds to glide across the glass, giving me total privacy in my home.

I took a swig of the beverage and almost puked it back up. It was a girly drink, tasting more like a smoothie than a real drink. I needed to feel the burn of alcohol on my throat and a flush on my face.

I need a high-proof alcohol's dulling effects—yet I’d been warned years before when my drinking was out of hand that alcoholism ran in my family genes, so I’d reformed my ways.

My arm moved of its own will, swinging back, arcing forward, releasing the cup. It clattered to the wall above the sink and splattered the drink all over. The action was not near as satisfying had it been glass. I let the phone drop to the counter top and braced my hands on the granite.

A kid!

A kid?

Mentally I did the math, calculating an age. Because my sister had children, I could easily conjure up a four year old.

A kid.

I should have called my lawyer and given him the heads up—but instead I headed to bed. It would take Marissa several cat and mouse phone calls with the record label to become routed to the legal department that handled my business.

Dragging my hand along the banister, I climbed the stairs. Marissa’s red thong popped into my mind as I made my way down the long hall. And even though it was only four or five in the afternoon, I fell exhausted onto the bed ignoring my alcohol craving.

A son.

“M
arissa! hold up!”

From punching the clock upon arrival, all through breaks, through every minute of the workday, I had worked to avoid Clayton. Now, just seconds after punching out, he caught me.

Physically caught. Narrowing my eyes into a glare, I used only the tips of my fingers to flick his hand from my arm. “What’s up?” Unable to act a total bitch, I phrased the polite inquiry but did not meet his attractive eyes.

“How about a drink?” The invitation came from his mouth while his eyes strayed to the stretch of the monogrammed black blouse hugging my chest.

Pretending not to notice the direction of his gaze, I turned while declining. “Sorry, no. I’ve got to get home to my little guy.”

“Later?” From behind, I heard the time card stamp, and he rushed to match my strides. “We can make it late, like last time.”

Fishing my keys from my purse, I stalled, hoping for any type of interruption.

“Still hard to believe you have a kid.” His gaze roved over my body, which spent at least an hour daily on the stair-master or some other exercise contraption. No doubt, he was also pulling from his own up-close-and-personal memories. It was an oddity, but the same things that would turn me on prior to dating these guys, turned me off after knowing them in a biblical sense. Right now, I only wanted to mace his roving eyes.

However, I realized the creepy compliment could be turned into the diversion I longed for.

Shining my sweetest smile, I gushed, “That’s why I like you Clayton. You keep us girls feeling good about ourselves!” Deliberately, I brought his constant flirtation with every other female in the casino into play. “Look, there’s Gina. Her dice were cold all day. Go work your magic!”

The brush-off was clearly unexpected, but he quickly recovered upon getting an eyeful of the tight skirt our coworker had exchanged her black uniform slacks for. Because most women vied for Clayton’s attention, I felt no guilt when he deviated his course directly to Gina, and I made my way alone to the employee-parking garage.

Less than twenty minutes later, I let myself into the tiny suburban home I had managed to finance a couple of years ago. The ability to pay the mortgage would be jeopardized within a few months– once the medical bills began rolling in.

Dropping my purse and tote to a chair in the hall, I remained in the shadows of the hallway while unwrapping the light jacket from my waist. The den was at the end of this corridor, and as usual, Tristan sat in his mini-sized recliner, avidly watching his favorite shows. Behind him, Olivia lay on the sofa, swiping on her tablet. The volume on the television was loud enough that neither had noticed my arrival, and I lingered, going through the mail on the narrow console table.

Tossing a couple of bills aside exposed a large cardboard priority mail envelope at the bottom of the stack, bearing Olivia’s signature on the receiving line. The addressee was me, and the return address, a law firm in…

California.

Uneasily, I recalled the conversation with an attorney from the legal department representing Jack. Upon hearing my story, the lawyer’s attitude had not been any better than Jack’s demeanor had been that day on the phone. Thinking back on it always saddened me because, at least, Jack had not heard the entire situation before hating on me. The lawyer, even after being enlightened that the existence of a child was not the only issue, continued his rudeness to the very close of the conversation.

“Hey!” Olivia sat up with a welcoming smile and raised her voice over the tv volume for Tristan’s benefit, “Guess who’s home!”

“Momma!” Tristan scrambled for his crutches.

Shoving the thick envelope back into the mail pile, I crouched, sprinting at the same time to swing him up, and twirl him around. “Gotcha!” It was a race every evening to see if I could reach him before he situated his crutches enough to walk. Sometimes, he beat me, but either way, we both ended up on the couch in a tickling match.

Olivia cleared his meal mess from the sofa table and returned from the kitchen with a rag to wipe it down.

Shortly after Tristan’s first birthday, he began exhibiting problems walking. When tests concluded a medical diagnosis, several long-term plans changed, including childcare. Olivia valiantly moved to a different work shift since I couldn’t afford a one-on-one caregiver, and my son needed special attention, which would be difficult in a group of children.

With one last kiss, I let Tristan get back to his show, and with an appreciative sniff, I inquired of Olivia, “What smells so good? Did you cook?”

Busting with laughter, Olivia denied the ridiculous, and I found the Chinese delivery spread across the stovetop.

“Made great tips this month.” While handing over a clean plate, my friend shrugged off the slight cost, which was never in my tight budget.