Fat Girl (19 page)

“It’s true the system favors relatives,” she allows. “But that doesn’t mean the court won’t consider the alternative and what Dwayde wants. That’s why you hired me.”

“That was before Dwayde met his grandparents and decided living on the streets was better than having anything to do with them. How many cases do you know of where the foster parents won over relatives?”

She pulls the tab off the can and pours the drink over ice. “Each case is different. Don’t worry about the numbers.”

“How many, Dee?”

She looks up.

“How many Dee?” I repeat.

“Two so far,” she relents. “But—”

“
Christ!
”

“It means there’s precedent, Mick.”

“It means the Franklins’ odds are even better than I thought and that ours are shit.” I stalk toward her. “I want you to do whatever it takes…whatever it costs…to get the Franklins to back off.”

She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Have you been famous for so long that you’ve forgotten how things work in the real world? You think you can wave your millions around and presto”—she snaps her fingers—“problem solved? Well, let me tell you something. The Franklins have millions, too. Unless they willingly back down, which I doubt, there’s a legal process that we have to follow. Next Wednesday, we’re scheduled to meet with a judge to discuss evidence. At that time, we’ll know the strength of the positions on the table.”

“And in the meantime, Dwayde is supposed to sit in limbo, his future uncertain, waiting for his fate to be decided by some judge who doesn’t even know him. Who’s to say he won’t run before then? If he gets scared enough that this thing is going south, he’ll take off. You saw that firsthand today.”

“What I saw was an angry kid who took off and went to you,” she says with contrasting calmness. “Someone he trusts. He didn’t run away.”

“But he could have.”

“Listen to me. I understand that Dwayde’s scared about the possible outcome of his grandparents getting custody and that you’re feeling guilty and scared, too. But you hired me to be Dwayde’s voice in court. I’m good at what I do, so let me do my job.”

“I’m not questioning your ability, Dee. But I can’t stand around and do nothing.” I pace, fearing that despite my promise to Dwayde, I might not be able to save him, any more than I’d been able to save my mother or Papa T.

“I’m not suggesting you do nothing. You have a role as a witness in this case. And because of your close relationship with Dwayde, you’re in a good position to get him to open up about the Franklins. I think it’s possible he remembers more than he’s saying.”

That stops me in my tracks. Dee’s expression is deadpan. “Based on what?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Whatever information I amass from my discussions with Dwayde is protected under client–attorney privilege, and anything from today’s visit is covered under a confidentiality agreement. So let’s just say I have a strong hunch.”

My gaze narrows and I search her eyes for a hint of what’s going on in that sharp, complex mind of hers. “What reason would Dwayde have for withholding information about the Franklins that might help the case?”

“I’m not sure yet. What did he say to you about the visit?”

I take the glass she offers and lean back against the counter across from Dee, sifting through the conversation from hours ago. “Not a lot. But from what I could gather, Charles Franklin giving him that shirt and saying it was his legacy set Dwayde off. He said he didn’t care about having their name or their farm. That he hated them all.”

She rolls her lip between her teeth in thought. “Did he actually say he hated ‘them all’?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You wouldn’t say ‘them all’ to mean two people.”

“I assumed he threw his mother into the mix. She was a real piece of work.”

“Did Dwayde tell you why he hated them?”

“No. He pretty much closed up after that. Victor and Isabelle couldn’t get anything more out of him either. Do you think they hurt him?” I clench my fist around the glass, my suspicions rooted in my own violent past.

“I can’t rule it out with 100 percent certainty,” Dee says. “However, I didn’t see anything today to suggest abuse of any kind. I’m crossing the line here, Mick. But I’ll tell you this as some measure of reassurance. Dwayde didn’t appear to be afraid of them. Angry and hostile, yes, but not frightened.”

That offers me little comfort. Abused children learn to lie and hide secrets well. I wish I’d been there to pick up on the vibes myself. “We know for a fact that Dwayde’s mother was abusive; can’t that be used as evidence against them?” I ask aware that I’m grasping.

She shakes her head, fueling my frustration. “The apple-doesn’t-fall-far-from-the-tree theory is not evidence. Joyce Franklin was a drug user. That, not her parents, may have accounted for her violence. Nothing points to them being guilty of abuse. From all reports so far, the Franklins are pillars of their community.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, “so was my old man.”

Her eyes lower to my right cheekbone, where the two-inch scar—unlike the scars on the inside—has faded. When they lift back up to mine, the warmth that I see there touches something buried deep beneath my anger and lust.

Hell, no.
I mentally shake it off. I’m not going there. Dee was once my true love. My soul mate. The only woman I ever told my secrets to. But that was a long time ago, before she broke all her promises and broke my heart. If I give into any soft feelings for her, like quicksand, they will pull me under.

“Just because Joyce was violent doesn’t mean her parents were. I was taught to follow the evidence—that’s drilled into you at law school, but I have also learned not to ignore my instincts. I don’t believe Dwayde was abused by his grandparents, but I do think he’s hiding something.”

I drink my Coke, letting the icy contents soothe the burn in my throat. But with her eyes still warming me, a heat rises up from my gut and comes disturbingly close to my heart.

“You proposing we work together, Dee?”

“It’s obvious Dwayde trusts you,” she says, “so yes, I’m suggesting we work together on a professional level.”

“And on a personal level?” I ask, setting my glass down and advancing toward her. “
Mick…
”

My hand slides up her neck, testing the rapid beat of her pulse.

“Don’t,” she breathes, but the protest sounds as weak as my will to withstand her.

I lower my head and skim my lips along her bare shoulder. The fragrance of her soft, quivering skin seduces my senses.

“I’ve never gotten the smell of you out of my head…or the taste of you.”

Her breath hitches and I pull the sound deep into my mouth. I might regret my weakness later, but the silk of her lips, the sweet flavor I’ve never forgotten, spins my head, and trumps all rational thought or common sense.

I tug the band from her hair and grab two fistfuls of curls. And Dee’s right with me. No token resistance. No pretense. She gives back, just the way I need it. Hot and mindless. Going up on her toes, she winds her arms around my neck and molds her body to mine. Our tongues collide in a rush of longing. Tasting, tangling.

No woman has ever filled me so completely, to the exclusion of everything else. In that moment of frenzy, the past, my anger, and her transgressions are all white noise against the clamor of something louder and more powerful roaring in my blood.

I crush her back into the counter and muscle my thigh between her legs, leaving no doubt as to how intensely I want her. Releasing my grip from the twist of curls I cup her unfettered breasts through the thin material and squeeze their ripe fullness. The nipples harden to bullets beneath my palms, and when I whisk my thumbs across the peaks, Dee’s breathy moans drive me full throttle.

I drag my mouth down her neck and chest, sliding my tongue across the points, dampening her shirt until the little chocolate morsels are visible through the cotton. Alternating between the two, I suck the tips into my mouth, hard enough to entice her to the edge, then lick them softly so that the next sharp pull is all the more acute.

“Oh, God,” she moans and turns away to grip the counter as if it’s too much.

But I’m not nearly done. I haven’t even begun to do all the things to Dee that I fantasized about on those lonely nights when the hurt had receded into the shadows and all I was left with were the bittersweet memories of touching her, and tasting her, of driving inside her hot, wet body.

Her back to me, I slip my hand beneath the elastic waist of her pajama bottoms and splay my palm across her feminine belly. Dee feels even better than I remembered in my dreams. There’s not a single straight line, just soft, luscious curves. The body she never seemed comfortable with I still find sensually opulent.

Her skin scorches me as I slide my hand lower. Without any panties to hinder me, my fingertips encounter silky, damp curls and plump, slick lips. Pure luxury. I press snugly between the globes of her juicy ass and, whispering her name, thrust two fingers into the creamiest heat a man could ever imagine.

“
Mick!
” Dee cries out and rolls her hips in a tantalizing rhythm against me.

Desire snapping like a whip, I nose her hair aside, exposing her neck, and greedily suck the fragrant flesh into my mouth. I sink my fingers deeper and faster, while circling her swollen clit with my thumb. I’m drowning in the feel of her, in the wispy breaths of her pleasure.

My need raw, I grate against her ear, “Come for me, Dee. Come all over me.”

“Ohh.” Her wet vise clamps tightly around my surging fingers, her hands clench the counter, and with a sob of my name, Dee doesn’t just come—she explodes—one shuddering spasm on top of another, hitting me so hard I want nothing more than to rip open my jeans and plunge inside her. But letting her ride out her orgasm, I lock my back teeth, fighting for control until she goes lax and limp over the band of my arm.

I give myself a moment for my world to right itself before removing my hand from inside her warm, milky body. I curl my palm around her nape and turn Dee to face me. Her hair is a crown of unruliness; the perfect frame for hooded eyes that are a dark liquid gold and bruised lips that are red and swollen. I love how sexy and sated she looks. Love that I’m the one who put that look there.

A lot might have changed in a decade and a half. But not this. Not the way Dee responds to my touch or how freely and completely she gives herself to me. Beginning to feel as if my world may never be the same again, I seal my arms around her—my hold possessive, my desire to reclaim her strong. “You’re still mine.”

She freezes, going rigid, right before she moves her hands up to my chest and shoves me away. “Don’t touch me!”

A multitude of emotions strike me in rapid succession—total shock, chased by razor-sharp hurt, with burning outrage fast on its heels.

“You didn’t seem to mind my touch a few moments ago.”

Dee’s cheeks flame and she crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine, you wanted to prove something to yourself. Well, you did. Your manipulation…the flowers…your
friendly
pretense
…
your lures worked into seducing me to feed your massive ego.”

Muscles jumping in my jaw, I go nose to nose with her. “If I played you so well, sweetheart, then tell me why you were the only one who got lucky.”

I don’t see it coming. Her palm cracks across my face with a force that resounds through the kitchen like a cannon shot. Stunned, I bring a hand up to my left cheek.

“Get out!” she yells.

I grip her arm. “Like hell I will.” My voice is a low throb of fury. “The least I expect for getting you off are answers that are fifteen years overdue.”

Face flushed and eyes sparked with anger, she replies, “The only people I owe answers to are Cayo and Rita Torres.”

And I see my chance to hurt her back. “Then you’re too late on one count.”

She twists in my grasp. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Cayo Torres is dead.”

“Noo.” The sound comes out as a broken wheeze, deflating her anger like a popped balloon. “That can’t be true.”

“You’d know it was true if you’d been there,” I say with venom. “The man who loved you like a daughter...the man you deserted…is now dead, but I doubt that matters to a coldhearted bitch like you.”

Past my red haze, I see the sad realization dawn in her eyes. I don’t like myself at the moment. But I like Dee even less.

Pushing her away, I grab my jacket and barge through the front door, refusing to give a shit about whatever damage I’m leaving in my wake.

THE SLAM OF THE DOOR nearly brings me to my knees. I hug my middle, trying to hold myself together, trying not to break apart.

Papa T is dead.

Gone. And I’ll never hear his barreling laugh again. Or ever get to tell him how sorry I am.

Guilt like a sledgehammer cracks the fissure in my heart wide open; the void is so deep I can’t breathe my way out of it. Hollowness echoes inside me. I yank open the fridge and the Tupperware dish finds its way into my hands. I pry off the lid and pick up one of the six muffins. I take a bite and another, barely chewing, in a hurry to fill the emptiness and numb the pain.