Are you okay, Ma’am?
No, I am most definitelynotokay. But trying to explainwhyI’m not okay means telling secrets that…
Yeah.
Unfortunately, my navel-gazing has made me realize one thing—I can’t reveal my truths to George, or Declan, until the completion of the long game. Because I won’t let Declan take the fall for it, and I will never forget staring at Emma on a slab in that morgue, a young life cut so damned short. Nothing more than a disposable commodity to the Ronald family.
Before my boy even became my boy. When he was stillaboy. Back then, I was an enraged woman wanting to protect that boy and his mother and wanting to get revenge for his sister.
Because I remembered sitting at a Rotary breakfast only a couple of weeks earlier and seeing Junior there. The carefree smirk he wore. The money-is-no-object, shit-eating grin of a man who uses others for his own needs and sees women as nothing more than disposable sperm receptacles.
The same kind of smirk I used to see—and despise—on my own father’s face.
No, even before Declan entered my life, I already had the long game in my head, because I had learned some of Junior’s secrets.
And nothing else can really happen until the long game does.
I finally text him back.
I need a day off, boy. I’m sorry my head’s out of whack. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning. You haven’t done anything wrong. Love you. Be my good boy today.
I wipe away my tears as I await his reply. Hopefully he’ll take the hint and won’t come over tonight.
Yes, Ma’am. Love you, too.
I set my phone aside and head home.
* * * *
Tuesday morning, I’m downstairs working out when I receive the alert that George’s gate is opened at 5:12 a.m., and I wonder what his damn game is.
I didn’t sleep last night.
When I arrive at work, I don’t like the dark circles I see under George’s eyes, because he hasn’t had those in a while. Especially since Declan’s been living with him full-time, meaning George is—supposedly—able to sleep at night.
Declan arrives a little after I do. I hate how sad he looks, but he doesn’t press me for anything personal at work, outside of sending me his good-morning text earlier.
I’m nearly a fucking zombie on Wednesday and Thursday. I’m having painful flashbacks to my youth, as well as a renewed and ironic appreciation for how shitty George used to sleep before Declan.
Thursday night, I’m surprised when Declan shows up at my house, unannounced and carrying both a suitcase as well as a garment bag, which I assume has a couple of suits in it, from how full it looks.
I walk into the kitchen, where he’s emerged from the door to the utility room and garage. “What are you doing here?”
He sets everything down. “This is my legal address,” he quietly says. “George told me to move back here.”
“What?”
He stares at me.
“What happened?” I ask.
I only get a sad sigh in return.
“But he needs you!” I say.
“He needsus.” Ihatehow depressed he sounds. “And he’s not sleeping because he’s worried about you and afraid you’re going to walk away from us. He hasn’t slept well in over a week.”
“You need to go home to your Sir.”
