Good question. One I’ve debated how to answer from the moment I decided to go against my friend’s wishes. Victor didn’t mince words. Whenever Dee’s name came up, his reaction wasn’t just no buthell, no.
Until this moment, I honestly intended to take the high road, even after everything she’d done. And I believe I would have if she had demonstrated the smallest amount of give, if there were even the slightest hint of warmth in her Arctic expression. But there is none, and that rubs my old wounds raw.
“Do you really think Victor would come here asking for your help after what you did?” Once the dam I’ve been holding together with toothpicks bursts wide open, the past comes flooding out. “His parents took you in when you were fourteen and treated you like one of their own. And how did you repay them? By bailing.
“They were worried sick. Victor’s little sisters cried for weeks, asking every day when you were coming home. No one could do anything. You were eighteen, free to pack up and go as you pleased.”
For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the image of her engagement ring sitting inside that stark white envelope addressed to me. Or the note she wrote her foster parents in a hasty script, as though she couldn’t get away fast enough. A note that simply said, “Words cannot express my gratitude for all that you have done for me.” A note she had the fucking nerve to end with: “You will be forever in my heart.” As if she had one.
The memory boils my blood and reddens my haze. Controlling my temper isn’t my strong suit. “Why would Victor trust you to represent his foster son when you hurt the people he loved?”
“If I’m so god-awful,” she says, bristling, “then I fail to understand why you’ve come here.”
“Because whatever else you may be, I’ve done my homework and I know you’re considered the best.”
“Regardless, Victor’s foster son is not your legal responsibility.”
I swallow an angry breath. “This isn’t about legal responsibility. This is about loyalty, obligation, and love.” Three things she doesn’t have a clue about. “You’re not the only one with debts to pay, Dee.”
“And you’re not my conscience or my judge.”
I wouldn’t credit Dee with a conscience, but I hear in her clipped tone that I’m getting to her. So I rein in my temper for a twelve-year-old boy’s sake and admit, “The situation that Dwayde’s in is because of me.”
Finally, that produces a reaction. Not outright concern but at least curiosity. “How so?” she asks, arching a skeptical eyebrow.
“Two Saturdays ago, the media got wind that I was coaching rec basketball at a community center in North Chicago.” I pause, waiting to see if there are signs that she may be aware of the incident. Searching her eyes, I don’t see any. And that tells me that either Dee has one hell of a poker face or she doesn’t keep up with sports news.
Choosing to believe the latter, I continue. “When I walked out of the center with Dwayde and several of the boys after practice, there were camera crews and reporters everywhere…crowding the front steps and parking lot, shouting questions, snapping pictures.”
Her gaze flicks over me. “The price of fame.”
That pokes a sore spot, and I shove my fingers through my hair to keep from throttling her. I know what she’s thinking—that I sold out my dreams. Which is no less than what I think. But I’m not about to defend the choices I made or my reasons to Dee.
“The price of fame is mine to bear, not Dwayde’s,” I say, feeling a spear of guilt in my chest. “I asked the reporters to ease off and let the kids through. But one bastard out for blood wouldn’t cooperate.” That was when all hell broke loose. “The story went viral and appeared in all the major papers across the country. Dwayde’s grandparents from Kentucky—no one had even known existed—recognized him from the photo, and within forty-eight hours they were on a plane to Chicago, claiming Dwayde as theirs.”
“Biologically, he is.”
I look at her leaning against the doorframe, professional mask in place, arms still folded beneath her breasts, pushing the smooth, plump cleavage above her blouse, and say what we both know to be true: “Biology doesn’t mean shit.”
“It does in a court of law,” she argues.
“That’s why we need you to take the case.”
“There is nowe,” she conveniently points out. “Victor doesn’t want my help, remember?”
I remember. But I’m not letting her off with that easy crutch. “I’ll deal with Victor.”
“Even if you manage to, as I’ve already indicated, I don’t have the time. So I’m afraid you’ve wasted a trip.”
She turns around to go into her office, but her blatant indifference snaps the fraying tethers on my control. Riled, I follow and grab her arm, spinning her back around to face me.
“Get your hand off me,” she warns. Hot pelts of breath hit my jaw, and golden flames jump wildly in her eyes.
It’s sick. It’s perverse. But her flash-fire temper affects me like a lit match to gasoline. Sparks erupt, charging the air with electric currents of passion. Lost in the heated moment, I tighten my grasp and step her into the brick wall—dipping low and aligning our chests, stomachs, thighs, and everything in between. For a moment she struggles, trying to twist out of my hold. But I don’t let go. Instead I tug her closer, aching to take Dee, right then and there. To feel those long legs wrapped around my waist as I drive hard into her snug, slick heat. To hear those breathy moans catch in her throat.
Craving her. Still. Blind lust urges me forward, but flashes from the past yank me back. My mind’s playing out the grief on the faces of the people I care about when they realized Dee was gone and never coming back…the dark hole I’d fallen into…the vast emptiness.
Fuck!I release my grip and take a giant step backward. The distance should provide space. Air. Relief.
