I stand up, the chair legs scraping behind me. What does he know? Did he hear me talking to Ariel on my cell, or did he follow me to the clinic? This was a mistake.
“I’m sorry this happened to you, George, but it’s nothing to do with me. Go home to your fiancée. I’m sure she’ll give you the sympathy you’re looking for.”
“I know what’s going on, Remy,” he calls after me. “You’re making a huge mistake if you think they’ll look out for you.”
I don’t stop. I don’t look back at him. I don’t want to see his black eye or think about Cash hurting him.
Opening the door, I pause while two women step inside. If I hadn’t, I might not have noticed the man in black walking away on the opposite side of the street.
11
BASH
Terry crouchesin front of me, snapping his fingers to bring me back to the real world. “Half a bottle of brandy, Bash? That’s a new record even by your mom’s standards.”
I’m slumped on the couch in my office. I’ve a clear view of the elevator, the wall my brother pinned me up against, my desk where a huge part of my day is spent. It all feels… small. Inconsequential. Meaningless.
I raise the glass to my lips, realize that it’s empty, and reach for the bottle that isn’t there.
“You’ve had enough,” Terry says. It isn’t up for debate. “You want to talk about it?”
I don’t.
“She’s pregnant.”
Terry’s good. Years of practice, and his expression could meanit’s snowing outside, orthe Russian mob just raided the Rinse, orthe chef just created a new culinary masterpiece.
I close my eyes. If I can’t see him, he might go away and leave me alone. But my mouth is still talking. “Twins. Could be mine. Could be Cash’s. She couldn’t tell us apart, apparently. Am I supposed to fucking believe that?”
I swallow. It feels like someone tipped my head back and poured sand down my throat. I try to get up, and the room lurches.
“Stay there.” A warm hand lands on my thigh. “Move and I’ll shoot you.”
Language I understand.
I do as I’m told. Terry returns with a tall glass of iced water, and I guzzle it down without coming up for air. Marginally better. Brain freeze doesn’t suck quite as much as desert throat. Another glass is placed into my hand; I take this one slowly.
But clarity brings its own issues, and every one of them is shaped like Remy Jones.
My heart is telling me to believe her. She didn’t come in here begging for money. She didn’t threaten to drag our names though the cesspit of fake news. If I’m honest and replay the conversation up to the point where it all got muddled up with the pregnancy announcement, she didn’t accuse us of anything that she could bring a lawsuit against us for.
When she told us that she was pregnant, she’d already made up her mind. It was the last word. Sure, she timed it perfectly to land like a fucking nuclear explosion, but it wasn’t accompanied by a middle finger and asee you in court, losers.
It doesn’t change the evidence of my own eyes and ears though. Her connection to George Quinn is real. Whether it’s of her ownmaking or his is yet to become clear, but I can’t overlook it and focus on what matters.
“Right, you’re coming with me.”
I’d forgotten that Terry was still in the room.
“Where are we going?” Did I slur my words or is my brain still wrapped in brandy-soaked cotton wool?
“Staten Island.” Terry stands up and waits for me to follow.
Staten Island is where he and my mom live. It’s where my siblings and I spent our childhood after our mom met Terry, and even though we’re all grown up with our own lives, our own businesses, and our own places to live, it’s still home.
He isn’t taking me there to sober up.
He’s taking me there because this situation requires our mom’s intervention.
