I’d just hung up my coat when my cell vibrated with a call. I groaned when I saw the name on the screen. I took a deep breath to steel myself and swiped to answer the call.
“Hello, Mom.”
“It’s about time you answered,” she snapped. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon.”
I checked my screen and, sure enough, there were three missed calls from her. All during the time I was in the master class. Thank goodness my phone had been in my coat pocket while I was on stage. “I was busy, Mom. What do you need?”
“Can’t a mother just call her son to say hello?” she asked, trying to sound pathetic.
“Sure, Mom,” I replied, pretending to take her at her word. “Hello. I had a busy week. How about you?”
“I’ve had a terrible week,” she whined. “They cut my hours at the diner.” And here it was in three, two, one… “I need some money to make the rent.”
I clenched my jaw. “Mom, I can’t keep giving you money every month. I have my own rent to make.”
“Listen to you, all high and mighty, living in New York City,” She snarled. “You wouldn’t have so much trouble paying rent if you lived in Jersey with us peasants.”
I normally had no trouble making my rent. I worked as a freelance website designer and graphic artist in addition to whatever piano gigs I could get. I was tired of enabling her drug habit. It was likely the reason the diner had cut her hours. I let out a sigh. “How much do you need?”
“Five hundred,” she replied immediately.
“Fine. Give me your landlord’s email address, and I’ll find out how to send it to them directly.” I knew I was asking for a barrage of verbal abuse, but I’d really hit my limit.
“You ungrateful little shit,” she screeched. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d been through years of therapy to get over everything she’d done for me. “Take or leave it, Mom.”
“Fine,” she growled. She gave me a phone number instead of an email address, which was fine. I could call them and get the information I needed.
After I hung up, I slumped onto my couch, staring out the window at the city below. Why did I keep answering her calls? It was a question I could never answer when my therapist asked. At least I’d gotten to the point where I’d stopped sending her money directly.
I set my phone to silent and went to my piano. Playing always made me feel better. Hopefully, tonight’s gig would go well.
CHAPTER THREE
TONY
Michael made excellent coffee. He’d picked up the secret the last time we’d gone to Italy with the family. He tried to show me a few times, but I was always in too much of a hurry to do it the right way.
Today, my brother wouldn’t let me do anything but sit at his kitchen table and wait for his perfect coffee. It was all I had the stomach for, really. I didn’t have much of an appetite. Why did I let myself get fooled yet again? Was I really that desperate that I was blind to younger men seeing me only for my money? I either needed to find someone closer to my own age with a stable job or give up and get back on Grindr. I shuddered at the idea of random hookups. I’d done that in my twenties. I didn’t want to go back to it.
I took a sip of the coffee and hummed in appreciation. “This is really good, Michael.”
He sat across the table from me with his own cup. “Thank you,” he said with a smile. “I’m glad you slept late. You needed it.”
I wouldn’t necessarily call what I did all night sleep, but Michael didn’t need to know that. “Yeah. I should probably check in with the private detail people…”
My brother was already shaking his head. “Already done.” He leveled a glare at me. “You’re not the only one who runs this company, Tony. You’re allowed to take a break.”
I opened my mouth to say, I don’t know what, when Michael’s phone pinged with a notification. He looked at the screen and his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “What is it?” I asked.
He slid his phone across the table to me. “My search picked up Scott Bradley at the Ft Lauderdale airport.”
“No shit! That’s one arrogant little asshole.”
Scott Bradley had been on the run since he’d run down our friend Zach’s sister with his car last April. She’d died, leaving behind a four-year-old son whose dad was in prison. Scott had left the country, but apparently, he’d decided it was safe for him to come back.
Michael rose. “I’ll have to run this through my facial recognition software. It looks like he dyed his hair dark brown.”
