I groan low in my throat. “What did you have in mind?”
The corners of her lips tilt up. “You’re a smart man.” Steph runs both hands up my thighs until she covers my now hard-as-a-rock dick with her hand. She squeezes my length, eliciting another groan from me.
“Do your worst.”
Always loving a challenge, she smiles up at me while unfastening my belt. As I’m admiring her with my dress pants splayed open and my zipper down, my phone buzzes on my desk with a text. Unable to stop working, I glance at the screen. When I see who’s texted me, my entire body stiffens.
Steph tugs my cock out and is stroking it as I reach for my phone.
1 new message from Mr. Smith
My chest grows tight, and that familiar nausea churns in my stomach. Cursing my impulsive decision weeks prior, I open the message as Steph wraps her lips around the tip of me. I’m not even enjoying her blow job. That’s how fucked up this situation is.
I located the individual. I’ve sent a report to your email along with my invoice. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sitting up straight, I push Steph’s shoulders, and her mouth pops off my cock.
“What the hell, Bastion?” Her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are narrowed.
“Something’s come up.”
“I’m aware.” She reaches for my dick, but I push her hand away.
“You need to leave, Steph. I have something I have to deal with privately.”
Her cheeks redden, and her jaw clenches. She’s about to argue but seems to think better of it when she takes in my expression. “Fine.”
She stands and tugs her skirt down, trying to muster up some kind of dignity, but that’s hard to do when you just had your mouth wrapped around your boss’s cock and he abruptly called things off. I hate doing that to her or making her feel that way.
“I’ll be in the Nevada clubs next week. I’ll let you know if there’s anything pressing that needs your attention,” she says.
I nod, not bothering to look at her. There’s probably confusion written all over her face, and I can’t blame her. I don’t even understand myself these days. After the door shuts behind her, I stare at my phone’s screen, unsure if I want to go through with this or not.
When I reached out to Mr. Smith and asked him to track down my mother, I genuinely thought he would report back with a death certificate. That she’d passed away from a drug overdose at some point in the twenty-six years since I left her in that filthy apartment. The box would be sealed, and I could move on. Even then, I knew it would bring up a bunch of shit, but I never expected her to be alive.
Where is she? What is she doing? Is she still an addict and living on the streets? Is she in jail? I thought that was the most likely possibility and probably the only way she was still alive—she wouldn’t have the ability to constantly feed her demons like she would out on the street.
I push my hand through my hair, then set down my phone and pull my laptop toward me, clicking on my email. The report is there, just as Mr. Smith said it would be. My heart hammers as I hover the cursor over the email, warning alarms blaring in my head.
Once I click, there’s no going back.
Who the hell am I kidding? There’s already no going back just from the mere fact that I know my mother somehow managed to beat the odds.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist down on the desk beside my computer. I’ve fucking opened Pandora’s box.
Hiring Mr. Smith to track her down was a stupid decision. It was a weak moment. I’d just returned from visiting my sister at Midnight Manor for my niece and nephew’s seventh birthday. Every time I’m around my sister and her family, it feels surreal. She grew up the same way I did—with her father,my pseudofather, running cons on people—and somehow, she’s managed to have a normal relationship and family of her own.
Granted, she missed out on experiencing eleven years with a neglectful addict for a mother, but Ariana’s birth mother ran away from her and Trent early on, so she hasn’t had it easy either.
I hate to admit that I was jealous on the plane home, and that lingered the following weeks. I don’t begrudge my sister’s happiness, she deserves it, but I found myself wishing I could have a slice of it for myself. The past came haunting, and I wondered where my mother ended up, so I called my brother-in-law, Obsidian. He connected me with his brother Kol, who led me to Mr. Smith. I didn’t tell Obsidian who I was looking for, instead saying that I needed to track someone down for business purposes. That way he wouldn’t share my call with Ariana. The last thing I needed was for her to be all over me about this.
Since she’s met Obsidian, she’s become so fucking into discussing feelings it makes me want to pierce my eardrums with a knife most times.
Who am I kidding? There’s no turning back now.
After taking a deep breath, I press on the email, then click on the report attached.
The words “Carla Lynn Sinclair (nee Blake), 57” are printed at the top of the report, and I squeeze my eyes shut to push back the swell of emotion at seeing her full name.
