Play My Game Read online

  “Don’t you want to answer that?” Mom asks. “Your phone’s been ringing most of the day. It could be important.”

  “Not more important than spending time with you and Katie.”

  As for Daniel, he’s left one message after another on my phone. The first few were filled with pleas for me to give him another chance to make things right again. Then he left another, awkwardly asking what our breakup might mean to the agreement we have with Jared and his half of the money I’m due to receive.

  I haven’t listened to any of his messages since. I don’t want to think about Daniel or the agreement or anything else, except the pleasant day I’ve enjoyed with my family. The truth is, I needed the uninterrupted time together with my mom and my niece more than they could possibly know. I needed to remind myself what matters.

  I glance at six-year-old Katie, who looks so much like my sister Jen it breaks my heart sometimes. “You promised to start on your homework before dinner, remember?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and slides off the chair with a dramatic sigh. “Okaaay.”

  Drink in hand, she shuffles out of the kitchen, then her footsteps lightly thump up the stairs toward her bedroom.

  I slowly shake my head. “She may gripe about studying, but her teacher told me at our last conference that Katie’s one of the top students in her entire grade.”

  “She’s a smart one, like you.” Mom smiles at me, letting go of a wistful sigh. “Jen’d be real proud of her, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she would.” My sister was no slouch when it came to her studies, either, but as the situation at home spiraled downward with my father’s drinking and violence, her schoolwork suffered. Eventually, everything began to suffer until one day she was gone. I gesture to the empty water glass in front of my mom. “Want some more?”

  She nods, dabbing at her moist brow again. “Thank you, honey. You take such good care of me. Katie, too. You’ll make a wonderful mother one day.”

  I scoff. “I don’t know about that, Mom. You could be waiting a long time before you get any grandchildren out of me.”

  I balk at the idea, mainly because it’s never seemed further out of reach. I thought Daniel might finally be someone I could see in my life for the long term, someone steady and reliable. Someone I could trust with my heart and my future.

  Now, I’m not even sure I could trust him with my car keys.

  My mom stares at me with a tender look in her eyes when I return with her refilled glass. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother to you and your sister. I think about it so often, you know? All the things I could’ve done differently. All the times I should’ve been stronger—for you girls, if not for myself.”

  “No, Mom. Don’t blame yourself for anything that happened. You did the best you could for us. I know that. I think Jen knew it, too.”

  She glances down, her brow furrowed. It takes her a long moment before she speaks. When she does, her voice is small. “You don’t know how often I prayed for your father to finally kill himself. I should have packed up you girls and taken you as far away as I could instead of wishing for God to save us. I didn’t have enough money for us to leave. No family to help us, or give us somewhere to stay. I couldn’t bear the thought of raising you girls in a shelter somewhere, or worse, on the streets.”

  I reach out to her, gently laying my hand over her frail, trembling fingers. Her skin is cool, almost cold, beneath mine. “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” She lifts her head, an almost palpable remorse written in every line of her face. “I should have protected you and Jennifer, whatever it took. Instead I just prayed for a miracle to save us. I prayed for him to die that night, Mellie.”

  She doesn’t have to say anything more than that. I close my eyes, hearing the screams that filled the car. Feeling the sudden crash of impact, the horrible roar of twisting metal and breaking glass.

  “I didn’t realize he could be capable of that kind of evil,” she murmurs. “If I had, I would’ve killed him myself.”

  “No one could’ve known what he meant to do, Mom.”

  “I should have.” She breaks down, letting go of a jagged sob. “I didn’t realize the price of my prayers for him to die would nearly cost me both of you girls, too. Or that eventually, God would answer my failures as a mother a few years later by taking Jen away from me.”

  “Oh, Mom, no.” I pull the chair next to her a bit closer so I can sit beside her. “Is that what you think? You didn’t cause Jen’s overdose. She did that to herself.”

  I clasp her hand with both of mine and hold it tight as a tear rolls down her cheek. I had no idea she’s been harboring this kind of guilt, not only for my alcoholic father’s abuse of us all and his heinous final act, but for my troubled sister’s long slide into addiction and the accidental overdose that ended her life.

  We tried to help her turn her life around. Jen’s doctors and therapists tried to help her. Not even the birth of Katie was enough to give her the strength and willpower required to battle her addiction. Jen was gone by the time her daughter was barely two years old.

  “None of it was your fault, Mom. Don’t ever think that.” I let go of her hand and gather her close, trying not to notice how fragile she feels in my arms. “Jen would never blame you. I think she’d be devastated to know you feel this way about what happened to her.”

  “I wish I could’ve saved her, Mellie.” Her tears wet my shoulder. Her voice is quiet, choked with emotion. “I wish I could’ve been the kind of mother you both deserved. A strong woman. A brave one.”

  “You are.” I ease back from her, if only so she can see my face and know I mean what I’m saying. “You’re all those things to me. To Katie, too. I can’t imagine taking care of her without you, Mom.”

  She gives me a watery smile. “Oh, honey. You’re my joy, you know that? That precious little girl upstairs is all my hopes for what Jennifer might have been, but you’re my heart.”

  “Are you trying to make me cry now, too?”

  She giggles around a wet sniffle, bringing her hand up to cradle the side of my face. “I love you, my sweet Mellie-Belle.”

  She hasn’t called me that since I was Katie’s age. Hearing it now is the balm I need after the way my world has seemed to tilt on its axis these past several days. “I love you, too, Mom.”

  She pats my cheek, then settles back against her chair on a sigh. Her eyes are still moist, her skin a bit too sallow for my peace of mind. “Do you suppose I have time for a quick nap before I help you with dinner, sweetheart?”

  “Sure. If you like, I’ll wake you when we’re ready to eat.”

  “Oh, that’d be nice. Thank you, Melanie.” She takes her time standing up, using the edge of the table for balance. When I move to assist, she shakes her head. “I’m fine, I’m fine. All that fresh air today’s making me sleepy, that’s all.”

  As if to reassure me, she straightens and carries her empty glass to the sink. I’d like to believe it’s only a day spent outdoors that’s got her looking so exhausted, but I can’t shake the pang of concern in my breast as I watch her step out of the kitchen.

  I turn back to finish cleaning the cooler so I can put it away, and not a second later a loud crash sounds in the living room.

  “Mom?” Dropping everything, I hurry out, my heart in my throat.

  And for good reason.

  She’s lying on the floor where she fell, her book and glasses scattered beside her next to the end table she knocked over when she collapsed.

  “Mom!”

  I fly to her side. Above me upstairs, I hear Katie’s footsteps pounding for the steps. She comes halfway down and sees the situation. Her frightened shriek sounds like the one I feel building in the center of my chest.

  “Grandma!” she cries.

  I have my ear down on my mother’s breast, trying desperately to hear if her heart is still beating, if she’s still breathing. I drag my head away only long enough to meet my niece’s terrified sta
re.

  “Katie, my phone is in my purse in the kitchen. Get it and call 9-1-1 for me right away, okay?”

  She nods, snapping into action with a calm that’s remarkable for her age. As she nears the spot where I’m stuffing a sofa pillow under my mother’s head and reaching for more to place under her legs to elevate them, Katie pauses.

  Her voice is as stark as her face. “Is Grandma going to—”

  I don’t let her finish the thought, mostly because I can’t bear to consider it.

  “Grandma needs a doctor right away, sweetie. Go make the call. We have to hurry.”

  19

  JARED

  She ghosted me.

  I can’t say I’m surprised. I can’t even say I blame her. If she didn’t think I was a first-rate jackass before, I’m sure she must now. However, none of that does a thing to improve my dark mood over Melanie’s absence for our Monday morning appointment to return to my studio.

  “Shall I cancel the flight charter for today, sir?”

  Gibson’s polite inquiry interrupts the track I’m wearing into the rug in my study with my aggravated pacing. I grumble something unintelligible even to my own ears and give him a curt, affirmative wave. He nods politely, then closes me inside my cage to brood some more.

  Because of her anxiety in the helicopter, I had arranged for a small private jet to fly us to Sagaponack today instead. Call it an olive branch, if not an overdue apology. It seemed the least I could do to make Melanie feel more comfortable with me, less afraid.

  Not acting like a raving madman and a volatile, drunken prick might have gone a long way toward that effort, too.

  Today I had intended to try on both counts.

  As obvious as it is that she’s not going to give me that chance, some pathetic part of me wants her to know I’m not a complete asshole. Why it feels important to me, I have no damn idea.

  But that’s not entirely true.

  It’s important because in the few times we’ve been together, I’ve glimpsed a goodness in her, something that shines past the pained shadows in her luminous gray-blue eyes. Her goodness shines through in spite of that pain she works so hard to hide.

  The same goodness I set out to corrupt from the instant I first saw her.

  If not for the clumsiness of my failing hands, that corruption would have started right there on the kitchen floor of my beach house. I groan at the memory, and at the fresh jolt of lust it chases through me.

  A better man might regret the kiss I forced on her, along with everything else. I don’t. I can’t. Not when her mouth felt so perfect against mine, her body pliant and willing. She burned so hot when I took her in my arms, I can still feel the singe of her warmth everywhere we touched.

  Jesus Christ. The MacCallan must have really soaked my brain, because even now, three days later, I still have myself nearly convinced she had wanted me every bit as much as I still want her.

  My cock would like nothing better than to believe that, too. Just the thought of kissing Melanie stirs a swift erection and sends fire licking through my veins.

  Fuck.

  On second thought, it’s a damn good thing she didn’t show up this morning. Not only for her, but for me.

  I’ve never been this hungry for a woman before, this consumed with need. I don’t like the feeling one fucking bit.

  I’ve made it a point to always remain in control of every situation. It’s how I’ve survived.

  Detached. Opportunistic.

  Numbed to everything but my own needs and pleasures.

  Staying in control was the only way to navigate the brutal early days after I first arrived in New York. It’s also how I’ve swum the equally shark-infested waters of the city I’ve since made my own through my art and the wealth it’s earned me.

  But all those years of hard lessons and discipline might as well have been built on sand because now, after one taste of Melanie Laurent’s lips, all I’ve thought about since is how I can have another, deeper taste of her.

  I have her phone number, though I’ve resisted calling it. I have her address, too, thanks to the hundred-dollar tip I gave the Hamptons Uber driver who took her home for me.

  I could have Nate call and remind her that she’s legally obligated to fulfill her contract with me. Or I could get in my car and drive out to her little house in Queens to tell her myself. That ought to solidify her contempt for me.

  I’ve given her no reason not to despise me already, so what difference would it make?

  I pace another hard track in the rug, trying to talk myself out of caving to any of my worst urges where she’s concerned. Instead, I decide to make the most of my day’s suddenly cleared schedule and take care of a few business matters that require my attention.

  First on the list is a face-to-face with my old friend, Dominic Baine.

  Forgoing my driver, I head down to the mansion’s underground garage where I have my pick of half a dozen luxury cars. I choose the fastest one, an aggressive black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera that crouches like a sleek predator among its staid, pricier German neighbors. The sports car starts up with a low, animal rumble before I send it screaming out onto the street.

  A few minutes later, I roll up outside a private entrance for the soaring, dark glass tower of the Baine International building on West 57th. A uniformed valet takes my car while a similarly dressed doorman shows me into the modernly elegant lobby.

  The place is bustling with suited corporate types and uptight-looking business executives coming and going from the gleaming elevators at the center of the spacious reception area.

  I’m out of place in my jeans and boots and rolled up shirt sleeves, my hair loose around my shoulders. As I cleave through the center of the place, a few heads turn in my direction, though whether in disapproval of the rough beast prowling among them or in recognition of the artist with an equally crude reputation I can’t be sure. Nor do I care.

  I’m used to being a disruption, a source of contempt as much as cautious curiosity. I’ve made my fortune off disturbing society’s delicate mores and I do it unapologetically, both through my paintings and my various other business pursuits.

  I nod at the pair of security personnel posted inside the lobby.

  I haven’t met the strawberry-blond female officer in the black suit and earpiece behind the desk, but I know the tall, chestnut-haired man standing on the other side of her. With his military posture and precise haircut, Gabriel Noble wears his dark suit like a uniform, unsurprising, considering the combat veteran’s service time overseas.

  “How’s it going, Gabe?”

  “Jared.” He nods back at me as he accepts my outstretched hand in greeting, but there’s an added coolness in his sharp hazel eyes. “Mr. Baine told me he was expecting you.”

  “Mr. Baine?” I grunt at the formality. Both Gabe and Nick, and Gabe’s soon-to-be brother-in-law, Andrew Beckham, Nick’s attorney, have been guests at my Lenox Hill house and my various clubs and private gatherings in the past. Where Dominic Baine is practically a brother to me, I’ve come to consider Gabriel Noble a friend, too. “Everything all right, Gabe?”

  I can tell by the rigid set of his squared jaw that he wants to say something. Hell, based on the flat look in the former soldier’s stare, he may even want to plant his fist in my face.

  “Nick’s waiting for you, Jared,” he says, skirting my question. He glances at his female security associate. “O’Connor, will you call the executive offices and let them know Mr. Rush is here for Mr. Baine?”

  Her nod is as crisp as a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  Gabe gives me another cool stare. “I trust you can find your way upstairs.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Whatever’s got his dick in a snarl will have to wait. I’ve got enough problems of my own to deal with, not the least of which being the reason for my in-person meeting with Dominic Baine.

  I continue through the lobby to the bank of elevators and ride up to the executive floor. Nick’s pretty assistant, Li
ly, meets me with a bright smile as I step out.

  “Good morning, Jared. How nice to see you. It’s been a while.”

  Her friendliness smooths some of my raised hackles. It doesn’t hurt that the brunette knockout is as nice to look at as she is whip-smart and competent. She fills our short walk to Nick’s office with easy small talk, a skill I imagine she’s mastered over the past handful of years that she’s shuttled visitors, colleagues, and adversaries between the gleaming elevators of the executive floor to the immense, windowed office overlooking some of Manhattan’s most expensive skyline.

  Nick is on the phone when we reach the open door, but he motions me inside while he wraps up the call.

  “Thanks, Lily,” I tell her as she discreetly departs to leave me alone with her boss.

  A moment later, Dominic Baine walks around his large desk to shake my hand.

  “I’m glad you called today,” he says, his deep voice matching the sober look in his clear blue eyes. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Yeah, about that. Alyssa Gallo came to my house a few days ago. She told me what happened at the rec center.”

  Nick gives me a grim nod. “Have a seat.”

  I follow him to the conversation area of his office. He gestures for me to take the gray sofa beneath an impressive Jackson Pollock painting in black enamel, while he opts for a leather club chair situated just to the side of me.

  “Before we get into anything else, Jared, I have to tell you that the art program’s been a big success at Chelsea. I can’t thank you enough for sponsoring it.”

  I wave off the praise, even though I know my old friend isn’t the kind of man to give it lightly. “I’m glad to help. I really admire what you’ve done, Nick. Not only with the first community center in Chelsea, but at all the others you’ve built in the time since. You’re making a real difference in a lot of kids’ lives.”

  “So are you.”