Page 102 of Bidding War

I blink, thinking I said something about Mitch out loud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you think they’ve been cheating on their taxes? I know what the report says, but I want to hear it from you. Andre says you have killer instincts.”

Well, that’s nice to hear, and it pulls me from my spiral down Memory Lane. “I can almost guarantee they’re cheating, however, getting proof may include a trip overseas, if Andre’s computer consultants cannot obtain the information digitally.” A classier way of saying, “If his hackers can’t get it, someone gets on a plane to prove tax evasion.” And I really hope it won’t be me. It is one thing to look over documents Andre had mysteriously obtained. It is another to get on a plane and likely do illegal things overseas.

Then, I’d be no better than my father. Another criminal in the family.

At least my stepfather was not a complete criminal, but he wasn't much of a step over my father. The guy was a total asshole. I don't think he was ready to become a stepfather when he married my mother. Or maybe he just didn't understand what that meant. Not that it mattered to me. I was a child. All I knew was this new man was mean to me. And he was smart enough to hide it from Mom.

I love my mother deeply. But when a man turns on some charm, she is an absolute sucker for it. When he told her that he didn't do anything wrong, she ate it up. In her mind, I was the problem. That is until I made sure that she heard him calling me names. That was a bad day. But it was the start of their divorce, and so I am glad that happened.

My relationship to parents in general is complicated. That's why I try to avoid ever thinking about it. Because even though I am an attorney standing in a boardroom and I am presenting these findings to a group of partners who are probably multi-millionaires many times over, my head is stuck in the past, and I feel like I'm that little girl again who is torn up by the adults in the room. These men don't even know me, and I feel like they're getting ready to pick me apart. I can hardly breathe.

Being an adult comes with certain responsibilities. I know now that I am not responsible for the shitty actions of my parents back then. But back then, I thought that I was, and it is hard to let go. But that is one of my responsibilities—to let this go for the sake of my mental health. Maybe one day, I'll sit down with a therapist and really dive into it. That is not today. Today, I have to get this done.

“… In closing, I think that's the way we have to go about this. It won't be pretty. There will be a lot of hurt feelings in the country clubs. But it will get you what you're looking for.”

Andre smiles up at me. “You provided everything I asked for and more. Thank you for your work, June. Truly, I cannot thank you enough. This is everything I wanted.”

“I am happy to help, Andre.”

“Well, everyone, that's lunch.”

With that, the meeting breaks up. I gather my things and head for my office to drop off my laptop before heading home for lunch. A heady feeling of completion hits. I did the scary thing today, and now, I can breathe again.

I grab my coat and bag and take the elevator downstairs, eager for another home-cooked meal before Anderson ends up back in his office, too. It is inevitable that he will end up going back to the office one day. But it feels soon. He could be home for a year, and I think it would still feel soon. I just like having him there. He's safe in his apartment. His dad won't get him killed in his apartment.

Probably.

The elevator takes too long, as always. Anytime I'm anxious to get home, it goes slower, I swear. As soon as the elevator door is open, I'm off like a rocket.

“Junebug!”

My spine locks at that voice. Everything else in me goes rigid a second later. Everything, that is, except for my stomach. My stomach has decided to become an acrobat. I turn around slowly, hoping and praying that I am wrong.

But I'm not. He's standing right there. My father.

I want to run. Or punch him in the face. I'm really torn about which one I wanna do. But if he's around long enough, I might get to vomit on him. Who am I kidding? When has this man ever stuck around long enough for anything?

“Mitch. What are you doing here?”

He winces at me, saying his first name. But he hasn't earned “Dad” from me in nearly twenty years. “You don't have to be like that. I told you I wanted to come see you. So, surprise. Here I am.”

In recent memory, I have been kidnapped, my apartment was broken into, I was nearly raped, and my boyfriend was shot. This surprise is in the top five of the worst surprises in my recent life. I’m just not sure what order they belong in.

54

JUNE

“Um, yep. Here you are.”

Mitch smiles handsomely, arms out. “Well, get in here for a hug. We don’t have all day. Not if I'm gonna take you out to lunch at Riccardo's.”

Since when does he have Riccardo's money? That place has a two-week waitlist. But I go ahead and hug him. We are in the lobby of my office. If any of my coworkers see this, I need this to look as normal as can be. I can pretend to be normal while he's pretending to be normal.

In all fairness to Mitch, he looks good. He's in a sharp designer suit. His hair is well-coiffed. He's even freshly shaved. A far cry from the man that I saw in prison all those years ago.

Prison jumpsuit gray looks bad on everybody. But it looked especially bad on my father. We are too pale to pull off that color. Back then, he had really let himself go. Understandably. His hair was a mess. His beard was scraggly. He was gaunt. The thing that stood out the most was that he looked so tired, as if breathing was too much work for him.

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