Page 31 of Hold You Close
In the spirit of cooperation, which I’m trying to have, I give it some thought. “Mondays.” The club was closed that night anyway.
She waits for me to go on. “And?”
“That’s it. Mondays. Every other night is busy.”
“Come on, Ian. Surely someone else can pour shots and gawk at fake tits at least one other night during the week.”
“Fuck you, London.” And fuck the spirit of cooperation. “Is that what you think I do?”
She shrugs.
“Running a club is hard work, and I have a hand in every facet of the operation—the finances, the licenses, the hiring and firing, stocking the bar, keeping the lights on, booking music, managing crowds. I have to deal with investors, the government, the health and fire department, the police, fucking temperamental DJs, and drunk-ass customers harassing my staff and each other. I don’t just sit around on my ass and doodle numbers all day.” I’m sick and tired of people thinking my job isn’t work.
London slams the pen down on the table, her face flaming with anger. “Screw you. I work my ass off every single day, ten times harder than any man would have to in my position.”
“Which is what again?” I know exactly what she does, I just want to piss her off. “Aren’t you some kind of accountant?”
“I’m a revenue analyst." If looks could kill. “In a forty-billion-dollar industry.”
“Oh. Well, good for you. But that sounds like a nice nine-to-five job that doesn’t require you to be on site until four in the morning. Now, I can maybe swing Mondays and Wednesdays. But I need you the other nights. Your cat will just have to get along without you.”
I’m ready for the explosion, but she doesn’t blow up at me. Instead she sits back in her chair, closes her eyes, and takes a breath. “Ian. We have to stop this.”
She’s right, which only adds to the list of things about her irritating me right now. I shift in my chair. “Fine.”
“You’re going to have to hire a manager. Even if I have the kids those other nights.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” But in my gut, I know she’s likely right about that as well. I won’t be able to work the hours I have been and give the kids what they need. It has to be my idea, though, not her bossing me into it.
“Fine.” She pushes back from the table and stands up. “I’m exhausted, and I have to work tomorrow. I’m going home. I’ll drop the schedule in your mailbox in the morning.”
I can’t resist. “I’ll be sure to memorize it. Will there be a quiz on Friday?”
Shaking her head, she walks toward the sliding door. “I’ll be here by six tomorrow night. Good night, Ian.”
“London, wait.”
She pauses halfway there but doesn’t turn to look at me.
“Look. I’m exhausted too, and sad, and worried about the kids, and overwhelmed at the thought of being a parent, and frankly just as surprised as you are that Sabrina chose me.”
That makes her turn and face me. “You are? That’s not what you said—”
“I know what I said.” We keep looking at each other, the attraction between us simmering just beneath the antagonism, like it always has. “But she must have had her reasons, and I want to live up to them. It’s just going to take me some time. Can I count on your help?”
“Of course you can. It’s what she would have wanted me to do.”
I get the message loud and clear.I’m doing this for her, not for you.And maybe I deserve it after the way I’ve treated her over the years, but dammit, she didn’t leave me any choice. If I couldn’t have her, I had to hate her. It was the only way I could get over her.
But as I sit here and watch her leave my house, I know that deep down, I never did.
The next morning,I’m awakened by the sound of high-pitched voices and clanking dishes. The master suite is on the first floor, just down the hall from the kitchen, and I left my bedroom door open last night just in case one of the kids woke up and called for me. This seemed very big of me at the time, but now I regret it.
I roll over and check the clock. Not even six-thirty. Fucking hell.
My room is still completely dark because of the blackout shades, but unless I get up and shut the door, the noise is going to keep me awake. I shove my head under the pillow and try to block it out, but a few seconds later I hear something shatter on the tile floor, followed by the sound of someone bursting into tears.
I jump out of bed and race down the hall to the kitchen, where Ruby, still in her nightgown, is standing over the remains of a glass, and Morgan is sitting at the counter eating a slice of cold pizza. She’s also drinking a can of Coke.
