Page 9 of Hold You Close
She gives me the look that makes even grown men shit themselves when they see it. The eyes that demand you listen. “The lawyer stated that you, London, living parents, and the children were to be at the reading of the will.”
Even in death, Sabrina is in charge.
I open my mouth to refuse. I have a business to run and Drea is really not as capable as I’d like her to be. We’ve only been open four months, and I can’t screw this up.
“Please, Uncle Ian,” Chris pleads.
Well, shit. I can’t say no now. This is my first godson. The one I hoped to corrupt and teach to drive his mother to drink. He's supposed to become my protégé, and I can’t let him down.
“All right, I’ll be there.” I clasp his shoulder and walk to the car.
“Thanks.”
London walks over with huge black sunglasses on her face, but they don’t disguise her grief. She has had no problem shedding tears. I’ve never seen her cry as much as I have in the last five days. I had to lock myself down to keep from trying to comfort her with each sob she released. She’s made it clear, however, that I’m not the person she seeks out when she’s in pain.
I’ve managed to keep it together for now. Mostly because my father always taught me that when the women are struggling, they need the men to carry the weight. So he’s helping Mom, and I’ve got the kids.
He and I share a look as my mother starts crying again. I hear him in my head.“Men are fixers, Son. Men are strength. Men don’t let anyone see vulnerability. When someone hurts your mother or sister, you’ll fight. If someone you love is in pain, you fight, got it?”
Those words were drilled into me, and every part of me wants to fight, but there’s no one to battle. I wish there was.
“Can I ride with you? I don’t have my car,” London explains.
Under normal circumstances, London would never ask to go anywhere with me. And if she did, I would throw out some smartass remark or give her crap about it, but since we lost Sabrina, neither of us has taken a single jab at the other. Part of me wants to pick a fight with her just to have something be the way it was before.
But I can’t do that.
“Fine.” I start walking toward my car, and she falls in step beside me, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair is twisted up in that strict-librarian style she always wears. She should wear it down more often.
“Have you seen the will?” she asks.
“No.”
“What do you think will happen with the kids?”
I shrug, irritated that she brought up the one subject I’m trying to avoid thinking about. “My parents will probably get them.”
“Will they take them back to Florida?”
“How should I know?” My tone is a little too sharp, and I feel like an asshole for being rude to her today. She and I have our issues, which are not entirely my fault, as she would like to believe, but she loves those kids—she’s their godmother. They call her “Aunt London,” and she was there the day each one of them was born.
She looks over at me. “It was just a question, Ian. I thought maybe your sister had talked to you about it.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“Maybe if you spent a little less time partying at the club and more time with your family, she would have.”
There’s the London I know. Maybe she wants a fight too.Happy to oblige, sweetheart.
“It’s my fucking job, London. I’m working, not partying.” We reach the car and I unlock it with the fob in my pocket before opening the passenger door for her.
She pauses, looks at my hand on the door and then up at me. “Only you could be a dick and a gentleman at the same time.”
“It’s a gift,” I tell her. “Now get in. I’ve got things to do today.”
With a roll of her eyes, she gets into my car and I shut the door after her. As I walk around to the driver’s side, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. It’s warm for April, almost ninety today, and I wish more than anything I could spend the afternoon at the pool in my backyard, a cold beer in my hand and a sexy blonde in the chair next to me. Maybe two blondes. One on either side.
I wish I could blow off work and drink all day and play loud music and mess around with the blondes in full view of London, and she’d call me to complain I was being completely obnoxious, but I’d ignore her, so she’d call my sister and bitch about my disgusting behavior and my complete disregard for my neighbors’ Sunday peace and quiet. My sister would text me to please quit being a jerk and consider other people’s feelings, by which she’d mean London’s feelings, and I’d say it wasn’t my fault London was a crusty old maid with only her cat for company, and maybe if she wasn’t such a bitter, puritanical goody-goody, she’d come over and join the fun instead of stewing about it from her deck and tattling on me.
