Page 3 of Losing Forever
“You’re right.” Uncle Len rubs sweat from his glistening head and speaks to the pavement. “I should be in jail with your dad. I never meant for things to end up this way. Every day, I’m in hell, struggling to survive.”
“Bullshit,” I spit. “You’re a free man, living every day the same as you always have. This hasn’t destroyed your life like it has ours. My family is ruined.” I jab a finger at my chest. “My name is ruined.” Grayson James, the once famous college ballplayer destined to go pro, is now Grayson James, the son of a convicted felon with ties to the mafia.
“My life is hardly the same,” Uncle Len says. “I lost my brother, my connections, and my source of income.”
Realization hits me like a punch to the gut. How did I not see it? “You’re here for the money. You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.”
“I’m here because your dad asked me to be.” Anger sparks in his blue eyes.
“Stop lying,” I snarl. “That’s all you and Dad ever do.”
“I’m not lying. I’m here to help you.”
“Help me do what? Spend the money? Get you out of debt? Take you to Vegas? I’m not my father. You can’t sucker me into your dirty schemes.” I squeeze my fingers into tight fists to keep from taking my anger out on his face. “You shouldn’t have moved here. You should have left Dad alone. He was fine. The pawnshops were doing well. Winter Park was a safe place for us.”
“It’s still a safe place.”
“Then where’s my mom?”
Two days after Dad’s arrest, she disappeared without a word.
“She’s doing what she thinks is right.”
I scoff and wave away his lame-ass excuse. It’s the same thing he told me when I asked about her last month and the month before that.
“Why does she talk to you?” She should hate Len as much as I do.
“I’m helping her manage her finances.”
I snort. “How? By spending what she has left?”
I mean it as a joke, but the more I think about it, the more nervous I become. The Feds took the pawnshops, the vacation house we owned in the Blue Ridge Mountains, ransacked our Winter Park home, and confiscated most of our belongings, but we were able to keep some valuables. I still have my Land Rover, and Mom has her Mercedes SUV, fancy clothes, and a fair amount of her jewelry. She could buy a small island with the diamonds in her rings and necklaces.
“Are you spending her money?” My hands ball into fists again.
“No. But I’m sure she’d be open to a conversation with you about your inheritance.”
My stomach tightens with a sick knot. I hate that I don’t know who I can trust anymore. “If she needs something, tell her to call me. Unlike her, I’ll always answer my phone.”
I stomp away.
Uncle Len is on my tail. “Don’t go yet. I want to buy you a celebratory drink and talk more. Do you even know how much money you have now? You didn’t ask. This is important. You should consider ways to invest it. I know this guy—”
I turn on him, my jaw tight, and raise a finger to his face. “Don’t. Say. Another. Word.”
A second later, I’m walking away again, shaking with anger, and praying I’m not recognized when I exit the alley. With the mood I’m in, I’m bound to lose my cool. That only happened once when a reporter bombarded me outside a bar.
I’d had no luck picking up the ladies that night—no college ball jersey chasers—and I was a bit wasted. My luck changed when I left. A hot chick in a black dress approached me as I stumbled around outside, waiting for my Uber.
I put on the charm and thought for sure she was coming home with me. Then she started asking questions about my dad, the mafia, if I was connected, and if it’s how I got my offer to the MLB.
Had I been sober, I would have figured her out sooner. I’d been harassed by the media before. When I spotted the guy with the camera a few feet away, I smashed the equipment and busted his nose. Even inebriated, I’m still a great hitter. Spent the night in jail over it, too. Smiled the whole way to the police station and didn’t stop until I passed out in my cell.
Uncle Len catches up to me, a V-shaped sweat stain down the front of his shirt. “You can’t leave like this. We haven’t figured anything out.”
“On the contrary, I’ve figured out you’re sweaty as hell and look like you’re about to have a heat stroke. Go home and take a shower.”
“Where are you going?”
