Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(35)

CHAPTER EIGHT


SHANE


I tell myself to let Emily go, but the idea of her being battered by the storm has me driving the nearby streets, ensuring she’s not in need of aid. But I don’t find her, and she’s made it clear she doesn’t want my help. The problem is, I can’t seem to shake the idea that she needs it, nor can I dismiss her as a passing f*ck. Shoving the note she’d left into my pocket, I reluctantly accept that for the moment, my search is over, and I drive toward the office. My father’s words when I’m gone run through my mind, and I quickly detour to the highway, heading toward my parents’ house with the full intent of finding out what is going on with both of them.

The next twenty minutes have me stuck in hellish traffic, wishing for a Manhattan subway to cut the time that is money, all the while in my own head, and not my father’s. I don’t need to consider what he’d meant with his accusation of my “weakness.” That was about me hanging onto New York and a career I’d busted my ass to create. But I’m past that now, and my focus is Derek’s weakness: his lack of the morality, which he hates in me, paired with his greed. By the time I navigate the elite Polo Club neighborhood where my parents live and turn into the driveway of their sprawling fourteen-thousand-square-foot tan stucco mansion, I know that somehow, some way, I’m going to have to turn those things around on him.

Pausing at the gate, I’m glad the rain has stopped, allowing me to key in a code. Once it opens, I continue past the brick paved gardens in front of the house, my gut twisting at the sight of the giant birdbath with a lion spraying water. My father is everywhere and the idea that he will soon be nowhere but our memories is unfathomable. Shaking off that idea, I pull to the back of the property, parking outside the five-car garage my father keeps filled with toys he never drives, and kill the engine. Shoving open the door, I’m about to stand when my cell phone rings. A glance at the caller ID confirms it’s Seth, and I hit decline, needing answers to certain questions from my mother before I’m presented with more problems or questions.

Stepping out of the car, I’m almost to the back door when it opens. My mother, who normally sleeps until at least nine, appears in the doorway fully dressed, her raven hair puffed and sprayed, her lips painted red. “I expected I’d see you this morning,” she says, greeting me with a hug, which I return before pulling back to eye her black skirt and matching silk blouse scooped a little too low for my approval.

“I know you didn’t dress like that for me.”

“If you aren’t going to look good, why bother to get dressed?” she asks, motioning me forward. “Coffee’s ready.” She enters the house, calling out, “I figured you’d need it after your all-night company.”

Following her inside, my shoes scraping the limestone tile, I forget her remark, and stop in the doorway, my gaze scanning the giant foyer that is more museum than house. But I don’t see the intricate design on the rounded ceiling, the expensive art on the walls, or the massive winding mahogany stairwell to my left. Memories of my childhood and teen years erupt in my mind, clawing at me in a less than kind way.

“Shane?” my mother calls out.

“Coming,” I reply, shaking myself and pulling the door shut behind me.

Cutting left, I walk directly into an L-shaped kitchen larger than most Manhattan apartments, the centerpiece an island lined with pale wooden drawers and topped with a brown slate counter. My mother pours coffee into two cups. I round the island and take one of them. “Just how you like it,” she says. “Too strong for everyone else.”

“And yet you’re about to drink it.”

She walks to the fridge, opening the door. “With half a bottle of vanilla creamer in it.” She grabs the bottle and carries it to the island and fills her cup, while I step to the other side, directly across from her.

“Why are you up so early?” I ask. “And don’t say for me. We both know I’m worthy of a robe and bad hair.”

“Because you give unconditional love, honey. And you do remember that I do interior design work, right?”

“Not at this time of the day.”

“Some jobs inspire me. And this one is for the mayor, who in case you don’t recall, is highly thought—”

“To be a future presidential contender. You do aspire big, don’t you, Mother?”

She laughs. “You came by it naturally.”

“You’re acting like nothing happened last night.”

“Your father has always had affairs.”

“Always?”

“You find this hard to believe?”

I grimace. “No. No, I suppose I don’t. And you’re fine with it?”

“I’ve had a lot of years to be fine with it, son.”

“Do you have affairs?”

“Yes. I do.” She sets her cup down. “And before you judge me—”

“I’m not. I know who he is and what he is.” I hesitate. “He brought that woman to the Four Seasons.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“I hired her.”

I lean on the counter. “Mother, what the hell did you do?”

“He’s going to have someone in his bed other than me until the day he dies. I want to know if he’s sick—”