Hard Rules (Dirty Money #1)(73)

“I’m sorry, Shane.” Her hand comes down on my arm, the touch cooling the burning emotion in my chest. “I know this sucks.”

“Cancer is a monster.” A jab of bitterness roughens my voice. “That it’s found another monster is rather ironic.”

“Shane—”

The door opens, giving me an escape from a moment when my emotions might get the best of me, and that would be unacceptable. Emily and I step into the lobby. “The car’s waiting on us,” I say, having ordered it brought around when I ordered the coffee. Her reply is to lace her arm with mine, the silent message of support exactly what I needed, even though I didn’t know it.

We exit to the front of the hotel, and a doorman holds the door to the Bentley for Emily, while Tai waves to her and stops in front of me, lowering his voice. “Your father was here last night and when he left, he was coughing. One of my men said he saw blood on a napkin.”

This news grinds through me and I reach into my pocket to offer him a tip. He holds up a hand. “No. Not this time.”

I give him a nod, his actions offering me one more reason to respect him. I round the car and settle inside with Emily, shutting the door and resting my wrist on the steering wheel. “He was here last night with that woman.”

“The night before chemo?” she asks, nailing exactly what is bothering me.

“Yes. The night before chemo.” I place the car in drive.

“Oh my God. He’s such a bastard.”

“That’s my old man.” I cut the car onto the road, and I don’t ask Emily’s address and she doesn’t offer, assuming I know it, and I do.

It’s about three minutes later when I pull into the driveway of her apartment, an old warehouse converted to lofts, and park, turning to face her. “If you have any trouble today—”

“I’ll call you,” she supplies. “You’ve told me that many times. You take care of you and the business. I’ll take care of me.”

Take care of me. When was the last time anyone gave a shit about me? “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I have meetings off site. I’m not sure when I’ll be in, but call or text if you need me.”

“I will.”

“And I’ll either meet you in the garage to pick you up or send a car for you.”

“Okay.” She hesitates as if she wants to say something, but seems to change her mind. “I should go, so you can get to the hospital.”

I give a nod and she turns to the door but I grab her arm. She faces me and I don’t have to pull her to me. Suddenly she’s in my arms, and I’m not sure if it’s me kissing her or her kissing me. My hands tangle in her hair, hers tunnel into mine, and the taste of desperateness and fear in her kiss, has me tearing my mouth from hers. Before I can speak, she says, “You call me if you need me.” And then she turns and gets out of the car, shutting the door and leaving me alone.

I watch her walk to her door and disappear, and only then do I look away, her words replaying in my head. You call me if you need me. I haven’t needed anyone, not for a long damn time, and yet … I put the Bentley in gear, and murmur, “What the hell are you doing to me, woman?”




Reaching the hospital, I’m unsurprised to find my father is in the private section that costs a hefty fee and ensures his room will be more of a luxury suite than the cold discomfort of a standard hospital room. I pass through security and head toward the corner of the west wing where I’m told he’s registered. I’m almost to the door when my mother steps out of the room, dressed to kill in a tan pantsuit that screams fashion show, not cancer treatment. “I wondered if you were going to show up,” she says, motioning behind me. “He wants coffee. Walk with me.”

My brow furrows. “Coffee? They let him have coffee?”

“He’s dying, Shane. We’re prolonging it, not curing him, and do you really think they could stop him if he has his mind set on something?”

“‘Prolonging,’” I repeat. “You say that like you’re reciting the weather.”

“What am I supposed to do? Sit here and weep?”

“Yes. You are. He’s your husband.”

“And how do you think he’d react to me weeping? He’d crush me.”

“Then why are you still with him?” I grind out, my voice low, taut.

She glances at the ceiling, as if she’s grappling with emotions, which at least shows that she cares about something, though I question what that might be at this point. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself that same question, over and over?” she hisses softly, fixing me with a bloodshot stare that suggests she’s fighting tears.

“And how do you answer, Mom?”

“I can’t leave him. Especially not now.”

“Because you care?” I ask in disbelief. “Because he was with that woman at the Four Seasons this morning and you put him with her. That doesn’t sound like caring to me.”

“Do you really think me putting her with him means I want him to choose her?”

I arch a brow. “Doesn’t it?”

She folds her arms in front of her. “Pretending he won’t choose someone else doesn’t make it true.”