A Dirty Business (Kings of New York #1)(117)

I cut him off. “Let’s meet tomorrow. Before everything happens.”

His tone changed, growing more distant. “Of course. I’ll let you—”

“Ashton.”

“What?”

“You have to make it right with her first.”

“I know.”



JESS

I chose painting.

Or, I don’t know. A part of me might’ve just been choosing not that old life anymore. No more law. No more being a parole officer, but that meant no more being Val’s partner. In the end, it was a better choice for her too. I’d lessened the target on her back, and there was one because she’d stood by me. She would remain doing that.

Though, and there was a big “though,” the other side of me choosing painting was that it gave me different freedoms. Different options. I chose my time. I chose my paintings. No more orders. There was nothing dangerous about what type of paint color I picked. I suppose I’d miss the adrenaline, the camaraderie, and the action. I’d miss helping the parolees that wanted help. But my art, this was me. All me. A new me.

I’d just started. I had a whole future ahead of me, and this time, it actually looked bright.

I could see the hope, the light.

Painting had been an escape for my mind, from my job, but now, I was choosing a different path.

I resigned my position, and it was a full month later with no more drama. That, possibly, was the best part of my choice. More and more of my paintings were selling. I’d like to see that as a sign from the universe, but I didn’t. The jaded part of me would always be in me. I’d seen too much shit in my life, but it still felt nice.

The other nice things happening in my life? My mom.

Chelsea Montell was doing good, and sober, and she leaned into her therapy versus going back the other way. Currently, she was all aflutter because Trace was coming over tonight. I didn’t know the reason for the nerves. He’d been over for dinner on multiple occasions by now, but I was in the basement working. She’d insisted on cooking dinner tonight.

It smelled delicious, whatever she was making.

I heard the doorbell ring.

My mom’s footsteps crossed the house, and I had to laugh a little because Trace had a key for the house. He used it often when he slipped inside and came to my room. I brought up the idea of selling because of Bear, but my mom wouldn’t have it. Instead, she was sleeping in my room while we were renovating the master bedroom. New carpet. New everything. A new closet was being put in.

We’d turned the back office into our new bedroom as well. Mine and Trace’s. We used it when we stayed here. The relationship with my mother was still in a delicate balance, so we stayed here a couple nights a week, for times when I wanted to spend the evenings with my mom or if I wanted to paint late into the night. All the other time was at Trace’s downtown place.

A whole host of other renovations was also happening on the house. My first paintings were paying for some of it. The other part was a gift from Trace, but it felt nice. The house was being taken care of, and this way my mom had a choice. She could sell, because in my mind, she was still the owner. Or I’d sell, if that’s what she insisted. It was a nice conversation to have. We had options. Both of us and she wasn’t hating me. I mean, I knew there were people out there who believed in working through family trauma, et cetera, whether it was done to us or done between us, but that wasn’t who we were.

We kept trucking forward, and if apologies were made and felt along the way, then even better. We were those kind of people, but something was going on.

I could hear my mom’s voice, and it went up a whole octave. She’d been like this all day today.

I don’t know what was happening, but I assumed it had something to do with Trace since she was also so insistent on cooking a whole feast for tonight. And she’d told me to dress nice too.

What was that about?

But she was happy. I was happy. Trace was happy with me, and he would get there with the rest, with whatever he decided, because I didn’t think he’d fully decided. He said after tonight, he’d have closure, and he could decide if he’d take Ashton up on his offer.

My mom was pacing, her footsteps going all around the kitchen.

I could hear Trace’s voice; he was more calm.

He wasn’t coming down, so I went back to my painting.



Chelsea made pasta, rolls, every dish of vegetables there was. Mashed potatoes. Yams. She was trying the vegetarian route, so we had a lot of meat that wasn’t meat, but it still tasted like meat, so I didn’t care.

My mom carried the conversation that night. She was talking a mile a minute, her eyes darting to Trace every thirty seconds.

After twenty minutes, I’d had enough. “Okay.” I scooted my chair back. “What’s going on?”

Trace went still.

My mom gasped and started chewing on her bottom lip.

I narrowed my eyes, looking between the two. “Something is obviously going on. You asked me to dress nice. You’re wearing a dress. Trace, well, you look the same since you always look good.” And he did. A Henley and jeans, and his hair was messed up in a seriously hot way that was speaking to my vagina.

“Well.” Trace stood up, his hand going into his pocket.

My mom gasped.

I frowned, but then my phone started ringing.