The Lion's Den(110)

“My mom grew up poor in Paris. John swept her off her feet, knocked her up with me, moved her to New York. Then, when she was six months’ pregnant, she found out he was married.”

“To Dylan’s mom?”

He nodded. “My mom couldn’t work in the US without the green card he never delivered, and he wouldn’t let her leave the country with me, so she was completely dependent on him. He liked it that way. She lived in one of his apartments; he gave her just enough money to scrape by. He controlled her and abused her, mentally and physically. She had to be a certain weight; she wasn’t allowed to see other men. She became depressed. She drank, started popping pills. When I was eleven, I came home from school one day to find her in the bathtub with her wrists slit.”

My hand went to my heart. “God, Eric, I’m so sorry.”

“It was his fault. He made her miserable.”

No wonder he hated his father so much. “Where did you live after that?” I asked.

“John sent me to live with his mother in France,” he said. “Ironic because all my mother had ever wanted was to return to France. He was never around, but my grandmother was wonderful, and Dylan would come visit during the summer. Dyl hated John almost as much as I did.”

“Does he hate him still?”

“I guess not,” Eric said. “For enough money, anyone can be bought.”

“Not you, apparently.”

“Not by his money. Because it comes with strings. He’s a puppeteer, and I don’t want to be his puppet.” He drained his drink and leaned his forearms on the railing, his head hanging between them. “I would like to take it away from him, though,” he muttered.

“Is your grandmother still alive? Could she help you?”

He nodded. “She’s in her nineties, still sharp. She owns a lot of stock in the company, but she hasn’t been involved for years. She knows John’s not the most honest businessman, but she doesn’t know the extent of it, and I haven’t told her because there was nothing she could do. I was planning to share what John was guilty of once I had the evidence in hand, but I never got the chance.”

“And now?”

“I’d never risk putting her in danger.” He rubbed his temples, clearly spent.

“You’re exhausted,” I said. “And I’m not helping, asking you so many questions. You should get some sleep. Take the bed. You’re in far worse shape than I am.”

He looked up, mischief in his eyes. “You can sleep in it, too. I don’t bite—unless asked.”

The heat in my chest flared; my resolution wavered. I looked out at the crashing waves, knowing that all I had to do was turn my face toward him…and this time we wouldn’t have to stop. But it had been a long twenty-four hours, we were in an extreme situation, and neither of us was thinking clearly right now. So as much as I wanted him, I gathered my resolve and laughed it off, never meeting his eye. “Thanks, but I’ve got enough hand-me-downs from Summer.”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t need any more from my brother, either,” he returned with a smile.

“Touché,” I said.



In the morning, we drove thirty minutes north to the doctor George had recommended. I’d assumed, because we were paying cash for off-the-books treatment in Tijuana, that his office would be as sketchy as the transaction, but it wasn’t. Far from it. The lobby boasted polished tile floors and marble counters topped with fresh flowers, the leather couches were comfortable, and racks displayed every tabloid under the sun, in both Spanish and English.

After a torturous two hours of failing to distract myself with magazines, finally the office door opened and I looked up to see a smiling Eric. His arm was in a sling and he was sporting fresh bandages. “Broken collarbone, three ribs, stress fracture in my thumb, and a sprained ankle.” He beamed. “And they dressed all the cuts. The arm was a little infected, but they cleaned it out and gave me antibiotics.”

“The nose?”

“Broken, but will probably heal fine, so they don’t need to rebreak it. And my cheekbone is broken, but it’s sitting in place, so as long as I don’t cage-fight for a while, I’ll be okay.”

I must have looked at him funny, because he clarified. “I don’t cage-fight. That was a joke. Doctor was shocked I was in such good shape, given the fall. Wanna grab a margarita and lunch?”

“How’s the pain?”

“Not great, but better than it was. He gave me a prescription for painkillers, but I don’t want them. I’m my mother’s son—I like them too much. I’d rather hit the tequila.”

We ordered lunch from a taco truck and carried it back to the house, where we sat at the table on the terrace in the shade of a big umbrella. Eric mixed margaritas for us while whistling “Margaritaville,” buoyant with the knowledge that he had no internal bleeding, no badly infected wounds, and fewer than expected broken bones.

Gazing out at the ocean, I could almost forget the circumstances of our bizarre little vacation. But I was going to have to go home and face the music tomorrow, and he wasn’t going to be able to live off a hundred thousand dollars for the rest of his life. Not even in Mexico.

He raised his glass. “To heaven.”

“More like purgatory,” I returned. “It can’t last forever.”