Until You Loved Me (Silver Springs #3)(22)
“Maybe so. But we’re talking about someone who left me to die under a hedge. What do you expect that type of person will want? Help paying the bills? A new car? Or connecting on a meaningful level?”
“Listen, I’m the last guy who’d ever want to see you get hurt.”
Hudson grimaced. “I’m not saying I could get hurt, exactly.”
“Oh, cut the macho bullshit,” Bruiser said, waving him off. “It’s me you’re talking to. What you’re after could be devastating, and I know it. That’s what you’re afraid of. Well, it’s my job to protect you, and that doesn’t disappear once we’re off the field. You’re like a brother to me. But you need to know what this PI might be able to tell you. You’ve needed to know for a long time—maybe always—to answer all the questions in your mind and put your issues to rest.”
Hudson challenged him with a pointed glance. “My issues?”
Unrepentant, Bruiser grinned. “Yeah. You’ve got more than a few.”
“That makes me feel better. Thanks.”
At the unmistakable sarcasm, Bruiser lifted his beer. “You can always count on me to be honest.”
“Now might be a good time to tell you I could’ve kicked your ass at billiards in at least three of those games. A guy doesn’t own a table without being able to play.”
Cursing and laughing at the same time, Bruiser shook his head. “I knew it. Least I didn’t fall for your act.”
Hudson tipped his drink in his friend’s direction. “No, you didn’t.”
“Asshole.”
“Back to the private detective,” Hudson said. “Think of the media circus if he does find my mother and word leaks out. How will I cope with that, in addition to everything else? The media’s already all up in my business. They bring my background into every damn article. I saw one recently with my photo and the caption, ‘The star quarterback who might never have been, if not for the pizza delivery boy who heard him crying.’” He stared down at the bottle he held. “Hell, I’ve had people coming out of the woodwork for years, claiming to be my long-lost relatives. I believed a few of them, too, but they never checked out. If I keep on pushing for answers, I’ll be asking for more of the same.”
“So? You’re a celebrity, dude. You’re going to deal with that. You need to know what happened that day.”
Hudson used his left hand to comb some of the tangles out of his hair, which wasn’t easy because of the chlorine. “Why do I need to know? That’s what I keep asking myself. Why can’t I leave it alone?”
“Curiosity? Closure? Only natural you’d want answers. Even if you fire this guy, I predict you’ll hire him again—or someone else.”
Whoever had left Hudson on the day of his birth obviously didn’t want him. But somewhere, deep down, he was hoping there’d been a mistake. That he hadn’t been thrown away as casually as it seemed. That his mother, and maybe his father, had been searching for him his whole life and somehow missed the media coverage of his background. That he had grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and maybe even siblings out there somewhere who hadn’t been involved in the decision.
Question was, why had it happened? It must’ve been intentional. How could anyone leave a baby to die by mistake?
Because Hudson couldn’t answer that, he was tempted to call off the investigator. The only thing that made him hope there might be more to the story, something to pursue, was the area in which he’d been found. Bel Air wasn’t known for drugs or crime or abandoned babies. Part of the Platinum Triangle that included Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills, where the infamous Playboy mansion had recently sold for $100 million, it was a residential area that contained some of the most luxurious homes in Southern California. With large green privacy hedges surrounding most of the estates, only three roads leading in, and no sidewalks, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Had some spoiled rich girl gotten pregnant, hidden the fact from her parents, delivered in the bathroom and left the baby in that hedge for the gardeners or someone else to find in the morning?
That was the most likely explanation. But if so, whoever the girl was, she couldn’t be related to any of the people living in the houses closest to where he’d been discovered, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Thirty-two years ago, the mansion behind the hedge belonged to an eighty-year-old couple with one adult child who had a family but lived and worked in China. A lesbian couple owned the next closest house. They had a teenage son, but he managed to convince the police that he didn’t know about any pregnant girl or newborn baby. The property across the street, kitty-corner, belonged to a divorced director who hadn’t even been home at the time. His place had been closed up while he was on location, filming a movie in Alaska.
Hudson had a copy of the police file. He’d requested it soon after he entered the NFL. No one in the neighborhood had been able to offer a single clue as to who might’ve abandoned a baby at Hudson and King. That was why he’d been taken to Maryvale, Los Angeles’s oldest children’s charity, and farmed out to a foster home, his first of many—until he’d eventually been sent to New Horizons Boys Ranch. That was where he’d spent the final three years of his adolescence, before he was recruited to play for UCLA and started his football career.