Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense)(26)

“I’m sorry I never called you, I just…”

“Sat in your room for ten years,” Jack sighs.

I nod. “The wedding was the first time I left the house in six months.”

“Wedding?” Uncle Rod says.

“Jessica married my father,” Jack says.

I nod.

“What? Nobody told me about any wedding, but I suppose they wouldn’t,” his voice takes a bitter twist, “I’m not her family. The gall of that woman. Well, he’ll learn his lesson. Your family has money, boy?”

Jack nods.

“There’s her interest in your father, same as my brother. She only cares about herself.”

“She’s been very supportive,” I say, though there’s no conviction in my voice. “She could have left if she wanted. She’s not even related to me.”

“Yeah, she could have left any time she wanted, and the money would stay with you. You were the heir, not her. Your father wrote his will to take care of you after your mother died, and so far as I know he never changed it. I never liked her anyway. I swear it wasn’t long before he died that he was telling me on the phone he’d been arguing with her. Something to do with you.”

“Me?” I squeak.

“Yes, some plan or other she had for you. She wanted you to be a singer or some foolishness. Like Britney Spears. Does she still sing?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack says, before taking another bite of cheese. He swallows. “Do you remember what he said about Jessica?”

“They argued, mostly about this training she had Ellie doing, and some kind of a diet.”

“I was on a diet, and she hired me a personal trainer.”

“Well, Keith told me on the phone that your mother said something to him about getting you a boob job.”

I snap back, blinking. “What?”

Jack grabs my hand. “It’s okay, they’re big enough.”

I give him an annoyed look and shake my hand loose. “That’s crazy, I just turned sixteen.”

“You can get a boob job at sixteen,” Jack says.

We both stare at him.

“What? I know things. I went to college.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“I knew a girl that had them that young. I mean knew as an acquaintance. Not like you know, biblically. Why are you looking at me like that, Ellie?”

Uncle Rod starts laughing softly to himself.

He stands up. “Enough about the past. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Right now you two need your rest. Where are you headed, anyway?”

“Arizona,” Jack says without skipping a beat.

I shrug and nod.

“Why?”

“I need to see my mom. It’s been a long time.”

My uncle nods. “Alright, you’ll be on the couch, it folds out. Ellie, there’s a guest bedroom upstairs. You’ll find some clothes in the dressers; they were your dad’s, but they’ll fit you if you don’t mind them running a little baggy.”

“Is that really necessary?” Jack asks.

“You’re not going to fornicate with my niece under my roof.”

“You’re right,” I say, rising. “He’s not. Where’s that bedroom?”

“Right up the stairs. You’ll see it. Jack, is it? Join me in the kitchen for a bit.”





Jack





I stand up from the couch and stall a bit, watching Ellie go up the stairs. The light clicks on in the guest bedroom and she closes the door. I follow her uncle into the kitchen.

“So. Ellie’s uncle.”

“Rodney. Call me Rod.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He sets the tray of cold cuts on the counter and hands me another beer. This place looks like something out of a bad summer camp horror movie from the outside, but it’s all swank inside with cedar everything and granite everything else. It’s a chef’s kitchen, for sure. Copper cookware. This guy is serious about cooking.

He’s also serious about eating. I can tell by the looking at him that he can handle himself, though. He’s one of those guys who’s all muscle under a sheath of fat, with big, gnarly ham hands and a strangely graceful bearing. I keep that in mind as he glances at the knife block on the counter.

“So you’re the Jack. My brother mentioned you all those years ago. Said he figured on the two of you getting married. High-school sweethearts.”

I look away and try to say something.

“Don’t fill the air,” he says, handing me another beer. “I’m not stupid. I never had anything last, myself, but I know what it looks like. Feels like, too. Drink.”

I take a swig of his home brew, which is not bad, but then he’s pouring clear liquor from a decanter into a glass. He slides it over.

“Tell me you don’t have a still.”

“You look like too much of a fancy boy for white lightning. It’s just vodka. Now drink it.”

I tip the glass back—this is less a double and more a triple. It goes down smooth enough, but he’s poured another.

“Chase it with the beer.”

I take a swig. We repeat this process another couple of times, until the world is tilty. He sets my glass in the sink.