Desperately Seeking Epic(12)

“Paul,” Clara says my name, her voice faint. Jerking my gaze to hers, she swallows and her eyes go wide. She can see how angry I am.

“Is it true?”

She drops her head, frowning a little. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, and she hunches them ever so lightly. She doesn’t speak, just nods yes.

I stand and grab fistfuls of my hair as I pace back and forth. “So she’s what? Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” Clara answers, her voice raspy. She still hasn’t looked up.

I laugh with disdain. “Aw, f*cking perfect, Clara. You hate me that much you’d hide our kid from me?”

Whipping her head up, she glares at me. “I tried contacting you for months after she was born. You didn’t respond to one email.”

“I don’t check that shit. You know that.”

“How else was I supposed to reach you? You didn’t even get a cell phone until two years ago, and the only way I found out about that is because Richard told me.”

“Well, cutting my money off worked. Why didn’t you do that sooner?”

“Because I didn’t think about it until now. And before she wasn’t . . .” She pauses as if choking on her next word.

“She wasn’t what, Clara?” I snap, sick of her theatrics.

“She wasn’t dying,” she growls at me through clenched teeth.

I stumble back a bit. Dying? This day has been a mind-f*ck of emotions. First seeing Clara, which initially brought on the old feelings of want and lust, and oddly wanting to strangle her. Then hearing I have a kid I didn’t know about. I’m still trying to digest that one. Now my kid is dying? That’s a lot, even for a f*ck-up like me.

“Of what?” I manage.

“Leukemia,” Clara answers softly.

“What about chemo or—”

“She’s been through two rounds.” Clara cuts me off. “She needs a bone marrow transplant. Even with it, her odds are poor, but it’s her last hope.”

“Or what?” I ask stupidly.

Clara closes her eyes and inhales deeply, making me hold my breath. “Or she dies. A few months ago they said six months to a year. That’s when I cut your money off. There’s a very small chance you could be a match, and if you are . . . Paul . . .”

“Don’t even say it.” I hold my hand up, stopping her, and her face falls, transforming into despair. Did she think I’d say no? That I’m that big of a bastard? “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

She swallows hard, her chest convulsing as she tries to keep her emotion at bay. “Thank you.”

“I want to meet her, Clara,” I say.

Inhaling a deep breath, Clara nods a few times. “Yeah, okay. Dinner? Tonight at my house?”

“Yeah, sure,” I agree. “You still living in that shithole?” I jest, trying to lighten things a tad.

She snorts. “You mean my home with character?” she jokes back. “Why yes . . . yes I am.”

I chuckle a little. “Should I bring anything?”

“Paul . . .” she replies, her tone serious. “She’s a little girl. Don’t . . . hurt her. Don’t make her fall in love with you if you know you’re just going to take off again.”

I don’t know what to say. A part of me wants to yell at her and tell her to stop busting my balls and acting like I’m some kind of *. Another part of me knows I kind of am an *. But not completely. I’m not a complete * by any means. Okay, maybe half of one. So I reply lamely with a simple, “Okay.”

“Seven.”

“See ya then.”





Opening the oven, smoke wafts out, hitting me in the face, burning my eyes and making me choke. “Shit,” I grumble as I close the oven door and turn it off. The smoke detector goes off, shrieking, and I quickly grab the broom and bang it until it crashes to the ground, spitting the battery out, which disappears under the fridge.

“Out of all nights, you pick this one to cook,” Marcus murmurs before sipping his wine as he sits at my kitchen table. Leaving the smoke detector where it dropped on the floor, I ignore him and turn back to dicing cucumbers for the salad.

“We’ll just order a pizza,” I snap.

Marcus grins. “Neena will be pleased.”

“Why didn’t you bring Mei-ling?”

“She had to work,” Marcus grumbles. Mei-ling, Marcus’s barely-speaks-English Chinese girlfriend, works at a strip club, although he prefers to call it a gentlemen’s club. I guess it makes him feel better about the situation. She’s an incredibly sweet young (and by young, I mean young, but she’s at least of legal drinking age) woman.

“You’re nervous,” he observes.

“No I’m not,” I mumble.

“Yes, you are. I can tell.”

“And how is that?”

“Your foundation isn’t blended all the way. You’re way too detail-oriented to let that happen.”

Immediately, I drop the knife in my hand, rush to the hall bathroom, and look in the mirror. Damn. Did I put my makeup on in the dark or something? I curse as I rub at my jawline and neck, until it’s blended. As I walk back in the kitchen, I roll my eyes as Marcus grins behind his wine glass. Jackass.