Lovegame(60)

Even worse, I hurt her. That knowledge alone is enough to have me nearly jumping out of my skin. But then add in the fact that she’s been hurt before—badly hurt—and I want to punch my fist through the wall. Or better, put my head through it. God knows I f*cking deserve it.

And still I’m standing here thinking about her, still I want her, so much that the need is an open, aching wound inside of me. Even worse, though, is the knowledge that I still have more questions. That I still want to get the answers from her even after everything that’s already passed between us. I’m gutted every time I think of the look on her face when she left here. I’d do anything to keep her from looking that way again, anything but walk away from her and this goddamned book.

Fuck. I really am a dick.

The phone rings and I almost ignore it. But it’s the ringtone I reserve for my mother and I know that if I don’t pick up now, she’ll just keep calling every few minutes until she gets me. She doesn’t like it when I’m unaccounted for. Then again, considering what her other son got up to when left too long to his own devices, it’s not like I can blame her for her concern.

“Hey, Mom. How are you?”

“I’m good. Going a little crazy with the charity auction coming up next week, but that’s normal this time of year.” She laughs, and it sounds so natural that if I hadn’t spent my entire adult life studying people, I might have missed the subtle hint of strain buried deep beneath the surface.

“How’s everything going with that? Okay?” Seven years ago my mother started a local charity event for victims of violent crime and each year it’s grown bigger and bigger. My dad wants her to take a step back, to let someone from the actual charity take it over now that she’s done the grunt work of building it up. But she refuses to even consider it. And while my dad has a point—the auction takes a lot of time and energy—I also understand why she won’t give it up. It’s a kind of therapy for her, and in some ways, it’s also penance. She has nothing to be forgiven for, but trying to convince her of that…it’s about as easy as it is to convince me of it.

In other words, pretty f*cking impossible.

“The auction is actually going really well this year. Between everything you donated and the signed books and experiences Mitch talked his other clients into donating, we’re way ahead of where we were at this time last year. If things keep up like this, we’re going to blow last year’s proceeds of five million dollars out of the water.”

She sounds more excited than I’ve heard her in a while and that alone has me smiling for the first time since Veronica walked out of my room this morning. “That’s great.”

“It really is. Please tell Mitch thank you for me. And the next time you’re in town, I’m definitely taking you out to dinner to thank you, as well.”

“Nothing to thank me for, Mom. All I did was donate a few signed books—”

“And talk the auction up to everyone you know. And get all your famous friends to donate. And—”

“My friends aren’t really all that famous,” I interrupt. “Besides, it’s just another way to get our books into the hands of people who might not otherwise have found them.”

“Yeah, because with your new movie coming out, you’re really struggling to find an audience.” The sarcasm is evident in her voice. “I saw that interview last week. I thought they were going to rip you apart in their enthusiasm.”

“I think it had more to do with the fact that they thought I knew Veronica Romero and Ben Jaffey than it had to do with me. Once they found out I didn’t, they lost interest pretty quickly.”

“You’re too modest.”

“I’m really not. I’m not a rock star, Mom. I write books about violent offenders. I don’t—”

“You write brilliant books that help solve murders,” she says firmly. “Books that have been read by over twenty million people.”

“The fact that you know my stats better than I do is a little weird.”

“I’m your mother. It’s my job to know all about your successes—and to remind you of them often.”

Her voice holds an unmistakable note of pride, but there’s tension there, too. It’s the tension that has my shoulders tightening and my eyes narrowing with suspicion as I try to figure out just what is up. “You know, right, that I’m not so insecure in myself or my career that I need you to quote my stats back to me. I’m good.”

“Can’t a mother be proud of her son?” she answers lightly.

But it only takes a few seconds for that lightness to become something darker and more twisted. Silence stretches between us and I want to break it, want to do something that will restore my mother’s earlier happy mood. But I’m years in the past now and trying to think of anything to say that will make those truths better is close to impossible.

And so I wait, feeling like shit and wondering when the hell all my psychological training will finally give me a leg up with my own past. I’m getting tired of always feeling like the * in any given situation.

My mother eventually breaks the silence with an awkward clearing of her throat that tells me I’m right to be suspicious. Because I am, I finally ask, “What’s up, Mom? What’s going on?”