Author: J. Saman
Category: Contemporary
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/j-saman/page,67,558335-start_again_series_a_billionaire_romance_box_set.html
I push him away from me, and he graciously takes a step back. I’m wiping furiously at the insidious tears that felt the need to fall and ruin my day. Ryan doesn’t say anything else; he just puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the airport toward the parking garage. He hits the clicker for the Prius, and I cough out a small, humorless laugh.
“My car is in the shop,” he says. I can’t believe they still have this stupid car. I get them being all sentimental since he and Kate got together on a road trip driving in this car, but still. Ryan also still drives his ancient 4-Runner, which is older than I am, I think. I have a feeling he’ll be trading that in for a new SUV now that the twins are on their way. Or a minivan. God, I can’t imagine Ryan Grant driving a minivan. He’s far too . . . Ryan for that.
“Did you tell anyone?” I ask once we’re settled in the car, weaving our way through the garage toward the exit.
“No,” he says quietly. “Your dad called the office looking for you, and I picked up. He remembered me from that time we met all those years ago, so he told me what happened.”
I nod, turning toward the window because I can’t even look in his general direction.
“How’d she do it?”
“Carbon monoxide. Car on in the garage.”
“Painless,” I say and can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips at that. I always thought she’d do it a bit more dramatically since that’s more my mother’s style.
“Yeah. I’m taking you home, Claire, but really, you should have stayed at the airport. I assume you’re going to want to fly to St. Louis.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t. She doesn’t want a funeral. In fact, if I know her, she took care of all the arrangements.”
“What about her stuff? I’ll go with you if you need to take care of things. Say goodbye.”
Now I smile bigger because my friend here does not fly. But he’s offering to do so. For me. “There is no goodbye with my mother. And I’m sure her house was already cleaned out. She planned this, Ryan.”
“Why?” he asks, and I realize I’ve already revealed way too much. “Was she sick?”
I shrug. I don’t want to get into it. Ever.
“But you’re not surprised.”
“No. I’m not,” is all I offer, as we head north on I-5 back into Seattle. He lets it drop, clearly sensing I’m not going to do this with him. When we hit the city limits, I shift in my seat, looking over at his profile. “You cannot tell anyone, Ryan. I mean it. Not Kate. Not Luke. Not Kyle or Ivy. No one. You hear me?”
Ryan glances in my direction, locking eyes with me for a moment before he’s forced to turn back to the road. “Okay, Claire. I won’t say anything, even to Katie, which you know is impossibly difficult for me.”
“I know it is, so thanks.”
“And I won’t pry. I know how you are, but you’re my family and I love you. I fucking do, whether you want to hear that shit or not. So, whatever you need from me, you have it. Someone to listen. Time off. A drinking buddy. Whatever.”
I sniffle, swallowing down the massive lump in my throat and nod my gratitude at him. Words are not possible because I’ll cry, and even though I know Ryan means everything he says, I don’t do that. I don’t talk about my feelings. I don’t share my innermost thoughts. I keep them to myself.
Ryan takes me home, insisting on carrying my not-heavy-at-all bag for me. He’s just making sure I’m okay, I realize. But the truth is, I don’t know if I am. I don’t know if I ever will be. So, the only thing I can do is fake it.
I’m good at that.
I make Ryan leave shortly after, and instead of eating or showering, or watching television or calling my father back, or thinking about Kyle, I kick off my shoes and crawl right into bed.
I wake up the next morning with a headache. I slept, but it wasn’t what I’d call restful. My mother’s words have been echoing through my mind, set on repeat. I have to wonder just how bad things were getting for her. She never let me come visit. Never wanted me to see her.
My mother and I weren’t what you’d call close. She just wasn’t that type of mom. Getting pregnant by accident with a man who wants very little to do with you, can do that. She wasn’t kidding when she said she didn’t have the aptitude to be a mother. In fact, when I was ten, she sent me off to travel around with my father. But that wore out quickly, and when I was thirteen, my father sent me back. He had no use for me either.
It always made me question why he was so adamant that my mother keep me when she didn’t want to.
It’s not like he wanted me either.
I noticed my mother changing in small ways when she was in her mid-thirties, and I was a senior in high school. She became depressed, and her memory wasn’t what it had been before. I left for college not too long after, and shortly before I graduated, she was diagnosed. She told me not to come home anymore. She didn’t want to see me. Or anyone else for that matter.
I tried with her. But there really is no helping when someone gets like that. She shut herself off from me, got her affairs in order, and bided her time until she finally had enough of life.
I guess she hit that point.
The irony of all of this is that I don’t even miss her. She was my mother, and I suppose I loved her on some elemental level. I mean, even when you hate your parents, you still love them. It’s an unavoidable part of nature. But I don’t miss her the way I feel like I should.
Kyle called at some point last night and even sent a text, wanting to make sure I got home okay. So, I texted him back that I was home safe and left it at that. As I roll over and check my phone, I see that he called again this morning.
And my heart aches.
He and I had a really incredible time together in New York. It was sort of perfect, and for once, I was so very hopeful. Hell-bent on ignoring the shit in my life. If nothing else, my mother’s suicide serves as a reminder that it was laughable for me to even try. Despite how much I really like Kyle—and I do really like him—all I can ever give him is friendship. Because the last thing I can have in this world is a real relationship. I have no shot at commitment or love.
Love, ha. I almost want to laugh at that notion.
Where has love ever gotten me?
Abandoned, cheated, and resentful. Right. That’s where. Swallowing this bitter pill of emotions, I realize I need to pull away from Kyle. He’s perfect. Too perfect. The sort of perfect that you can’t help but fall for. That you can’t help but plan things with.
So, why indulge in the fantasy only to suffer through the disappointment later?
I shoot Kyle another text, this one telling him that I’ll call him later. But even as I type the words, I know they’re not true.
I can’t think about Kyle or even my mom. I can only think about myself, and right now, I need to get up for work. Ryan might chew my ass out for showing up today, but he’ll get over it.
I step out into the welcome sunshine of spring, deciding that I want to walk to work even though it’s well over a mile away. It’s just that sort of day out.
The sun is high up in the sky, and the sweet smell of spring is lingering on the ever-present Seattle breeze. All around me, people are going about their day the way they did yesterday and probably the way they will tomorrow. A mom is holding her daughter’s hand as she walks her down the street, more than likely taking her to school.
My eyes are glued to them, transfixed on their every movement and interaction.
The little girl, who isn’t any older than six, is talking a mile a minute about something I cannot hear, but her mother is fully invested in whatever it is. They’re smiling at each other and the mom is leaning down so she can catch every single word that escapes from her daughter’s mouth.
I wonder if that feels as good as it looks for both of them.
People are walking dogs and drinking coffee and talking into cell phones.
People are living their lives.
So, I guess that’s my plan
too. My mother may have given up on hers, but that doesn’t mean I plan to do the same.
I’m going to go to work for Ryan Grant. I’m going to play music and hang out with friends. Take lovers whenever I want. I’m going to enjoy every single moment I have.
Because there are no guarantees. No promises on time.
There is only this moment.
And this moment now belongs to me.
9
Kyle
Two months later
* * *
“Kyle, I have a Franco Rovelo on the line for you,” my assistant, Nancy, says with a slightly apprehensive tone. In the years that Nancy has been working for this firm, I doubt she has ever disliked interacting with a client as much as she does with Franco Rovelo. Can’t say I blame her.
“Thank you. Patch him through, please.”
This can’t be good.
“Mr. Rovelo,” I say, sitting up straight in my chair and pulling out a pad and pen in case I need to take notes on anything. I haven’t spoken to him since his acquittal over two months ago. “It’s nice to hear from you. I hope you’re well.”
“Mr. Grant,” he says with that thick baritone rolled in an Italian accent. “I am quite well, but alas, my poor brother is not.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What can I do for you?”
“I won’t lie to you, Kyle, as there really is no point. My brother, Alfredo, is not a smart man. He’s a good soldier, but if he wasn’t family, I would have little use for him. Do you understand what I mean when I say that?”
I’m not a fucking idiot. “Yes. I understand,” I say instead.
“Good. Family is important to me. And protecting my family is paramount, even when they do things they shouldn’t have.”
Can this guy get to the freaking point already?
“What can I do for you, Mr. Rovelo?” I ask again.
He sighs heavily into the phone. “Alfredo is currently under arrest at the ninth precinct for shooting a police officer.”
Jesus Christ, he’s got to be kidding me. “Did the officer survive?”
“Regretfully, no. He was an undercover narcotics officer. It would mean a lot to me if you would go down and meet with him. Am I correct in assuming he will not be granted bail?”
“You are correct. There is not a judge in New York that will grant bail after a cop has been shot and killed.”
Another heavy sigh before he mutters something in Italian. “When do you think he’ll be sent to Rikers?”
“That depends on when he’s moved to central booking and arraigned. Probably either later today or tomorrow morning. They’ll wait for me to get there before questioning him if that’s what he decides.” I click around on my schedule, making sure I don’t have anything that can’t be moved. Looks like Alfredo Rovelo is one lucky murdering asshole, because I can go down there myself without having to send an associate.
“I would like you to meet him there as quickly as possible. Alfredo has already made his calls, and not one of them was to a lawyer.” The way he says this sends a chill up my spine, and suddenly, the last place on the planet I want to go is down to the ninth precinct.
“I’m on my way,” I tell him anyway, because it’s my goddamn job.
There are seventy-seven police precincts in New York City, and I’ve probably been in at least a dozen of them. They all smell exactly the same. Coffee, bleach, and body odor. It’s quite possibly my least favorite scent on the planet. It’s the irrefutable scent of scumbag. Sure, some people are innocent. Some people are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some are even victims themselves.
But not Alfredo Rovelo.
That motherfucker shot an undercover narcotics officer at point-blank range right in the head.
I got the lowdown from Milo, a private investigator friend who I frequently work with. It seems Mr. Rovelo has quite the substance abuse problem and thought, because of his family connections, he was entitled to a kilo of cocaine for himself free of charge—considering he was purchasing ten. The narcotics officer didn’t agree, and so Alfredo shot him.
That’s it.
That was the entire motive behind the death of one of New York City’s finest.
The other undercover officer that was there instantly subdued him and subsequently arrested him. This is what you call a slam-dunk case for the DA.
A dead cop.
A shit-ton of drugs and the person who witnessed the entire event is another cop with an impeccable service record.
Done. Life in prison. No chance for parole.
I doubt I’ll even be able to plea this one down because the dead cop is leaving behind a wife and three young kids.
And you know what? I’m not disappointed that they’re going to put the prick away for life. I’m not the least bit upset that I won’t get a win on this one. Sure, I’ll do my job. I’ll hype Alfredo up as a victim. I’ll do my best to make this drug addicted, sociopathic, mobster look like an angel. But I doubt I’ll find a sympathetic jury.
I flash my credentials to the officer in charge, and I’m led into a small interrogation room. The second the door opens, Alfredo’s black eyes widen, and he looks down. He’s not happy to see me, and that instantly sets me on edge. Usually, people under arrest are fucking ecstatic to see their lawyers.
Not this guy.
“Franco sent you?” he asks without even a hint of an Italian accent.
I nod at him. His olive complexion instantly pales as he runs a handcuffed hand through his hair. I introduce myself to the two detectives who have a notepad between them filled with what appears to be pages of information.
Alfredo is talking.
This is bad.
I realize suddenly that Franco suspected this would happen, which is why he called me when his brother didn’t, and asked me to get down here as quickly as possible. He was afraid Alfredo would turn state’s witness against him in order to save his own ass. And from the looks of it, he was absolutely correct.
I ask the detectives to leave us so I can confer with my client, and after an hour, I’ve convinced him to shut the fuck up. If he’s so keen to talk, he better work himself a deal first, and that’s where I come in.
But we can’t do that just yet because the DA assigned to the case assured me he wasn’t coming down here today, which means Alfredo goes to jail. The detectives are pissed that the previously chatty Alfredo is now silent, but there is dick all they can do about it.
Within two hours, we’re stepping outside into the early afternoon sun, about to head to central booking. Even though Alfredo did eventually clam up, he’s already said a lot. A lot about his big brother. A lot about his family and their connections, who works for them and who’s on the payroll.
A lot that’s going to mean months and months of work for me.
Alfredo is standing with both wrists and ankles handcuffed. I’m on one side of him, and a uniformed officer is on the other, with two more behind us. We’re walking over to the waiting police cruiser when I hear it. It sounds like firecrackers going off in rapid succession.
Pop, pop, pop, pop.
It takes my brain a second longer than it should to realize that the firecrackers are gunshots.
Alfredo’s body snaps back awkwardly before momentum has him falling forward to the ground, blood spurting from his chest and neck in all directions.
The officers behind me immediately pull out their weapons, and the officer that was on the other side of Alfredo grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground. I fall hard, smashing my knee and arm onto the unforgiving concrete. The cop is trying to assess Alfredo’s injuries, but it’s clear as day that he’s dead.
His black eyes are open, fixed, and unseeing. His body is covered in blood.
“Are you hit?” the cop shouts to me, but all I can hear is the sound of blood rushing through my ears and more loud popping as the officers fire their weapons above me. My heart is sprinting in my chest. All around me, everything seems to be going in slow motion as
utter chaos ensues. Screaming and yelling, and more guns being fired. I have no idea if the police are hitting their target or not. I have no idea if anyone else is injured or dead.
All I know is that this is my fault.
Franco had texted me a half an hour ago asking when they were going to move Alfredo, and I replied, soon. I replied soon, and they were waiting for him. To shoot him dead for willingly giving up details about his family and the massive ring of organized crime that they run in this city.
This is my fault.
Sure, I didn’t make Alfredo pull the trigger today, and of course, I didn’t know that Franco was planning a hit on his own brother, but it’s still my fault. I got Franco off on every single one of his charges.
Every. Single. One.
I made this world a more dangerous place simply by doing my job.
And now a cop is dead. And Alfredo is dead. And who knows how many other people are dead because I was after the fame, glory, and payday associated with winning a high-profile case like Franco’s.
Cops are swarming all around like navy-blue bees, securing the scene and making sure no one else is lurking, waiting to take the next shot. Sirens ring out as two ambulances pull up, but I haven’t moved from the asphalt beneath me, tucked safely behind the cruiser and next to Alfredo’s lifeless body.
“Are you hurt?” someone asks, and then I’m rolled over onto my back. Bright lights shine into my eyes, making me wince and squint.
“What’s your name?” the person tries again.
“Kyle Grant,” I answer reflexively.
“Are you hurt?” the man who I now recognize as a paramedic asks again.
“I don’t think so.” I really don’t know, if I’m being honest. I don’t think I was shot or anything, but my right knee and shoulder sting, and the side of my abdomen is on fire.
“It looks like a bullet grazed your right flank. It’s a superficial wound, but there’s a lot of bleeding. Is there anything we should know about your medical history?”