"I'm not fucking dropping something when you basically tell me that you may have coerced someone to spend their fucking life with you, dad!" I say heatedly. "Especially when there's unanswered questions about … "
But I can't finish because dad whips his head in my direction.
"Unanswered questions?" he snaps at me. "Unanswered questions about things we shouldn't be talking about?"
I'm quiet as I watch him bring himself under control. Then, with an almost deathly chill in his voice, he says to me. "Be careful how far beneath the surface you want to dig, son. I'm used to this world. I have no problem burying anyone. Especially someone who's past his useful life as my son."
Was that a fucking threat? Are we fucking going to war?
"Work on the campaign and help the family and I promise you, you'll be rewarded," he continues. "But start bringing up the past or stick your nose where it doesn't belong, and don't be surprised if you start getting burned."
This man did not sit here in his ornate fucking office and threaten me. I'm the closest thing to a son that he's fucking got. This would just be a dark wood-paneled room with an old man if all the shit that I've suspected comes out. The late night visits with Kenneth. Seeing the two of them kissing on the balcony.
No, I can't let this man bully me here and now and not respond back to him.
"If you want to sit there and threaten me, Dad," I say to him as I stand up. "Then I'm ready to take this to the next level. But I'm not leaving till I get some answers as to why Jocelyn felt forced to marry you."
"Oh, give it a rest, okay? Your dad seduced the Governor, kept the evidence, and then when he was ready, went to Governor Carter and has been holding it over his head since then," a voice says behind me. I turn around and see Kenneth Loomis standing there with a grin on his face. "Don't tell me you never suspected, Lance?" he asks me as he steps closer.
I turn my head to look at dad. At first there's a momentary flash of annoyance and concern on his face. Then that changes to annoyance.
But apparently my own father thinks I'm not worth the fucking effort required to lie.
"You … you fucked the Governor to marry his daughter?" I ask, turning around to face dad. What kind of fucking man is my father? For maybe the millionth time, I'm so fucking relieved that I'm not related to him by blood. That I'm really just his stepson.
Dad, yeah I know, but I'm used to calling him that by now-he just shrugs. "I didn't do anything to marry Jocelyn, son," he says to me, raising his head to look at me.
"That's right," Kenneth says coming over to stand by dad's side. "That woman was just a fringe benefit. An afterthought to the real goodies that the Governor helped him get."
I'm still trying to fucking comprehend. Dad, blackmailing the Governor. Getting God knows what from him. Favors? Power? But Jocelyn Carter, probably the single most beautiful woman I've ever fucking met ending up as just a fucking afterthought.
Holy fucking Christ.
My world is in a state of complete numbness. Shock.
Just fucking kill me now. A forced marriage that was just icing on a much larger cake.
This is too fucking much. I can't believe the callousness. The fucking waste. I get up from my chair.
"Close the door on your way out, will you please?" Kenneth says to me as I stalk to the door. I turn around to look at him. His hands are on my dad's shoulders, a lascivious smile playing on his lips as he brings out his tongue to lick them. "We're going to be a little … busy … in here."
I don't have the fucking strength to argue.
I do as Kenneth asks, close the door, and go toward the front door.
I need fresh air.
I need to find Jocelyn.
41
Jocelyn
I've never considered myself a great cook, but looking at the dinner spread on our dining room table, I'm proud. I went all out, planning four courses for the evening-an asparagus, green onion, cucumber, and herb salad, a mushroom and leek soup with thyme cream, grilled lamb chops with a sweet chutney sauce, and to top it all off, I even prepared a rich and decadent chocolate lava cake. You know, the kind of warm cake that oozes in the middle.
I'll admit that I had some help from the housekeeper, Rosa, but I still feel like I pulled off a miracle. I've been harboring guilt, and I needed something to re-direct my attention to, and today that something happened to be a four-course meal. Michael doesn't seem impressed though. He's limply picking at his plate of salad, his fork pushing the vegetables from one side to the other, but Lance is devouring it all. "You outdid yourself," he says to me. "This is impressive."
His hands are dancing from the soup, to the salad, and back again, but he also seems to be holding something back. He's lifting his eyes to me in cursory glances. What I wouldn't give to be inside of his brain right now.
Then he looks up, clearing his throat. "I wanted to say something," he begins, and a momentary wave of panic washes over my chest. What is he going to say? "I've decided-" he pauses and I can almost feel myself holding my breath. "-I've decided to go to Europe for the summer."
Europe? For the entire summer? Why is he doing this? I don't respond and I work hard to stifle my surprise. I casually continue to take small and calculating sips of the creamy soup, allowing the earthy flavors to dance around my tongue. Michael merely shrugs his shoulders and wipes his mouth with his napkin, "That's nice Lance."
I can detect the disappointment in Lance's face. He was expecting something more out of his father. That much is clear. But as quickly as that disappointment appears, he replaces it with an air of indifference. He's trying not to let his father get to him. "I've decided to take a direct flight to Heathrow airport next week."
I look over at Michael to see if he's going to say anything else. Perhaps he'll ask Lance what his plans are? Why London, of all places? But no, he doesn't say another word. It seems like he's refusing to engage in any kind of conversation with his son. Maybe he doesn't care at all why he's leaving. Instead, he continues to take uninterested bites of his food, his eyes cast down on his plate. I watch as a small sliver of cucumber gets stuck on his bottom lip. Maybe this is what Michael wanted. I'm too shocked to say anything. I never anticipated this happening. So instead, I simply nod at Lance when he glances in my direction. And really, what can I say? There a lot of things that I'd let spill from my mouth, but not in front of my husband.
Michael takes a few more bites of dinner and then excuses himself from the table, his chair squeaking against the hardwood floor. Lance takes his cue and leaves as well. I watch them both walk off, and with everyone leaving I start to clear the table. As I'm carrying dishes to the kitchen, Michael re-appears. He is slipping his arms into a coat, and seems to be in a hurry.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Out. Don't bother waiting up for me."
He says it with such finality that I don't bother asking anything else. And just like that, he grabs his keys and walks out the front door.
I decide I've had enough emotional ups and downs for one evening, and I head upstairs to soak in a bath and then go to bed. I walk into my master bathroom, and start the water. Bathing is a ritual that I enjoy, and I look around for the perfect accent. I see it-a purple and white-swirled, lavender-scented bath bomb. That sounds relaxing-the perfect remedy to clear my head-so I undress and drop it into the water, watching it spin and fizz until the water is frothy and the entire bathroom smells like I'm sitting in a field of lavender flowers. The warmth of the water stings my skin-I like my baths hot-the hotter the better, and I slowly sink my shoulders down further into the perfumed heat of it all. My noisy thoughts die down and become hushed, and a sense of tranquility settles over my body like a familiar, comfortable blanket. And it's only when my fingertips become wrinkled raisins that I decide to get out.
I finish preparing for bed, and when I finally find myself slipping in between my sheets, my mind begins to race again. I shut my eyes and try to drown it out. Go to sleep, I tell myself, trying to will it to happen. But it doesn't work. I keep hearing Lance's words replaying in my mind, " I've decided to go to Europe for the summer." What made him decide to go to Europe? And why for the entire summer? Is he trying to end things between us? Is he trying to avoid me? Or did something happen between him and his father? Things seemed sort of strained between them at dinner. If so, why not just come out and tell me that's what he wants? Does he think I can't handle the truth? As much as I don't want to admit it, the idea of not having him here makes me feel lonely. I'll be physically and emotionally starved. What am I going to do without him? I crave his strong touch. My mind goes back to that first day in the dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue … and the day in the limo … both close quarters … his strong, rock-hard body so close to mine. My pulse quickens just thinking about it. I also think about his icy blue eyes, and the way they can pierce through me in unexpected ways, and his massive manhood-the way he fills me up like no other man. I grow wet just thinking about him.