But then I found out she was some kind of frickin’ billionaire heiress.
So I thought, Hey, she doesn’t make a big deal about it, why should I? So what if I grew up on the other side of the tracks? So what if I was in and out of jail and gangs when I was a teenager? So what if I have a GED instead of a high school diploma? So what if I never went to college, and meanwhile she’d gone to the University of Chicago for some fancy degree?
People were just people when you got down to it, right? No biggie.
But then I woke up next to her one morning in Las Vegas, after holding her hair the night before while she threw up, only for her to tell me she’s not into monogamy.
For the record, I had nothing against polyamory. I had an aunt on my dad’s side who lived up on a compound in Vermont. Aunt Becks had, like, three lady friends and six gentleman friends—that’s what my mom called them—something like that. They all seemed to get on just fine with each other for the most part. Shit, she’d lived there for twenty years and she’d always seemed happy.
When I was old enough to understand her lifestyle wasn’t typical, I’d asked her why she was into it. She’d said something similar to what Kat had said that morning in Vegas: “I’ve never been very good at monogamy.”
My father’s family hadn’t been any more or less dysfunctional than my own, and none of us had chosen the polyamorous lifestyle. My brother had, but it was different. He just dicked around with a bunch of different crazy women who didn’t know he was dicking around; not the same thing as a consensual committed relationship with a bunch of different sane people.
But that kind of lifestyle wasn’t for me. Knowing myself as I do, I wouldn’t be able to stomach seeing some other guy or lady touching the woman I loved. Furthermore, I’d probably beat the shit out of that other guy.
I wouldn’t beat the shit out of the lady, though. Likely, I’d give her a seriously dirty look.
But that’s just me.
So, yeah. I saw Kat this afternoon after not talking to her for six months. Seeing her reinforced the fact that she was still a goddamn diamond, and she still gave me that shitty feeling in my chest. We’d talked briefly. As usual, she couldn’t wait to get away from me. Afterward, I’d been distracted and irritable, and I hadn’t called my mom on her birthday.
Quinn’s smile spread. He tried to hide it by clearing his throat and covering his mouth with a fist. “You want me to call your mom? Tell her you’re on assignment, out of the country?”
“I’d have to be on Mars, resurrecting both JFK and Bing Crosby from the dead, for her to give me a pass. Short of that . . .” I shook my head. Fucking disaster.
He hesitated for a second, then asked, “Is your dad in town?”
“No.” And that was all I was going to say about that.
Even though my father had retired from the navy some years back, he was still never around. To say he and my mom had a complicated relationship was an understatement. The long and short of it was: he had a kid—my brother Seamus—by another lady who he loved, that lady left him and the baby, and my mom stepped in, raised Seamus as her own, and my dad had been so grateful.
So damn grateful. The only problem was, gratitude wasn’t the same thing as love.
“I could tell her you were doing something for Janie and the baby.”
“No.” I groaned. “That would only make it worse, give her a chance to point out you’re married and giving your mom grandkids.” And I wasn’t.
“There’s got to be something she wants.” His face was now sober. “Diamond earrings?”
Quinn remembered the last time I hadn’t called my mom and the tempest of ignominy and shame that she’d rained upon me.
I’d been seventeen and in jail. She didn’t care that I’d had no possible way to call her. She didn’t care that I’d taken the fall for Seamus. She didn’t care that I’d bribed a guard an ungodly amount of cash to have flowers sent, along with her favorite perfume. She didn’t care that I’d organized her party and to have the rest of my siblings—including Seamus, who, let me point out again, should have been in jail in my place—take her to church, make her cake, and treat her like a goddess.
I hadn’t called; therefore, I was Judas the Betrayer. I’d take fire and brimstone over Eleanor O’Malley’s unrelenting, passive-aggressive guilt squall any day of the week.
May God have mercy on my soul.
Quinn shrugged. “Let me know if I can help.”
“I need a miracle.” Exhaling my frustration, I turned and left without another word.