Mr. CEO(107)

“Only 83 and 87,” she grumps, slamming her book closed. “Happy now?”

“Whoa, whoa, Andrea. I wasn't trying to piss you off,” I hurriedly apologize. I want to snap at her in return, but something, maybe something that rubbed off from Katrina's talk with me, holds me back. “Okay, so you didn't get As in them. And I know, the shitstorm I've raised this past week and a half or so hasn't helped much.”

Andrea takes a deep breath, then nods. “Thank you, oniichan. Sorry, too. Margaret was bitchy when Peter left tonight. We had an argument, which is why I'm out here instead of in my room. She's insisted that she hold court over the entire family wing of the house, and threw me out. It was either study here or in the kitchen, and the kitchen's too hot.”

I smile and pat her shoulder. “I understand, thanks for the heads-up. I'm sorry you had to deal with that.” She looks started at first, then nods gratefully. Mom's always treated her like shit, but I've never really bothered to empathize before, I guess because I was always too wrapped up in my own bullshit. That's going to change. “Quick favor. Have you seen Nathan?”

Andrea nods. “After Peter left and Margaret's blow-up, I heard him say something about getting a workout in. You'll probably find him out there, or maybe in his workshop.”

“Thanks. And I owe you a hot chocolate later or something, something to help you stay awake while you study.”

“Sounds good. And Jackson...”

“Yeah, Andrea?” I ask, already heading out the door. I pause, and look back.

She looks like she's going to say something, then shakes her head. “Just... when you get back, if you'd like to talk about what you read, I'll make some time.”

“Thanks. We'll see.”

I leave the dining room and run up to my room, changing clothes quickly. I didn't get a second workout in today yet, and I could use a sweat myself. It only takes me three minutes, and I jog outside. I can hear Mom drunkenly singing to herself in her room, so slurred I can't even make it out, but it sounds like blues. I leave the drunken singing and the main house behind, heading out to the gym. Andrea's right, I find Nathan inside, stripped down to just some compression shorts and pounding on a heavy bag. He puts a lot of thirty-year-old athletes to shame. He’s still pretty ripped, and I can only hope to be in that kind of shape at his age.

A timer goes off, and Nathan stops, stepping away and seeing me for the first time. “How goes your warnings?” he asks, surprised when I don't answer. “What?”

“Did you?” I ask, surprised at how calm I say it, despite my anger. “Did you set the bomb?”

The timer goes off, and Nathan turns back to the bag. His first punch is a jab, but still, the hundred and fifty-pound bag jumps like it's just been shot, only to be followed up almost immediately by a thunderous right hand that shakes the beam the bag is attached to. The foot-thick wooden beam groans and I see dust shake down around him as Nathan continues with his assault on the bag, driving fists, elbows, knees and his bare feet into the leather sides. When the timer goes off again, he looks surprised that I'm still standing there watching him.

“I'm going to repeat myself, Nathan. Did you set the bomb that blew up the Grammercys’ car? No matter how much you want to try and scare the shit outta me by beating up the bag, I'm going to get an answer.”

“You sure about that?” Nathan asks. The timer goes off again, but he ignores it, still looking at me. “You think you can beat an answer out of me?”

“I'll do what I have to, succeed or not. I thought you were a better man than that. Why'd you lie, Nathan, when I asked you about the bomb before?”

“I didn't lie,” Nathan says, stripping off his gloves. “What I said was that I didn't kill Katrina's parents.”

“Considering her father's alive and running a bar in Miami, no shit. Now, are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Nathan goes over to the locker that contains the boxing equipment and pulls out one set of sparring gloves. “Let's see if you really are ready for the answer. You survive two rounds, and I'll tell you a bedtime story.”

“What are the rules?” I ask, catching the gloves as he tosses them to me.

“Boxing. I don't want to actually hurt you, Jackson. But you'll have to earn the truth if you want it. Coming in here and demanding things from me doesn't show me that you're ready for the truth. So I will test your resolve.”

We walk over to the matted area, which is about the closest thing we have to a ring without throwing down outside on the grass. Nathan sets the timer, then pulls his gloves on. “On the bell.”