Chapter 5
Cooper
The gates opened before I even had a chance to ease off the throttle, a sure sign Mum was standing at the window waiting for my arrival.
My intrusive thoughts begging me to swing the bike around and head back the way I came were strong today and I reluctantly persevered despite the inevitable shit storm I was about to walk into.
I was approaching a metaphorical firing squad every time I rode down this drive and while I enjoyed a good sparring, I much preferred some physical combat rather than the brow beating my father would no doubt have prepared.
I raised my hand in greeting as I passed Robert perfecting the hedges.
Most of the staff were transient but Bert had been with us since I was a kid and he was more of a constant than my parents, who gallantly spent their time doing anything except raising me.
He tipped his hat, ever the gentleman, bopping his head from side to side to whatever was playing from the radio in the cart next to him.
Likely the same portable, battery-operated device he’d maintained was just as sturdy as it was when he bought it forty years ago.
Before I left home, I gave him a set of Bluetooth headphones and a more current player already connected to Spotify, but he refused to accept any of it saying he wouldn’t use a computer and didn’t care to learn.
We compromised and while he never did use it, he regifted them to his granddaughter who he reported was ecstatic.
Peeling off my gloves I rolled my eyes at my still swollen knuckles knowing it would be a homing beacon for both of my parents the second I entered the front door.
I couldn’t come to regret the reason behind them though, especially when those fuckers clearly felt no remorse putting their hands on a woman who said no.
Seb was my brother, which meant his sister Evangeline and his mother Judy were also family and I would do whatever I needed to protect them. Even if the decision at the time wasn’t a conscious one and a version I did my best to control had taken over for longer than I would have liked.
Eva’s earlier email flashed through my mind followed by the way my gut clenched at the sound of her voice when I’d called her.
Seb’s idea to have her work for me made sense for her and for me.
Not to mention she was someone I trusted despite barely seeing her since we were kids, but there was something causing me to think twice.
She’d always been a weakness.
Someone I felt compelled to protect at all costs. Someone who I knew saw deeper than I ever wanted anyone to see.
In a strange turn, the phone call had been surprisingly simple.
Conversation was easy and it felt like no time had passed.
She’d also graciously accepted my apology for what I called an over-reaction at the club the other night.
Although not something I regretted even remotely.
I didn’t ask her if she got my message or why she never replied, wondering why I’d sent it in the first place.
But I did enjoy the way she had a series of questions at the helm - what exactly was I expecting, what hours would she work, was there a vending machine (that one made me laugh and seriously consider buying one for her based on her disappointed sigh) and how many people per day would try to talk to her - just to name a few.
Often shooting her next one before I’d even finished answering the one prior and it was as familiar as it was disarming how much I enjoyed the impromptu questionnaire.
A phone call was one thing though and after seeing her at the Grey Petal opening and then again, the other night, it was going to be precarious at best to be in the same place with her for six whole weeks.
Emotions were never something I knew how to talk about.
It was always easier to lock them down, shove them into the background where they couldn’t be used against me.
Unpacking them - none of that ever helped.
Especially not growing up. My parents weren’t around to ask, and they wouldn’t have cared anyway.
But her?
She always had a way of making me talk, even before I realised I was. And that was the scariest part now, because we weren’t kids anymore. The feelings were heavier. Messier. And they mattered.
Placing my helmet on the bike, I ran a hand through my hair and headed up the stairs to the front door.
There was no denying my childhood house was impressive.
It was on a decent stretch of land, and everything was always immaculately maintained.
But money didn’t buy love, and it didn’t buy a home and while there were plenty of people who would give a lot to live here, I wasn’t one of them.
Through the double glass doors I saw Mum, her fake smile fixed, hair and makeup perfect as they always were, even on days when she didn’t leave the house.
“Son. I’m so happy to see you.” I wrapped an arm around her for a quick embrace, careful not to squeeze too tight or risk a reprimand for creasing her linen shirt or some other shit hugging her son might cause.
“Hey, Ma.”
“You need a haircut. Delilah is coming out this afternoon, she can cut it for you.” She stated, walking away before I could respond.
Keeping my protest behind my teeth, I followed her into the kitchen. Not even thirty seconds after arriving and she was already starting with the criticisms.
Oblivious, as usual, she continued her monologue.
“Did I tell you Maxine’s daughter was asking after you?
You remember Samantha, don’t you? I was going to invite her over today, but I wasn’t sure if you’d come.
You never visit anymore.” When she turned toward me, her face was a carefully orchestrated mask, designed to inflict the maximum amount of guilt.
But I knew her better than she realised, and I’d long since learned how to play the role of dutiful son.
I’d already limited my visit to a strict sixty minutes and arranged for one of my team to call with an ‘emergency’ at the distillery that required my urgent attention.
“Samantha?” I asked, my brow furrowing in feigned confusion. I knew who she meant, but I couldn’t let on I knew, or she would take that as gregarious acceptance of my interest.
“Samantha, Samantha,” she said with a flick of her wrist. “Blonde hair, big into running, you know?”
“Oh, I think I know the one.” My nonchalance was believable even to my own ears.
Mum was so far in her own world, the thought I might not be interested wouldn’t have crossed her mind.
She probably hadn’t even spoken to Samantha enough to realise she wasn’t at all my type.
The woman was nice, but she was as interesting as a dry sponge and on the few occasions we’d been forced into a conversation, it lasted about forty-two seconds seeing as there was only so long you could talk about the weather.
I needed someone who would make me laugh.
Someone who would challenge me and push me to my limits.
Maybe even someone who wanted to be in the same room as me for longer than twenty seconds without criticising me.
Not that I was at all interested or even looking, but for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t going to agree to an arranged date with someone my parents chose.
Especially when I knew their choice would somehow be advantageous to them more than me.
They were already elbow deep in meddling in my business without involving them in who I chose to fucking date.
“Son.” My dad’s penetrating voice bounced around the kitchen like an echo in an empty room as he entered, squeezing my shoulder firmly.
I shook his hand, knowing he was not only judging how firm my handshake was but assessing me for any weakness he could fixate on.
“What happened to your hand?” Still firmly in his grip, he flipped my wrist assessing my knuckles as Mum walked over to conduct her own examination.
And here we go. The bell had rung – let the berating begin.
“It’s from the bag. I wasn’t wearing gloves.” The lie rolled off my tongue easily, just as they had since I learnt it was better to keep things to myself. They were on a need-to-know basis for the betterment of everyone - most importantly me and my fucking sanity.
“How’s work?” I asked, knowing it was a topic he both loved to discuss and one which would see Mum disappear, meaning one less opponent.
“Business is good.” He opened the butler’s pantry where I knew he would select any liquor other than one that came from Golden Spades.
He would be in his grave before he ever supported something I did which wasn’t first an idea he concocted.
“Are you done with that futile whiskey venture and ready to take over? I’m not getting any younger,” he jeered, a smug grin lining his face.
Another classic quip I was subjected to every time I saw him.
He’d built Dane’s Real Estate from the ground up and as the most successful realtor in the state, he held some pretty solid bragging rights, taking advantage as often as he could.
There was nothing Preston Dane loved more than a captive audience who asked after his company and Mum was only interested in the business because it funded her lifestyle.
“Glad to hear business is doing well,” I answered bluntly, tactically ignoring the question I’d already answered multiple times. A solid refusal that I would never take over his company.