Chapter Twenty
Despite the fresh four-hundred-thread-count sheets, the down-filled pillows and duvet, sleep hadn’t come easy. But when it finally got there, Dustin slept deep, and he slept long.
He didn’t wake until nearly noon, and felt very pleased.
Fuck all the guards and rules and doctors and grinding routines.
He could do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted. And no one, no one would ever lock him inside a room again.
Even if he had to do whatever in the crap shoebox of a house he had to pretend to be grateful for. First chance, he’d sell it, turn that into cash.
Maybe he’d stow some in the shell company he wanted to set up, but he’d need to follow through on making some good new identification and all that.
He’d already started to research how on the loaded laptop his mother had bought him. He started looking at mountain property, too. Maybe the Rockies or the Cascades. He’d taken a look at Maine, dismissed it. Dismissed the east altogether.
Something pulled him west—the idea in his head of the wide and the wild. He wanted those big-ass, mean-looking mountains where men—real men—wore guns on their hips and had long guns in their pickups.
Maybe he’d grow a beard and get some shit-kicker boots.
He had the start of a new wardrobe, the suit he’d worn to the stupid courtroom, some jeans, dress pants, sweater, shirts. Jesus, the woman had teared up over him trying on new jeans.
She was, and always had been, an idiot. An idiot, and a pathetic excuse for a woman, wife, mother.
But for now? Useful.
According to the “rules” he had until the first week of January to start looking for a job. And seven days before he had to go to his first post-release therapy session.
He hoped to be on his way west, with Arden, by then. But he needed to decide just where, and find the right place for them to settle down together.
Wherever, whatever, it would be better than this dinky little house in the suburbs.
His starter home, his mother called it, for his fresh start.
She made him sick.
Now he had to get up, go out there, and play the good and grateful son. Good practice, he supposed, as he’d have to do the same—and add repentant—when they went to see his father.
So he got up, used the poor excuse for an en suite to shower. At least he could use all the hot water he wanted, had good soap, decent Egyptian cotton towels.
He dressed in new trousers, the navy cashmere sweater, the Cucinelli dress boots. The new haircut made him look like some ass-kissing choirboy, but like his mother, he considered it useful for now.
Studying himself, he decided he looked stylish with a lean toward conservative.
His father would approve.
When he went out, the open concept let him see the eat-in kitchen, the stingy-to-his-eye coffee station, and his mother sitting by the living room fire with a book.
Music played quietly.
She’d furnished the place for him, and he couldn’t fault her there. She knew how to dress rooms, so no need to stage the place when he put it on the market.
He expected she’d dressed for the husband she hadn’t deserved.
The waist-nipping purple vest over the crisp white shirt, the dark gray pants with the faintest sheen.
The diamond studs accenting the diamond hoops with a single dangling pearl to complement the heirloom pearl necklace she favored reminded him to take her jewelry after he killed her.
That asshole Lester had given her a hell of a wedding set.
She rose when she saw him. “Good morning! I was just thinking I should wake you so you could have a good breakfast before we drive to your father’s.”
“I’m sorry I slept so late.” He gave her the puppy dog eyes she always fell for. “It was hard to get to sleep. Honestly, part of me kept thinking I was dreaming, and if I went to sleep, I’d wake up. Crazy, right?”
“I think it’s a lot to adjust to, and I’m glad you got some good rest. Now, why don’t you sit down? I’ll make you breakfast, get you some coffee.”
“Aw, gee. You don’t have to wait on me, Mom.”
“While I’m here, that’s what I’ll do. How about an omelet, with feta and prosciutto?”
“That sounds amazing.”
She could actually cook. Somewhere along the way she’d taken lessons from a French chef. For fun, she’d said.
He remembered his father had accused her of having an affair with said chef, so she’d stopped taking the lessons.
Guilty as charged, in Dustin’s mind.
“I spoke to your stepfather earlier. We’re getting some snow back home.”
Cleveland. He’d never live down spending part of his life in Cleveland.
“He sends you his best.”
She chattered away as she went to the kitchen, put on an apron.
“We’re hoping you’ll come home for Christmas. Wyatt has to leave for a business trip in a few days, and has to be in London until right before Christmas. I thought I’d stay, help you settle in, then we’d drive home for the holidays.”
Talk about sick? The idea of spending Christmas in Cleveland with her and the fuckface she’d married made it hard to hold back the puke.
“I don’t know if I should be that far away from Dad.”
“I understand, honey, but I’d hate for you to spend Christmas alone. We could come back quickly enough if … if you’re needed. Something to think about,” she added as she brought him coffee.
“I will. I’m just so worried about him.”
“I know. So am I.”
Lying, cheating bitch, he thought as he sent her a wistful smile.
“I guess I need to get a car. To get to therapy, to start the job hunt.”
“Why don’t we look into that tomorrow? We need to get your finances in order, too. Get you started on the right track.”
“I’m ready for that. Choo choo,” he said, and made her laugh.
She could’ve gotten him a place in Upper Arlington closer to his father. An urban condo with all the amenities, a big, updated house that suited his station in life, something with one of the long front lawns that said the Important live here.
Of course, nothing she’d have bought him would’ve compared to his father’s house on its four manicured acres.
The gated, picture-perfect Victorian said Important with every inch of its ten thousand square feet. She’d taken him away from all this, the elegance of the creamy brick turrets, the towering ceilings, graceful staircases. The seven bedrooms, five with en suites that earned the term.
Until she’d married the asshole, at least they’d had a home close by where he’d spent every other weekend at his father’s, and two weeks during the summer break.
But she’d wanted a more modest home, something more manageable. And that meant nearly half the size, no pool or tennis court.
She’d never understood the symbolism.
Then she’d married the asshole, and they’d moved to Cleveland. His father let him go, just like that. Her fault, Dustin thought.
So, sure, he’d had a pool there—indoors—but it hadn’t been the same.
She’d robbed him of his home.
And his father married the gold-digging bitch who’d tied him up by pumping out a bratty girl kid.
They’d end up with more than half his inheritance, unless he found a way around it.
The brat rode horses, so hadn’t they built a small stable, a riding ring? Maybe he could help her have an accident, break her neck in a fall.
He’d think about it.
“You’re so quiet, Dustin.”
“I guess I’m trying to prepare myself.”
She sent him a worried look, put a hand out to rub his arm.
“I hope you can, and I guess I should help you. Your father’s lost a lot of weight. His hair … it’s coming back, but he lost it during the chemo. They’ve set up his room for his medical needs so he’s in a hospital bed, and there are machines, monitors. He’ll tire easily.”
“He’ll know me though, right? He’ll know me.”
“Yes, yes, of course. He asked for you. Dustin, I know he needs to make things right with you, and for you. I hope you can let him.”
“Yes. I want things to be right.”
Theresa pulled up at the gate, waited for security to pass her through.
All of Dustin’s yearning, all his anger, all his envy rose up as he looked through those gates at the house.
It had been his, and would never be his again. Fuck the house, his father, his mother, all of them.
He’d burn it down.
He’d get exactly what he wanted and deserved because he’d take it.
His mother reached for his hand as she drove through the open gates. He had to fight the urge to use that hand to pound into her face.
“You take as much time with him as you need. He may sleep for a short time, but if you want to stay, it’s no problem. You can just text me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Aren’t you going in?”
“He wants to see you, darling, not me. He wants to see his son. I’ll do some shopping, see if I can get you some Christmas decorations.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
“I know you can.”
Even as he got out of the car, the butler—a new one, not the one he remembered—opened the grand front door.
“Mr. Dubecki, I’m George. Please let me take your coat.”
As he did, Mitzi came down the stairs.
Blond, curvy, and nearly twenty-five years younger than his father, she held out both hands to him.
“Dustin. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ll take him up, George, thank you. His aide’s with him; she’s a godsend.”
She kept a hand in his as they walked through the entrance hall that smelled of the roses and lilies—all white—on the center table.
“He’s having a good day. I think because he knows you’re coming.”
“I—I should’ve brought something.”
The curved railing gleamed their way up the stairs.
“I promise, all he wants is to see you. He’s weak, so he may need to take breaks. Please be patient with him.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He snapped it out before he could stop himself. “He’s my father.”
“Sorry.” Her voice cooled, but she continued to lead him down the wide hall to the double doors of the main suite.
He might need her, too, Dustin remembered. For now.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m nervous, and I don’t want to break down in front of him.”
“Don’t worry.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “I’ve broken down countless times.”
She went through into the sitting room, called softly. “Susan?”