Chapter 11 Bash
BASH
Terry crouches in front of me, snapping his fingers to bring me back to the real world. “Half a bottle of brandy, Bash? That’s a new record even by your mom’s standards.”
I’m slumped on the couch in my office. I’ve a clear view of the elevator, the wall my brother pinned me up against, my desk where a huge part of my day is spent. It all feels… small. Inconsequential. Meaningless.
I raise the glass to my lips, realize that it’s empty, and reach for the bottle that isn’t there.
“You’ve had enough,” Terry says. It isn’t up for debate. “You want to talk about it?”
I don’t.
“She’s pregnant.”
Terry’s good. Years of practice, and his expression could mean it’s snowing outside, or the Russian mob just raided the Rinse, or the chef just created a new culinary masterpiece.
I close my eyes. If I can’t see him, he might go away and leave me alone. But my mouth is still talking. “Twins. Could be mine. Could be Cash’s. She couldn’t tell us apart, apparently. Am I supposed to fucking believe that?”
I swallow. It feels like someone tipped my head back and poured sand down my throat. I try to get up, and the room lurches.
“Stay there.” A warm hand lands on my thigh. “Move and I’ll shoot you.”
Language I understand.
I do as I’m told. Terry returns with a tall glass of iced water, and I guzzle it down without coming up for air. Marginally better. Brain freeze doesn’t suck quite as much as desert throat. Another glass is placed into my hand; I take this one slowly.
But clarity brings its own issues, and every one of them is shaped like Remy Jones.
My heart is telling me to believe her. She didn’t come in here begging for money.
She didn’t threaten to drag our names though the cesspit of fake news.
If I’m honest and replay the conversation up to the point where it all got muddled up with the pregnancy announcement, she didn’t accuse us of anything that she could bring a lawsuit against us for.
When she told us that she was pregnant, she’d already made up her mind. It was the last word. Sure, she timed it perfectly to land like a fucking nuclear explosion, but it wasn’t accompanied by a middle finger and a see you in court, losers.
It doesn’t change the evidence of my own eyes and ears though. Her connection to George Quinn is real. Whether it’s of her own making or his is yet to become clear, but I can’t overlook it and focus on what matters.
“Right, you’re coming with me.”
I’d forgotten that Terry was still in the room.
“Where are we going?” Did I slur my words or is my brain still wrapped in brandy-soaked cotton wool?
“Staten Island.” Terry stands up and waits for me to follow.
Staten Island is where he and my mom live. It’s where my siblings and I spent our childhood after our mom met Terry, and even though we’re all grown up with our own lives, our own businesses, and our own places to live, it’s still home.
He isn’t taking me there to sober up.
He’s taking me there because this situation requires our mom’s intervention.
“I’ve got work to do.” It’s a poor excuse, and we both know it.
“So, delegate.” Terry is firm.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Terry.”
He smiles. “You think your mom is going to buy that explanation?” It’s a rhetorical question. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.” It’s a lie. I don’t get a say in the matter.
I stand up. The room sways a little, but it could be worse. I could’ve drunk myself into oblivion, puked on Terry’s boots, and then staggered around the city searching for Cash.
We don’t speak in the car. I press my forehead against the cool passenger window and close my eyes, my brain mercifully blank.
Mom is waiting for us in the air-conditioned kitchen when we arrive, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a warning that she means business.
Cash is already there. He looks broken even though there isn’t a mark on him, and that twin connection that has been erratic since Remy Jones walked into our lives instinctively begins to repair itself.
I pull a stool out from under the breakfast bar and sit. This is where Mom’s interventions always take place. Boardrooms are too formal; comfort and familiarity are integral to her offspring’s attention span, and to her thought process.
Mom places a mug of black coffee in front of me and sits across from me and my twin brother cradling her favorite mug with both hands.
Her hair is darker now than it used to be, the spiral curls still trailing down her back.
She has never been inside a gym in her life, but her core is strong, her arms and legs toned from swimming in their pool every morning.
Her strength comes from within. It’s a state of mind rather than a physical achievement.
Terry stands back. Present but giving the floor to our mom.
“Who wants to begin?” Her gaze drifts between me and Cash, waiting for one of us to be brave enough to speak. When it’s clear that neither of us knows what to say, she continues, “Okay, I’ll go first.”
I recognize that tone. It’s laced with disappointment but with a backbone that supports our entire empire. I swallow a mouthful of coffee. It scalds my tongue, exactly what I need.
“Remy Jones. Name ring any bells?” She watches us for a reaction. “College student. Employed at the Rinse until a couple months ago. Received an ultrasound scan earlier today that confirmed she is expecting twins.”
The pregnancy is real. But, of course, I already knew that when it was Remy’s closing statement rather than her opening gambit.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Mom continues, “and suggest that one of you is responsible.”
I wait for Cash to speak. I’m close to all my siblings but sharing a womb with Cash means that I can preempt his next move, I know what he’s going to say as the words form on his tongue.
He’s the speaker. Does he speak for both of us?
Sometimes, I guess, but mostly he understands that I need time to stand back and ponder while he crashes straight into the thick of the action and thinks about it after the event.
This time, he’s quiet. Too quiet. He doesn’t fidget in his seat or raise his eyes or clear his throat. Even mom watches him with narrowed eyes.
“Not one of us,” I say. “Both of us.”
Mom tilts her head like a puppy trying to understand a new instruction. “Let me get this straight. You both fucked the same girl.”
I open my mouth to protest, and she raises a finger to silence me.
“I’m not finished, Bastien.” I know it’s bad when she uses my full name. “How old are you? Don’t answer that. And don’t think that this doesn’t apply to you either, Cassius.” She flashes dark eyes at my brother. “You understand how protection works, right?”
This time, she does expect an answer.
“Yes, Mom.” It’s puny, but what else is there to say? “In the heat of the moment—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Bastien.” It’s my turn to get the death-stare. “Did I teach you nothing? I don’t give a shit about the consequences for you; it’s that poor girl I’m concerned about right now.”
“Mom, you don’t need to—”
“Stop right there. I do need to worry about it because clearly you two can’t own your mistakes.” She steeples her fingers and rests her chin on them. “I need to know how this happened.”
“Mom,” Cash speaks for the first time since I got here. “I’m not sharing the details with you.”
“You’ll do as you’re fucking told, Cassius. Was this a threesome kind of thing? Did she agree—”
“Oh, no, Mom.” I raise both hands, palms outward, to stop her. “You know that’s not who we are. It was consensual. On separate occasions. She… Remy… didn’t realize that we were twins. I… we… had no idea… about each other.”
Fuck. I run a business with a billion-dollar turnover, and I can’t get my words out. I feel like a kid who doesn’t know the right words to articulate how they’re feeling.
She looks at my brother. “Anything you want to add to that?”
He doesn’t make eye contact. “No. It’s like Bash said. I met Remy in the Rinse when Bash was in Ireland. Then shit went down, and he…”
“You never mentioned it,” I blurt out.
Something is building up inside me like a pressure cooker with no controls. I sound petty, tossing accusations around like this. I feel petty. This is playground mentality; it doesn’t apply to me and Cash. I’m better than this.
Or maybe not. “You didn’t tell me that you spent the night in my guest room with a beautiful woman. If you’d told me, I—”
“You what, huh?” Cash is animated again, rage bubbling up beneath the surface. “You’d have left her alone? You’d have fired her for crossing a line with the boss’s brother? Tell me, Bash, what exactly would you have done if you’d known how I felt about her?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t have fallen for her myself, that’s for goddamned sure.”
Cash deflates like a burst tire.
I rest my elbows on the breakfast bar counter and massage my temples with my fingertips. It hurts. It isn’t the half bottle of brandy that I downed before I got here. It’s everything else: this conversation, Remy Jones, the pregnancy, Cash.
“Fallen for her?” Mom’s tone has softened like butter left out of the fridge. “Is that how you feel?”
“Yes. I don’t know. Maybe. Not that it matters now, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Long story.” I sit back on the stool and finish my coffee, telling myself that by the time the caffeine hits, I’ll have figured out how to handle the situation.
“Cash?” Mom hands the spotlight over to my brother.
“I…” He’s struggling too.
Normally, I’d elbow him in the ribs, tell him to get a grip, finish his sentence for him. But not on this occasion.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about her,” he murmurs. “If I hadn’t gotten arrested, I’d have told her how I felt. I didn’t know I was already too late.”
“That makes two of us,” I add.