Chapter 4 #2
Her father pats me on the back. “Thanks for joining us for dinner, Cash.”
“Thank you for the invitation and the meal.”
“That’s all Harbor,” he says, his eyes tracking over to his middle son. He sees his daughter and pulls her into a hug. “How’s my girl really doing?”
With her eyes finding me over his shoulder, she replies, “I’m good, Dad. I’m fine.”
“That’s good.” Turning toward me, he asks, “We’re staying at a house on the water. Do you mind seeing my daughter back to the hotel, Cash?”
“I don’t mind at all, sir.” Though I’m sure she won’t be happy about this arrangement, she doesn’t say anything.
We say our goodbyes and make an exit. Marina’s quiet, seeming to get caught in the moods of her thoughts, which I sense aren’t favoring me kindly after we slide into the back of the Town Car. Though I do catch her gazing at me before she turns away quickly, not uttering a word.
“Are you okay?”
“Actually, I’m not.”
And here I was, thinking she’d be pouting in silence over there. “Well,” I start, checking the time on my watch. “We have about ten minutes if we don’t hit much traffic. Since we’re here, air out your grievances.”
Her hand flips out. “I don’t need anyone to see me home or the hotel or anywhere else for that matter. I’m a grown woman, but I’m still viewed as a child.”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant—”
“I don’t need you to justify it for him. I love my dad. He did nothing wrong in his mind.” She sighs, dropping her hands to her lap and fidgeting with the seat belt.
“You didn’t ask my opinion, but since we’re here doing this dance, I don’t think anyone at that table sees you as incapable.
Quite the opposite. I think they are more worried about the people you encounter.
Ouch!” I joke, rubbing my arm where she lands a solid wallop on my bicep. Chuckling, I say, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
She tries to be serious but just can’t seem to get there, so she laughs instead. “You’re not wrong.” With a fading smile and a heavy released breath, she looks away from me. “I’m not sure where I belong anymore.”
I thought we’d be sitting in silence, letting her emotions move in and out with the tides regarding my company.
I like this better. She’s not putting on a pretense or trying to appear happy for others.
Next to me, she wears sadness like no other emotion fits.
Though I can’t say I’m glad she’s sad around me.
I wish it were the opposite. With me, she’s real.
And I’ll take real any damn day of the week. Sure beats the fake I’m usually served by people trying to infiltrate my inner circle for personal gain.
“I was wrong.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “The great Cash Ryan is admitting fault? Wait, let me get my phone to record this confession. Oh, wait . . . I can’t film because my phone is broken.” Her glare locks on mine under a demandingly arched brow.
“We need to cut the Ryan shit.”
“What are we going to do, then, Mr. Big Shot?” The corners of her lips tilt upward. The vixen.
“As for the phone, are you really that upset? It was an accident.”
“You’re really not going to admit you did it on purpose?”
She makes everything tempting, like a siren calling her prey to drown in the darkest depths of the ocean. “I’m good.”
“Interesting,” she replies.
The hint of attitude I detect in her tone makes me grin. Her sadness may soften my harsher comments, but her confidence is fucking spectacular.
The car stops, and the hotel valet staff opens both back doors at the same time. “Welcome back, Mr. Ryatt.”
“Thank you.” I step out of the vehicle, button my jacket, and wait for Marina to come around to escort her inside. A promise is a promise, even if she doesn’t believe I should keep it.
She walks straight past me as she heads toward the lobby.
“Okay, then.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I drop my eyes to the ground in front of me, hoping no cameras are around to spy.
When I enter the hotel, Marina waits by a huge vase of flowers in the center of the lobby.
My heart beats. My heart . . . beats. I feel alive at the very sight of her—the same as when I’m behind the wheel.
I smile like the luckiest fucker in the world walking toward my girl. Marina Westcott is not mine to claim in title or otherwise, disappointingly.
My sleeve is tugged, causing me to stop and look behind me.
“Sign for me, Cash?” a kid asks, holding a room key card and a marker toward me. He can’t be much older than Cullen, six or seven years old at most. Scanning the area, I try to find the kid’s parents since he’s too young to be alone.
Donning a Westcott Racing hat, the dad steps closer with caution. “Sorry, hope you don’t mind,” he says. “We’re big fans and here for the race this weekend.”
“Happy to sign for the kid. Thanks for coming.” I take the Sharpie and sign the key card before waving it to let it dry.
When I hand it back, I rub the kid’s head, messing up his hair.
Though I’m sure Cullen will get annoyed if I keep doing that to him when he’s a teen, he still finds it funny for now.
So does the kid who giggles, then shows his dad my signature.
He jumps up and down. “Thanks, Cash Ryatt.”
Kneeling, I ask, “What’s your name, and how old are you?”
“Ryan.” I almost want to laugh since I’m a Ryan as well, according to a certain beautiful and frustrating woman I just met. “I’m six this weekend.”
“Happy birthday, Ryan. My son is five, six at the end of the season.” It’s been a week since I’ve seen him, and I can’t wait to get back to New York City to hang with my little buddy again.
The kid asks, “Does he like cars?”
“Unfortunately, he does.” I grin. “Fast ones, like his dad.”
“My dad drives a minivan.”
I glance up at his father and chuckle before turning back to Ryan.
“Safest vehicles on the road. Shows you how much he cares about you.” I stand.
“I need to get going, but it was nice meeting you, Ryan.” I shake his hand and then his dad’s.
We take a quick photo together. I hear the kid oohing and aahing when they walk away.
Kids are the best, so pure in their joy. I miss that. I miss my son even more.
When I turn around, the vase of flowers is still there, but Marina’s gone. I don’t know why I stand there staring like she might reappear, but it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s left.
That’s too bad. I was quite enjoying getting to know her better.
Red flag, Ryatt.
Red fucking flag.
I reach the elevator and punch the button.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap the screen to see a photo of my son.
We had fun that day at the park. He treated me like his hero instead of how the rest of the world views me.
I can live with the bad reputation. That’s a consequence of behaving badly, no matter if it’s justified at that moment. History doesn’t look kindly upon me.
I’m here now to change my legacy and to make my son proud of me. My chest tightens, knowing I won’t get to see him for a few more weeks.
I travel up to my room and sit on the edge of the mattress. I don’t care about the lights of Miami shining outside my windows. I miss my kid, so I send a hopeful text:
Can I call him?
I don’t have time to take a breath before his mother replies:
Cullen’s sleeping.
It’s after ten, so I’m not surprised, but my day doesn’t consist of a nine-to-five we can rely on. Since Terpidy didn’t answer earlier when I called before dinner, that’s three days in a row I haven’t gotten to hear my son’s voice. It puts me on edge when it’s been too long.
I’m known for a short fuse. The internet is full of my tantrums. My temper was part of the reason I lost my seat on the track last time. I can’t risk everything for a momentary lapse. Not again.
I strip down and get ready for bed, but I still haven’t heard from her.
Breathe.
I type:
I can call at ten in the morning. I’d appreciate if he’s available.
There’s a long pause that has my hope she’ll come through for me fading. I need to hear his voice and laughter and make sure he knows how much I love him. I add:
I miss him, Terpidy.
A text pops up:
Eight a.m. sharp. We have a playdate at the park at nine.
I try to be considerate of Terpidy, as my son's mother, but it’s never been an easy relationship. And although this isn’t a negotiation since we share custody equally, I respect the plans they’ve made, especially when it comes to Cullen’s schedule and his life.
I send one more text before calling it a night:
I’ll call him at eight a.m. sharp. Have a good night.
Though I try to be cordial, she doesn’t make the same effort. That’s standard, considering the relationship with Terpidy Byrne is the worst collision I’ve ever been in.
But those darkest days gave me light. My son.
I set my alarm for the morning so I don’t miss this chance, and then I fall into bed.
I’m dead to the world in no time . . . until my phone wakes me at one thirty-nine in the morning. I jump from bed and scramble to find my phone on the nightstand. With fear of the worst happening to those I care about most, I press the phone to my ear. “What? Hello?”
“Cash?”
It’s not the voice I expected.
It’s not my son or my mom. It’s not Terpidy.
Pulling the phone back, I check the screen to see if it’s a number I recognize. It’s not, and it’s not from my personal black book of contacts I keep. As my mind muddles from sleep to reality, causing me to grip the phone tighter in my hand, I give up and ask, “Who is this?”
“It’s Marina . . . Marina Westcott. I need you.”