“Then why are you still with him?” I grind out, my voice low, taut.
She glances at the ceiling, as if she’s grappling with emotions, which at least shows that she cares about something, though I question what that might be at this point. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself that same question, over and over?” she hisses softly, fixing me with a bloodshot stare that suggests she’s fighting tears.
“And how do you answer, Mom?”
“I can’t leave him. Especially not now.”
“Because you care?” I ask in disbelief. “Because he was with that woman at the Four Seasons this morning and you put him with her. That doesn’t sound like caring to me.”
“Do you really think me putting her with him means I want him to choose her?”
I arch a brow. “Doesn’t it?”
She folds her arms in front of her. “Pretending he won’t choose someone else doesn’t make it true.”
Frustration rolls through me and I step closer to her. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, Shane Brandon.” She shoves a shaking hand through her long, dark hair. “You don’t know what it’s been like, and at least I know something about what is going on with him for you and for me. I’m surviving here the only way I can.”
It’s not the only way she can, but I force myself to remember that my father is a hard man who plays with people’s heads. Years of getting the brunt of that had to have had an effect. “What’s the prognosis, aside from terminal?”
“He had some extra testing today, and we won’t have the results for a few days, but surprisingly good.”
“He’s coughing up blood. How can the words ‘surprisingly good’ even be in this conversation?”
“They gave me some long explanation about inflammation to explain why that’s happening. The cancer’s contained in his lungs and only stage one. His chemo will be aggressive but fairly moderate in intensity, which will limit side effects.”
“What about the cancer in his brain?”
“Contained, but you know the story there. That could change any day.”
I run my hand over my jaw. “I’m going in to talk to him.”
She nods and starts to turn. “Mom,” I say.
“Yes?” she asks, facing me.
“We’ll get through this. I promise.”
“I know,” she says, and any remnants of tears or fears are gone, leaving me wondering if I’d imagined them.
She starts walking and I cross the small expanse to my father’s room, pausing at the open door to hear him say, “Damn it to hell, Mike. I told you. I’m handling it.”
I enter the room to find him wearing a hospital gown, and sitting in a fancy leather chair, in the corner by a window, a cell phone in his hand. My gaze flicks to the IV, and I swear, no matter how aware I am of his flaws, the scent of medicine and death is in the air, twisting my gut into knots. He glances up, seeming to sense my presence and quickly tells Mike, “I need to call you back.” There’s a short silence and my father glowers. “I said, I’ll call you back.” He ends the call, and I pass the kitchen and bedroom area to join him in the mock living area, standing over him.
“Have what handled?” I ask, referencing what I’d overhead.
He scowls and snaps, “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“If it’s about the hedge fund you’re hiding from me, you’re wrong. I do.”
“Hiding something infers I care what you think. I don’t.”
“You sure cared when I bailed you out of hot water.”
His lips thin. “Until I make the damn thing come together, it might as well not exist. Why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “I thought it was because my father’s dying of cancer.”
“Take care of business. I’ll take care of me.”
“In other words,” I say, ignoring the brown leather couch and perch on the arm of a chair matching his. “Fuck you, Shane. Got it.” I change the subject. “You’re willing me the apartment. I’m drawing up the contract for you to sign.”
“And because you draw them up, I should sign them why?”
“Because I’m your son and you love me. And because you want me to sign off on that hedge fund that I couldn’t give a shit about.”
“It’s worth fifty million.”
“Like I said, I couldn’t give a shit. I’ll leave the contract with your new secretary. Unless you’ve already run her off.”
“Emily doesn’t intimidate easily,” he says, his index finger thrumming on the arm on the chair. It’s his “tell” he doesn’t know he possesses, and I have one of the answers I came for. Derek or my mother told him about Emily, and considering he was coordinating the Nina Thompson payoff, it seems safe to assume he’s well aware of the Martina cartel’s involvement in the company. “It’s rather refreshing,” he adds.
“You’ll have to step up your game then,” I say dryly. “We wouldn’t want people thinking you went soft. Speaking of the impression you’re making. Unless you want me to know things like you were coughing up blood as you left the Four Seasons this morning, I’d change hotels. Though I do enjoy the flow of information.” I stand. “I assume I won’t see you at the office today since you don’t like to appear weak, and you never know how the chemo cocktail they chose this time will affect you.” I head for the door.