Mended (Connections #3)
Page 31“You’re not joking, are you?”
“Nope,” he says with a grin.
“That explains the practically n*ked women dancing on the tables.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Let’s have a seat and take a better look. Order a drink and I’ll show you how it’s done here.”
Once we sit down, I raise a finger and quirk it my way. He leans forward and I say, “You don’t have to show me anything. But I’ll definitely take a drink.”
“Calm down, man, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says as he whips out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. Exhaling the smoke in a ring, he motions a waitress in our direction. She’s at our table before he even takes another drag. The voluptuous brunette is wearing fishnet hose and a see-through bra with her tits pushed up. She bends down enough to give me a perfect view of her ni**les. She asks me what I’m drinking and once I tell her she shimmies over to Leif and does the same thing. I shake my head when he tucks a twenty between her br**sts. A few minutes later her tits are back in my face and she’s sliding a gin and tonic my way. “Thanks.” I slip her a twenty across the table.
“Anything else?” It’s easily understood she’s talking about things not on the menu.
I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say and lean back in the booth. I start to relax a little when the cold and icy mixture hits my lips. I hold the liquid in my mouth and let the ice slide across my tongue as I watch Leif place a hand on the waitress’s hip, then slide it down to her ass. She whispers in his ear and then dances off into the crowd, letting at least a dozen other shitfaced men touch her in the same way.
Leif slams his drink back. “I’ll be back in ten,” he says with a sly grin.
“Don’t catch anything,” I mutter.
“Man, it’s just a hand job. What could I possibly catch? And if you change your mind, just ask any of the girls down here. A hundred bucks and it’s yours.”
“Sorry. I’ve never paid to have someone touch my dick and I don’t think I will tonight.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s just easier. I don’t feel like charming some chick right now, and my guess is neither do you. But serve yourself.” He laughs and walks away mimicking jerking off.
Two thoughts hit me almost simultaneously . . . I need to enroll in Jedi training classes before approaching the ninja again and I have to get the hell out of here—out of both this club and this town.
• • •
I awake in the darkness, glancing quickly at my watch to see it’s eight a.m. East Coast time. After leaving the bar last night, I went to the bus, packed my shit, and left a note for the guys that said I wanted to check on River and Dahlia and I’d be in touch. That was all they needed to know. I took a cab to Dulles International and waited for the next flight to LA.
Sitting here, I remember I probably won’t have a car when I get back—I make a mental note to call Ena and tell her to do whatever she has to do to get my car out of impound and have it delivered to my house. I think today is Sunday, but I’ve lost track of the days. Once the wheels touch the ground I turn my phone on to check the date and there are more than twenty missed calls and messages. Fuck. I turn it back off. It is Sunday—a day of rest—and I think I’ll take advantage of it.
I manage to exit the secure area of the terminal in record time. There’s some kind of commotion in the airport. There are at least twenty reporters and photographers in the vicinity. Cameras are to eyes and microphones are in hands as soon as I exit security, and they all head toward me. A woman shoves her microphone in my face and asks, “Is it true that Dylan Wolf was your biological father?”
That stops me in my tracks. There are more strangers surrounding me, yelling out ridiculous questions that seem more like statements. It hurts to breathe. I swallow hard as cameras flash repeatedly in my face. “Come again. What?”
A sick feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before overtakes me. Still, I just stand there and stare at her. What the hell is she talking about?
“Do you have a comment? Dylan Wolf died before you were born but were you close with Josh Wolf? How do you feel about sharing control of Sheep Industries with Damon Wolf? Are you in love with Ivy Taylor? Did your mother love your father . . .” Questions from all directions and of all kinds surround me and I can’t answer a single one. How is this happening? I only just learned Damon had a twin brother who overdosed and now I’m hearing his name again. Where the hell did this come from? What are these people talking about?
“Xander!” I hear Jack’s voice calling my name.
I look ahead and see his face through the crowd. My heart pounds in my chest and threatens to break in two—why is he here to pick me up? His expression looks pained, and right away I know that what these people are yelling out can be nothing but the truth. He approaches me with a team of airport security behind him. Clutching my arm, he tries to thread us through the vultures.
“Come on, follow me,” he directs, and I do, only because I need to get the hell away from the chaos that’s trailing behind me.
His car is parked out front and he opens his door. I get in, feeling numb. He stops and talks to one of the men on the security team, then climbs in the car.
“Xander . . .” Jack reaches across the car to touch my shoulder.
He pulls me out of my trance and I jerk away. “What the hell is going on?”
“I want your mother to explain this to you.”
Through gritted teeth I say, “Jack, I need you to tell me what the hell’s going on.”
He pulls out of the airport and speeds onto the highway. “Josh Wolf died today and his son Damon decided to make a public announcement.”
“I f**king gathered that. Is it true?”
He grips the steering wheel and hits the gas. A minute passes and he still doesn’t answer me.
“Is it true?” I yell.
“Yes, son, it is.”
“Pull over now. I need a drink.”
“Your mother is waiting for us at home.”
A scowl tightens my mouth. “I’m not your f**king son and I said I need a drink. Either pull off at the next exit or stop the car so I can get out.”
I glare at him from where I’m sitting at the bar. “What exactly are ‘a few things’? I think there is one thing—that Nick Wilde wasn’t my father and she never told me.”
“You’re wrong, son. Nick may not have been your biological father, but he was your father in the ways that count.”
“Scotch, neat. Make it a double,” I order. The bartender pours the amber liquid in a tumbler and I pound it back, then slam the glass down. I nod and he pours another.
“What do you know about it?” I ask Jack, after I’ve finished off the second glass and motioned the bartender back over.
“Two shots of tequila,” I tell the bartender, deciding a couple of shots might help faster than another drink.
“I only know what your mother told me today.”
I shrug my shoulders. “So she kept you in the dark, too. Why is that?”
“Xander, I understand you’re upset—and you have every right to be—but I think you need to let your mother explain everything to you.”
I lick the back of my hand and salt it. I tilt the shot back and suck on the lime, then toss back the second one straight up.
“What happened? Did she cheat on Nick when he was on the road? Was that the catalyst behind his career tanking?”
His hand grips my shoulder and this time he’s not trying to comfort me—he’s warning me. “I get this is a shock and I’ll let you take the brunt of it out on me. But I’m telling you right now, you will listen to your mother and treat her with the respect she deserves.”
“She cheated on Nick. What does that deserve?” I spit out.
“Xander, I can tell you this. She never cheated. She and Nick broke up right after he went on the road. She was seeing Dylan Wolf on and off for a while when you were conceived, but he died before he ever knew she was pregnant.”
Anger washes over me and I know I should just shut my mouth. My hand flies up in the air without conscious thought. “Bartender, another,” I yell. I don’t want to hear another word because already the use of the word conceived makes me want to puke right here. I am so f**king relieved when the conversation finally disappears from my mind and into the next tequila shot.
CHAPTER 17
You’re Not Alone
A ray of moonlight through my window brings me to consciousness. I sit straight up, staring into his face, wild and fierce, full of hate. It takes me a moment to realize he is me. I struggle to find the floor and then stumble to the mirror over the dresser. I peer at the reflection; it’s murky, but I can see it now—I look like him. If I look like Damon, he must look like his brother. How did I not see it?
Devastation, anger, and remorse run through me in a cacophony. I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I squeeze my eyes shut as a rapid succession of faces flies across a blank canvas in my mind. My family, the ones I belong to . . . but not really. I shake off that thought and try to persuade myself that my conception doesn’t change anything. But I know it does. If it didn’t, why did no one ever tell me?
I bend over and purge myself of my thoughts and the alcohol. Vomiting profusely, I fall to my knees and wrap my arms around the toilet. A rush of memories that I haven’t thought about in years surfaces, only causing me to want to expel the toxicity even more. I spit in the bowl one last time, making sure every ounce of wretchedness is gone.
“Feel any better?” my brother’s voice asks from behind me.
I slowly turn my head, not sure if any of my senses are functioning. It’s River, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. His eyes are red, bloodshot, even more so than when I left him two days ago.
“What are you doing here?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m here for you.”
“You should be home with your wife.”
“Bell’s with her and I should be here with you. I want to talk to you. I’ve been calling you and when I called Mom for the hundredth time Jack finally got on the phone and filled me in.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.”
He stares at me. “Not happening. We can talk . . . or not. Your choice, but I’m not leaving.”
My heart rate picks up speed as I try to stand up, and he extends his arm to help me. I take it. He feels like my brother. He’s the same guy he always was— except we no longer share the same father.
I get a close look at him. “You look like shit.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself.” Then with his voice full of sarcasm, he adds, “You want another drink?”
“Fuck off,” I tell him. “And I’m not talking about it. I’m going back to f**king bed.”
“Suits me. I’m pretty exhausted myself.” He follows me into my bedroom.
I kick my boots off and peel out of my jeans before sliding into the sheets. He stares at me and throws himself on the bed.