My hands are sweating so bad, my phone slips free as I try to put it in my purse. I lean over in my car, grab it from the floorboard, and take a deep breath. “It’s just a meeting. Nothing more.”
I take another breath, let it out.
I do that three more times, and when it doesn’t help, I mutter, “Fuck it.”
After tossing my phone in my purse, I wipe my hands on my jeans and exit my car.
The small coffee shop is in an area of Pittsburgh I’m familiar with as I went to high school not far from here. When I step inside, I search the tables and immediately see the reporter, Carmine Betta. I recognize him quickly only because he’s with my mother, and I’m stunned to see her here.
They’re sitting at a back table that seats four, and my mom waves at me with a big smile. My stomach pitches, and I almost turn and march right back out the door, but Carmine stands from his chair and beckons me toward him. With leaden feet, I wind through tables only half-filled with patrons, given we’re past the morning rush.
“Ms. Kisner,” he says, sticking out a hand as my mom stays seated. “Carmine Betta.”
He hands me a business card, and I glance at it before shoving it in my purse.
“Hi,” I say, shaking his hand and then wincing that I didn’t wipe my sweaty palms once more. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he’s too much of a gentleman to point it out.
And for that matter, the guy doesn’t seem like a sleazy tabloid reporter, although I’ve never met one before. He’s well dressed, although casual, with dark jeans, a white button-up shirt, brown corduroy jacket, and a green plaid cashmere-looking scarf. He wears rimless bifocals, and his dark wavy hair is liberally sprinkled with gray. I’d peg him in his late fifties.
“Please… have a seat. Can I get you a coffee or something?”
“No, I’m good.” I sit down and turn to look at my mom. “What are you doing here?”
My tone is a little brittle, and she pulls back slightly. Heavy makeup covers her bruising well, although I can still see the swelling in her cheek. I wonder if Carmine knows the sordid details as to why my mom needs this money.
The reporter sits and pulls his own coffee closer. He crosses one leg over the other. “Thank you for meeting me. I understand you’re dating Hendrix Bateman.”
Shit. What did my mother and Randy tell this guy? It never occurred to me to ask what she said.
I don’t dare look at her because I don’t want this guy to know that I’m unsure of myself. “I want to first say that I’m not agreeing to an interview about any Titans player or the organization at this time. Everything here is off the record, or whatever you call it.”
Carmine holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. This is just a meeting to see if you have something worthwhile and what our terms would be.”
“Terms? I understand you’d pay ten thousand for a story.”
“For an exclusive story chock-full of interesting information that no one else knows,” he clarifies as his hands drop.
“I don’t have that for you.”
Carmine smiles knowingly. “Of course you do. The question is whether you’re willing to give it up. If it makes you feel better, I protect my sources at all costs. That means I wouldn’t give up your name, even if a judge ordered me to do so upon threat of going to jail. In other words, I’d go to jail before I’d give you up.”
“What does that matter?” I ask bitterly. “If the story you want is a juicy exclusive about Hendrix Bateman, it would be obvious the story was from me.”
“So, you are dating Hendrix?” he asks. When I don’t confirm it, he waves the question off. “It’s no matter. That’s information I could verify easily enough. But let’s discuss whether you have something worthwhile.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask hesitantly, and I hate myself for even putting that question out there. It makes me officially complicit in betraying Hendrix and/or his friends.
“Something the public doesn’t know, but it’s fine if others do. Most likely something that’s known within the organization but has been kept inside for reasons.”
I don’t say anything, but Hendrix has told me all kinds of things, especially how hard last year was after the crash. Not only on him, Camden, and Coen as the Lucky Three, but on everyone trying to rebuild and the immense pressure that came with it.
“Oooh,” my mom gushes, tapping her hand on the table. “Tell him about Stone proposing to Harlow.”
“Mom,” I exclaim in horror as I whip around to face her. “Stop that. That is private and personal.” I turn to Carmine. “You cannot report that. You can’t—”
“Relax,” Carmine says. “You said everything was off the record.”
“And my mom only knows that because I told her. She doesn’t know it to be true, so she’s no good as a source.” I turn to her. “And please don’t add anything else, or I’m out of here.”
“Fine,” my mom says and mimes that she’s zipping her lips. Then she immediately breaks it. “Look… try to think of something you could’ve overheard at the bar one night when the team was there. Something other people might know so you wouldn’t be an obvious source.”
Carmine leans forward. “Like I said… you don’t have to be the only one to know it. Just the only one who’s willing to tell.”
A thought strikes me. “Everything I say is off the record, right?”
“Absolutely,” Carmine says.
“Okay, for example—but I’m not giving you permission to use this… last year someone was in an accident and wrecked the car of a teammate, and there were some issues arising from that. Something like this?”
I feel comfortable divulging that because Hendrix told me an accident report was filed, so it’s public record.
“Yes, exactly like that,” Carmine says with excitement, his eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite define. “If you give me details of what happened—”
“Wait a minute,” I say, studying him for a long moment. Deep in his eyes, I see something salacious. And suddenly, despite the fact everything about him to this point has seemed very professional, I get an uneasy feeling.
Add to that I’m absolutely heartsick over even sitting here, contemplating this harebrained scheme.
“Honey,” my mom says, because I’m sure she’s reading my doubt in the set of my shoulders. She grips my arm. “This is the only way to ensure I can get the money.” She tightens her hold and leans in to whisper so Carmine can’t hear. “The only way to save my life.”
My chest feels like someone kicked it in with a steel-toed boot. The rush of emotions twists my stomach—guilt over what I’d be doing to Hendrix, anger at my mom for putting me in this position, and confusion on how I can help her and still maintain my integrity.
And then it hits me.
It’s so very simple. I can’t keep my morals and principles intact if I do this.
Absolute regret almost releases a sob from my throat, but I punch it down. Grabbing my purse, I stand up so quickly, my chair topples over. I look down at my mom. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. You’re asking me to break trust with a man I care for, and I can’t do it.”
“Even at my expense?” she asks. “I could be hurt… killed.”
“I’ll find another way,” I mutter, stepping back from her and righting the chair. “I’m sorry.”
I spin and rush out of the coffee shop, coming to a stop as soon as the cold air hits my lungs. I bend over, gasping as my entire body locks up, wondering if I’ve just made the right decision. I try to take in a deep breath, feeling I’m on the edge of a panic attack.
Never had one before, but it’s like I’m balancing a stack of plates on my fingertip and they’re about to come crashing down.
“How could you do this, Stevie?”
I spin around to find my mom has followed me out. I straighten and shore up my spine when I see the anger in her eyes. I hear it in her tone. “I’m sorry, but you can’t ask me to compromise myself. I’ll figure out something else.”
“You’ve had two weeks already,” she snaps.
“I’ll see about taking out a business loan or something.”
“That will take too long.”
A wave of fury crashes through me. “Goddamn it, Mom. This is not my problem, it’s yours. You’ve done nothing throughout my life to give me any reason to help you, and yet here I am trying. How dare you even act offended by my inability to pull ten thousand dollars out of thin air?”
She steps in close to me, her expression softened with tears filling her eyes. “I may not have been a good mom, but I’m still your mother. I’m your blood. And I may not have been there before, but I’m here now. I’m trying.”
I take in a breath and let it out. “Yes… I know. But I have my limits on what I’m willing to do for you, and that reporter is a hard limit.”
“Ungrateful brat,” she hisses at me, and I’m so stunned by this abrupt turnabout from teary-eyed guilt trip that I step back. “You wonder why I left? It’s because of that very reason. You were a little monster, always whining and pulling on me. You and your sisters… sniffling little brats always so demanding of my time.”
“Stop it,” I whisper.
“You know it’s true. If you were a better kid, maybe I would have stuck around.” She steps in closer to me, lips peeled back in a rage. “You’re useless, Stevie. Absolutely a waste of space.”
Many people might be destroyed by the backlash she just handed me, but my father built me of sterner stuff. Years of therapy, journaling, and a good role model has prepared me for this, the day when I have to confront my mom and her failings—again.
In my heart of hearts, I know she’s absolutely wrong about me. The strength of my spine isn’t bent by her hateful barrage. There’s even a place inside me that pities her.
But I am hurt because I’d thought maybe we could have some type of relationship. All my hopes were just ground to dust, and I feel like I’m choking on it.
I’m not a glutton for punishment, however, and I know it’s time to walk. I pivot and step around my mom, heading to the edge of the sidewalk.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” she calls out.
I ignore her, look left, then right, grateful to the traffic gods there’s an opening. I push my hand into my purse to grab my keys as I jog across the street.
“You unappreciative bitch!” she yells, and that actually makes me laugh as I reach my car.
I’m unappreciative? The irony is too much.
I don’t even look over at her as I get in, start the engine, and pull into traffic when there’s a break.
I drive straight to my dad’s tattoo shop.
♦
I enter through the front door rather than the bar. I’d planned on taking the day off because I wasn’t sure how this morning’s meeting would go, and I made the right call. I’m a little shaky now that the adrenaline is wearing off.
One of his artists, Samuel, is at the reception desk, reading a magazine. He looks up and smiles. “Hey, Stevie. Looking for your dad?”
“Yeah. He in with a customer?”
Samuel shakes his head. “Just finished up. He’s in the break room.”
“Thanks.” I head to the back, passing by the various workstations, some of which are filled. The shop is open from early morning to midnight, so the artists all work different shifts.
I push open the break room door, my eyes immediately locking on my dad who’s leaning against the sink counter. His arms are folded, and he’s listening to one of his employees.
It takes him a nanosecond to know something’s wrong. “Everyone out,” he growls.
Chairs are pushed back, and there’s a mad scramble past me. When the door shuts, my dad asks, “What’s wrong?”
Just minutes ago, I felt strong. I’d held my ground, saved my morals, stood up to a toxic mother. Now that I’m in my daddy’s presence and I see the love and concern in his eyes, not to mention he knows me so well—he just knows something’s wrong—I lose my shit.
I start crying. Rivers pour down my cheeks, and I bend in half, hugging my stomach.
“Jesus fuck,” my dad grumbles, and then I’m in his embrace. He rocks me back and forth, his voice gentle with affirmations. “It’s all right. Let it out. Whatever this is, I’ve got your back, Carrots.”
I shake my head, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face in his chest. And I just cry.
“Did that asshole do something to you?” he snarls.
That actually makes me laugh, and I turn my head to the side. “No… not Hendrix. He’s perfect, and you know he’s not an asshole.”
“Then it’s your mom.” His words are confident and without hesitation.
He knows.
“It’s awful, Dad.” I tip my head back to look at him. “Think of the worst thing and just know it’s worse than that.”
“She’s probably got you embroiled in some scheme or drama,” he says quietly.
I blink in surprise, pulling all the way out of his embrace.
“You don’t think I know that woman?” my dad grumbles. “Jesus, Stevie. I watched her walk away from the most precious angel in the world, so I know she’s got a few screws loose.”
My gaze falls away in shame that I let myself go down that rabbit hole with her.
“Want to tell me about it?” he asks.
“Um…” My eyes slide up to meet his. “I don’t think so. I handled it myself. It’s over.”
“Over?”
“As in I can’t have a relationship with her. At all. The why of it isn’t important.”
My dad accepts that and doesn’t push. He knows if I need to get it off my chest, he’s there for me.
My rock.
“All right. If you’re good, I’m good.”
“I’m good,” I say, taking stock of my feelings. I’m actually at peace, knowing that I tried with my mom, and that my dad—as always—has my back.
“Want to come hang out with me while I do a back piece?” he says.
“Sure,” I say with a smile. I’ve got nothing else to do until it’s time to head to the arena. Brienne Norcross invited me to join her and the other ladies I met through Harlow at Mario’s last week.
I’m really excited about it—not just seeing a game from the owner’s box but to hang out with Harlow. Our adult lives have been so busy the last few years, her with opening her own law firm and me with the bar, there hasn’t been much free time to socialize. The fact that we’re both dating Titans players means we can at least see each other when they play at home.
After the game, Hendrix and I are going out. I want to take him up the Duquesne Incline, and then we’ll stay at his place for convenience.
Then hopefully, by the time Hendrix and I wreck each other in bed, I’ll be over any remaining funk my mom has caused and tomorrow will be a much brighter day.
