I think he’s dead.”
“He’s not dead—he’s still breathing.”
“Can you breathe if you’re dead?”
“No. Well, maybe. But you’d need a ventilator.”
Sniff, sniff.
“He smells like he’s dead.”
There’s pressure against my eyelid. And then it’s pried open—revealing Rosaleen’s blurry, peering face.
“Are you dead?” she yells.
Apparently she suspects I’m also deaf.
I reclaim my eye with a jerk of my head.
“Yes, I’m dead.” I roll onto my side, away from the voices. “Let me rest in peace.” Pounding doesn’t being to describe what’s going on in my head right now. It feels like sharp-clawed parasites have burrowed under my skull and are prying it open from the inside. My stomach churns, and although I haven’t puked from alcohol since I was twenty-two, today just might be the day it happens again.
“I could make you feel better, you know.”
That came from Raymond. I shift slowly to my back and crack open my eyes. The four of them—Raymond, Rory, Riley, and Rosaleen—gaze down at me, dressed in their school uniforms, with expressions of curious disgust. Mostly disgust.
“How?”
“Our mom was really into homeopathic cures and supplements. I could mix something for you.”
“Okay.”
And this is how desperate I am—listening to a fucking nine-year-old.
I use the walls for support as I make my way into the kitchen. Chelsea’s there—dressed in tight black leggings and a Berkeley T-shirt that makes her tits look fantastic. If only I felt well enough to show my appreciation properly.
She scoops nasty-looking green slop into Ronan’s mouth—and I almost vomit all over the floor. He seems to enjoy it. “Oh, you’re up,” she says cheerily. Then, less so, “You look awful.”
“That makes sense,” I mutter. “Awful is how I feel.”
I sit at the island while Raymond gets out the blender and starts dumping various juices, capsules, and gelcaps into it. Then he turns the blender on. And my head explodes. After two long minutes, the brown, grainy concoction gets plopped into a glass and set in front of me. They stare at me—even the baby—like I’m the wolf man at those freak-show olden-days carnivals.
“Is this really going to work?” I ask Raymond.
“Well . . .” He purses his lips. “It’ll either work or you’ll throw up. But either way, you’ll probably feel better.”
He does have a point.
I choke it down, trying not to breathe, in a few gulps. Then I burp nastily and my stomach groans. I put my head on the counter. “Somebody fucking kill me.”
“Okay, kids, time for school,” Chelsea tells them, passing out lunch bags and backpacks amid disgruntled moans. I hear them trudge down the hall and out the front door. I think I fall asleep for a few minutes, because the next time I open my eyes and lift my head, it’s just me and Chelsea in the kitchen.
She sets a tall glass of water in front of me, her expression neutral.
“Thank you.”
I don’t remember everything about last night, just a few words and images. But I still feel the need to say, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Why?” she asks, stacking dishes in the sink. “It’s not like you accosted me.”
“No—I definitely would’ve remembered that.”
She glances at me with a quick, fleeting smile.
“Chelsea.” There’s a desperation in my voice that makes her stop and meet my eyes. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day, too. You’re not just a ‘good time’ to me—you know that, right? You have to know that, you’re . . . so much more. And I don’t handle . . . more . . . very well.”
Her stiff expression melts and her eyes go soft and warm. She licks her lips, considering her words, then says, “I missed you. I know it was only a day, and I know that’s probably going to freak you out . . . But I like having you around—and everything that goes with it. We don’t have to . . . move forward if that makes you uncomfortable. I’m good with keeping things just as they are. I think they’re . . . pretty awesome.”
I take her hand, sliding her closer. I press it between my two hands, watching it disappear. So small. So beautiful. “I think they’re pretty awesome too.”
And her smile grows. “Good.”
I yawn and stretch . . . and goddamn, I’m actually beginning to not feel like a dump Death took anymore. Raymond may be onto something with that drink; hope he wrote the recipe down.
“I have to get to work, but before I head home for a change of clothes, I really want a shower.”
Chelsea runs her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. “There are five showers in this house—take your pick.”
I grin. “I like the one in your room.”
The hot water feels amazing on my tight muscles. I hang my head under the rain-shower spout, letting the water run over me, and yesterday washes away. My conversation with Mrs. Holten and Tom Caldwell and the feelings they resurrected circles the drain and goes down.
I step out into Chelsea’s room with a towel around my waist. She’s there, putting sexy scraps of folded lace and satin into drawers. She watches me, staring at the drops of water that trail down my chest, across my abs. My cock preens under her gaze.
And she definitely notices that.
Looking hungrily at the hard outline beneath the towel, she asks, almost breathlessly, “Feeling better?”
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “Much better.”
And the towel doesn’t stay on my hips for long after that.
- • •
In the days that follow, Chelsea and I find our rhythm again, in and out of the bedroom. My life goes back to normal—a strange, different kind of normal that includes her and the kids. One day, Chelsea joins Brent, Sofia, Stanton, and me for lunch—and Sofia holds Ronan on her lap the whole time. I take Rory to Little League tryouts and we all celebrate with pizza on the back patio when he makes the team. Rosaleen starts lessons with a new piano teacher who comes to the house—and I supervise to make sure there’s not a ruler in sight. Riley discovers 5 Seconds of Summer and One Direction gets downgraded—though to be honest, they all look exactly the same to me. Ronan starts sleeping through the night—a huge plus—while Raymond enjoys his torment-free days at school. And Regan flexes her power with her newly expanded vocabulary, telling us all “no” every chance she gets.
It’s pretty great.
But then . . . a day comes along that changes everything. And it all goes to hell.
- • •
After Mrs. Holten’s strong repudiation of her statement and her refusal to assist the prosecution in any case against her husband, Caldwell had no choice but to drop the charges against the senator. And that was recorded as a win in my column. It’s a big fucking deal for me professionally. I’m now Jonas Adams’s pet employee and the favorite guy in the whole world of Senator Holten—a man with considerable influence in DC. Late one Friday afternoon, the senator makes room in his busy schedule to come to our firm, to Jonas’s office, for a meeting with me. To hobnob and discuss my future.
To talk about all the deals the devil wants to make.
We sit on the leather couches in Jonas’s office, enjoying an afternoon scotch. Holten talks about a good “friend” of his who’s being investigated for money laundering. His eyes are dark, bottomless, almost soulless. And it’s kind of creeping me out.
As the senator drones on, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at it discreetly—Chelsea’s name glows on the screen. I send the call to voice mail. But a few minutes later, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when her silent call comes again.
My thumb hovers for a second . . . and then I send it to voice mail again. This may very well be the biggest meeting of my career—hearing about how many feet Ronan crawled today is just going to have to wait.
We finish our drinks, and the talk turns to my recent cases—my latest acquittal. And then Veronica, Mr. Adams’s private secretary, walks into the office, her voice hesitant at interrupting us. “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen.” She looks at me. “Mrs. Higgens is on line one, with an urgent call for you, Mr. Becker.”
My first thought is of the kids, that Rory has gotten himself into some fresh brew of trouble or that one of them, maybe Regan—she’s due—has had an accident. Something minor, of course, a broken bone or a cut that needs stitching.
But I cover the concern with a shrug, eyeing Holten and my boss. “My apologies. The cost of being in high demand.”
Mr. Adams nods his head. “Use my phone, Becker.”
I stand beside his desk as their chatter resumes and press the button under the blinking, waiting light. There’s a click over the line, a pause as it connects . . . and then Chelsea’s voice.
“Jake?”
I hear a lot in that one syllable. Her voice is . . . off. Somehow flat and high-pitched at the same time. And she’s exhaling hard, like when you twist an ankle or slice your hand . . . and have to breathe through the pain.
“What’s wrong?”
“Janet’s here. With . . . officers. They have an . . . an order . . .”
And the floor drops out from under me.
“They’re taking the kids, Jake.”
Nausea slams into my stomach and I feel like I’m falling. Grappling, grasping for a perch to stop the descent.
I swallow bile. “I’m leaving right now. Tell them . . .” I choke down a curse. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
“Hurry,” she begs in a whisper. And the line goes dead.
I replace the phone on the cradle. It takes every ounce of control I have not to sprint out of the fucking room or break my way straight through the wall.
“I’m sorry, I have to leave.” My briefcase is in hand and I’m already walking to the door as my boss calls, “Becker, Senator Holten is only available for this afternoon.”
Gripping the doorknob, I make myself turn and answer. “Again, I’m very sorry we couldn’t speak longer, Senator. But”—I don’t even have to think about my next words—“it’s a family emergency.”
