Page 82 of From West, With Regret

I begin to mentally sift through all the bank accounts in my name and any that can be tied to my mother, but none come to mind. I only have my business ones and my personal accounts.

“The account I opened after you were adopted, West.” My mother scoffs, already exhausted with having to explain. “I opened a single savings account for you and Heath after you joined our family.”

“Seriously?” I ask her, the veins popping in my neck with anger. “You opened an account with my name on it and never even told me? Now you’re accusing me of stealing money from it?”

Her patience wears thin. In fact, it completely disappears. Her once simple, kind expression is now filled with indignation and hatred that’s being directed at me.

“Your brother is dead, so it couldn’t have possibly been him. I know you touched it,” she spits out, her lips curled, barring her porcelain veneers. “All of it is gone.”

I’m losing my shit. I curl my fingers into a tight fist, and suddenly I’m wishing I could drive it right into the fucking wall. But I’m not my brother, and I don’t want to scare my mother, no matter how unreasonable she’s being.

“How could I possibly touch it when I didn’t even know about it? I’m literally just finding out about this now.”

“Where is the money?” She grinds out, stepping closer to me.

“Asking the same question over and over won’t magically change the answer. Why don’t you just ask the bank where the money went? Someone who works there must know where it went.” I state as calmly and rationally as possible, forcing my blood to stop boiling. “Berating me isn’t going to get you anywhere, because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Patrons at the bar glance over their shoulders, and I feel eyes looking up at me from the tables surrounding us. From the corner of my eye, Lewis is filling a draft beer, and he’s close to letting it spill over with how hard he’s staring at us. Piper is nowhere to be found.

“Did you give it to her?” Mom asks, nodding toward upstairs.

What the actual fuck?

“What?” I ask, not recognizing the woman in front of me. “Seriously?”

“Heath made it pretty clear she isn’t to be trusted, Weston.” She sneers. “If I find out you took our money and gave it to her”—she points an angry finger over my shoulder—“that slut –“

“Get out.”

“What did you just say to me?” Her stiff eyebrows slant dramatically.

“I said get out. This is my bar, and I won’t have you talking this way in front of my customers. I won’t allow you to talk about London that way either.” The oxygen gets lodged somewhere in my throat over the fact that the woman I’m kicking out of my bar has been the only mother figure to ever give me a true life. But like I said, I don’t recognizeher anymore.

Her mouth falls open, and her chin trembles. “I’m your mother.”

“That’s right. You are,” I tell her. “But that doesn’t excuse the horrible things you’ve said about me and London. Now, get out.” This time, I’m the one pointing.

Tears well in her eyes, and it takes everything in me not to cave. Iwantto give in, but I can’t unhear her accusations andthatword that spilled from her mouth. The name she easily called London.

“I know you took it, and I’m going to find out why,” she snaps, spinning on her sharp heel. She swipes her handbag from where she tossed it on the counter and forces her way out the front door.

I stand frozen, the muscles in my arms tense as my nails cut into the inside of my palms. I clench my teeth so hard, I’m certain they’re going to crack. My skin is hot and filled with anger. I think about my childhood. The constant bullying from Heath. The constant hatred spewed toward me. The competition and need to prove he was the better, more legitimate son. I was the extra. The unwanted. The spare.

My vision turns hazy, and I think I might pass out. Forcing myself to breathe, the air sears my lungs, burning every inch of flesh.

I look around. The entire bar has fallen silent. All eyes are on me, bouncing between me and the front door.

Then I remember London.

She’s still upstairs. Waiting for me.

I leave everyone downstairs, as well as the remnants of my argument with my mother. Her accusations. Her hatred. All of it.

I race up the stairs two at a time, my feet beating against the loosening floorboards. My hand slaps against the wooden door, and it flies open, catching the attentionof London.

She spins around on her toes and leans back against the shelf. Glass bottles clink and wobble as she steadies herself.

First, she’s excited to see me, then her eyebrows pull together in concern.

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