Page 44 of His Lair
Like I said, usually, it’s money. She drops in and leaves the next day. She’s been here for weeks this time and hasn’t told me why. I went ahead and checked her accounts. She’s not dry yet. I did, however, top them off anyway in hopes she’d disappear again. That didn’t work.
I walk into my penthouse, shrug out of my jacket, and hang it on the hook by the elevator. I need a fucking drink, something to take the edge off before I face my mother. So I head straight to the wet bar in the living room. I get to the halfway point when the ping of the elevator doors sounds out again, followed by the sound of heels clicking against the marble floors.
Taking a deep breath, I school my features. I will not let my mother see how much Lailani means to me. I will not let Lailani get twisted up in my fucked-up world. Without saying a word, I look at my mother and then turn around and continue walking towards the wet bar. After pouring myself a healthy dose of whiskey, I turn back to her.
“You’re not going to offer me a drink?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “Sit down.” I point to the sofa and wait for her to do as she’s instructed before dropping into the seat across from her. Neither of us says anything for what seems like hours—it’s been minutes.“What do you want?”
“You really like her,” my mother states. I don’t bother to ask her who she’s talking about.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
“I met someone,” she says.
That was the last thing I expected her to say. “What do you mean you met someone?”
“A man. I met a man,” she clarifies.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has sworn off men. I’ve never even known her to date. And if she did, she kept it from me.
“Who?” I question. All I need is a name. Whoever the fuck she’s got herself involved with is either after her money, or vice versa. My mother doesn’t love anyone other than herself—and me, in her own twisted fucking way.
“He’s… not someone you know,” she replies.
“What’s his name and where did you meet him? And again, what do you want?” I press. We both know that her dating life is not why she’s here.
“I met him on a cruise, and I really like him. We’re getting married. I want you to be there,” she tells me.
I blink. It hasn’t passed me that she still hasn’t given me this guy’s name. “Liking someone usually isn’t a reason to marry them,” I remind her. “What’s his name?”
“John.”
“Does John have alastname?” I ask.
“Don’t do that. I know you’re going to look into him and you’re not going to like what you find. But I am marrying him, and you are going to be there with your blessing,” she says.
“Why won’t I like what I find?” Now I’m more intrigued than ever.
“He’s not like you, Sammie. He’s not… He’s legit. Clean,” she says, looking out the window before adding in a much quieter voice, “He’s a detective.”
The laugh that leaves my mouth is maniacal. She has to be fucking with me. “Sure, Ma, you’ve gone and got yourself engaged to a cop.”
“I’m serious, Sammie. John wants to meet you,” she insists.
“Oh, I bet he does.” I shake my head. “This isn’t happening. You’re not marrying a goddamn fucking cop.” The glass in my hand flies across the room, hitting the wall and shattering.
“I am.”
I lift a challenging brow at her. “You’re an addict. How does that even work, living with a cop?”
“I’m clean. I’ve been clean for three months. You would know if you cared to spend two minutes with me, instead of running off to your whore,” she hisses.
My jaw tightens. I know what she’s doing. Trying to get me to react. It’s not going to work. “You’re clean?” I ask, laughing at the thought.
“I am,” my mother says.
I’m not going along with this crazy idea of hers. “You cannot marry a fucking cop, Ma. Are you forgetting just where your money comes from?”
