The Dirty Truth, page 8
Her gaze drops to the marble-inlay floor of my entryway as the antique grandfather clock to the left chimes thrice—as if I needed to be reminded it’s the middle of the longest damn night of my life.
“And what the hell were you doing at Penn Station?” I circle her, my fingertips digging into my temples. “Did you think you could just . . . hop a train back to Whitebridge? That’s not how it works. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Is that your goal here? Because if it is, you’re well on your way.”
I didn’t spend all my time, effort, money, and energy rescuing her from a grim and perilous existence only to stand back and let her take a one-way ticket back to that hellhole. She’s safer with me than she’ll ever be with anyone else, and that’s a verifiable fact.
She responds with flinching shoulders and silence, as usual.
“What’s it going to take, Scarlett? Tell me. Because short of injecting you with a microchip tracking device, you’re leaving me no choice”—I pause—“but to send you to a boarding school with twenty-four-hour security.”
Working for years and spending a small fortune to ensure my niece was in good hands only to ship her off to be someone else’s problem is far from ideal, but my options are waning.
As if I’ve flipped a switch, her jaw falls and her pale eyes grow wild. “You’re seriously going to ditch me?”
Ignoring the piercing tightness in my chest and the urge to look away, I speak through gritted teeth. “The choice is yours, Scarlett. If you choose to run away again, you’re choosing boarding school. If you choose to go to school and live by the rules I’ve set in place for your own safety, then you’ll stay here and finish high school in the city.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.” Her nose crinkles with infuriating teenage defiance.
“Test me.” I step closer, narrowing the gap between us.
She smells like the night air with a mix of train-station filth and drugstore raspberry body spray.
“Get cleaned up and go to bed,” I say. “You have school in the morning. And I’m arming the apartment tonight in away mode, so if you so much as step out of your room for a glass of water from the kitchen, I’ll know.”
“I hate you!”
“Someday you won’t. Until then, good night, Scarlett.”
My temperamental niece storms down the hall, and within seconds her door slams shut and angsty emo shit blasts at full volume.
Heading to my study, I pour two fingers of scotch from a limited-edition bottle of Macallan and settle into a chair to collect my thoughts and calm myself in hopes I’ll be able to nab a couple of hours’ sleep before my day begins.
Parenthood was never something I wanted to check off my list, and being a father—or father figure—is something I’ve gone out of my way to avoid in my thirty-seven years, because a man knows his strengths just as well as he knows his weaknesses.
Marriage, kids, domesticity, patience—those things have never been on my radar. But a few years ago, I flew home to attend my mother’s funeral, and that was when I saw Scarlett. I hadn’t seen her since she was a curly-haired baby, barely walking and never without a pink pacifier in her mouth. But after seeing her at the memorial, emaciated and unwashed, shadowing her mother—who was clearly in the throes of addiction again—I had to intervene.
I couldn’t, in good conscience, depart Whitebridge and leave my only niece to grow up in drug-addicted squalor. Once upon a time, I thought it was enough to send a check every month—believing that it was more than enough to provide them a comfortable life. Denial allowed me to turn a blind eye to reality, and my fixation on chasing my own dreams only fueled that. But I wouldn’t be the man I am today if I didn’t have the capacity to learn from my mistakes and admit when I need to change course. The instant I understood the circumstances surrounding Scarlett’s living conditions, I didn’t hesitate to call my attorney and piece together a plan to get her away from Lexi and under my custodial care.
Unfortunately, the court doesn’t simply terminate parental rights because someone’s an unfit parent. Turns out there’s an entire elaborate system and a million hoops to jump through in addition to a myriad of opportunities for the parent to prove to the courts that they’re fit.
Scarlett’s mom put up a good fight, but in the end, she loved the pipe and the bottle more than her daughter, and she couldn’t keep the facade going any longer.
My only regret is that I waited as long as I did, but given the fact that I avoided my hometown like the plague, I’d never known how bad it was for Scarlett.
They say ignorance is bliss, but sometimes that very same bliss will screw you over.
I take an unhurried sip of liquor, letting the thick amber liquid burn on the way down, and then I remind myself Scarlett never learned boundaries from her mother. She never knew the love of a father—seeing how hers died when she was a baby—and her mother never could keep a decent man around longer than a few months at a time.
I also remind myself that I’m new at this, that Scarlett didn’t come with an instruction manual.
My brother, Will, was nineteen when he knocked up his seventeen-year-old girlfriend. The situation was less than ideal, of course, but in small-town, backwoods Whitebridge, that sort of thing happened all the time.
As his older brother, I wanted better for him. I told him to man up and do the right thing to take care of his family. Given that school was never his forte and the best jobs in Whitebridge hardly paid livable wages, we both decided the army was the next logical step.
Or rather, he hemmed and hawed, so I decided for him.
His heartsick girlfriend, Lexi, wrote him letters every day when he was at boot camp, sending update pictures of her growing belly with each passing week. Fortunately, Will’s first return home coincided with the birth of their baby. But within the first six months of Scarlett’s life, her father was stationed overseas.
For as long as I live, I’ll never forget sitting in Mom’s garage, sipping beers as he tried to act brave and I tried to act brave for him. By the end of the night, we’d each polished off a six-pack, and I’d promised—on my life—to watch over his girls should he not make it home alive.
With a punch to the arm and a healthy dose of denial, I’d told him to shut the hell up with that kind of talk.
And then I’d promised.
Five months later, he and eight other soldiers were taken out by a roadside IED after handing out water and blankets to civilians in some war-torn Middle Eastern city.
Not a day goes by that I don’t hate myself for pushing him into the military.
If I hadn’t been so damn adamant and had let Will think for himself for once, he’d still be here, and I have no doubt he’d be one hell of a father to Scarlett.
The kind she deserves.
He was always so good with kids—maybe because he was just a big kid himself. But they always seemed to gravitate toward him, toward his gigantic smile and willingness to make a fool of himself for a couple of laughs.
We were night and day, Will and I.
But he was my best friend.
And I’d give everything I have right now for one more day with him.
I may have stepped into Scarlett’s life a little later than I should have, but I can’t let my brother down again. I can’t ship his daughter off for someone else to deal with after I gave him my word.
I have to make this work.
If I don’t, I’ve failed Will and Scarlett—the only family I’ve ever given a damn about.
Tossing back the remainder of my scotch, I rest the empty tumbler on a coaster—next to the copy of Made Man Scarlett was paging through earlier in the evening. In her haste to leave, she left it open on Elle’s February article.
Grabbing the magazine, I examine her photo, but this time in a different light.
Intelligent, accomplished, and unapologetically honest, she’s precisely the type of influence Scarlett needs in her life, and given that Elle is currently without a job . . .
I fold the issue and place it back on the coffee table.
Elle would never.
Unless I make her an offer she can’t refuse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELLE
“Hello?” Because it’s a lazy Friday morning and I have nothing better to do, I answer a random number that I fully expect to be either spam or my doctor’s office calling with an automated appointment reminder.
“Elle.” A man’s velvet voice fills my ear. “Didn’t think you’d answer. And on the first ring, no less. Lucky me.”
“Who is this?”
“Really?” The caller sniffs. “You worked for me for five years, I darkened your doorstep less than twenty-four hours ago, and already you’re forgetting the sound of my voice? That’s a shame.”
“West?”
Indie glances up from her laptop on the sofa, shooting me a quizzical look.
I shoot one back.
“Why are you calling?” I rise from my chair and pace our small living room in hopes that a little movement will keep my heart rate under control. This man has an uncanny ability to send my blood pressure to the damn moon.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says. “An offer.”
“I’m not coming back,” I say before he can elaborate.
“Nor am I asking you to.”
Returning to my chair, I swallow a deep breath as my knee bounces. I’m not sure what kind of offer West could possibly have in mind for me, but every second that passes tortures my curiosity.
“Normally I’d present the offer in person, but seeing how you’re averse to being in the same room as me lately, I’ll cut to the chase and lay it out for you now,” he says. “My niece, Scarlett—the one you met yesterday in Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“She’s in need of a decent influence in her life. A grown woman she can look up to,” he says.
My jaw falls. “And I was the first person you thought to call?”
“You’re not perfect, Elle, but you’re what she needs,” he says.
I choke out a laugh. “Seriously? All that money and all those connections? You could make a phone call and have someone at your door within the hour, ready to shape her into whatever you want her to be—but you want me?”
“She likes you,” he says. “Which means she borderline respects you. Which means she’ll listen to you. She neither likes nor respects me, and she sure as hell doesn’t listen to me. Short of sending her to some boarding school, you’re my next best option.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking. Do you want me to babysit her? She’s kind of old for that, yeah?”
“I want you to spend time with her. Get to know her. Let her get to know you. Fill her head with all that shit about being fearless or whatever it is you’re doing now,” he says. “And while you’re doing all of that, keep tabs on her. Make sure she’s safe and keeping out of trouble. Teach her how to navigate the city like a local. Treat her like your kid sister, and I’ll pay you double what you were making at the magazine.”
“You’re insane.”
“Triple.”
“Officially off your rocker.” I rise from my chair again, this time patrolling our tiny New York kitchen.
“Name your price.”
“I don’t even . . . I’m not trained to work with teenagers . . . I wouldn’t even know where to begin . . . and this entire thing is absurd, honestly . . .” I trip over my thoughts, each one hurtling faster to my lips than the one before.
“You have sisters,” he says.
“How do you know?”
“There was a picture in your box, you with three women who looked just like blonde versions of you.”
I hunch over the island. “You went through my things?”
“At least I’m being honest . . . that’s your whole thing now, isn’t it? Transparency?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t need to know that. Now I’m just picturing you rifling through my belongings, and it’s creeping me out.”
“I can assure you my intentions couldn’t have been further from . . . creepy,” he says. “So tell me, Elle. What’s your price? And would you be willing to start at three o’clock today?”
“Today?”
“Highland Prep dismisses at three ten. You can wait there with her driver. I’ll send her a text and let her know I’ve hired her a companion,” he says.
“She’s going to see through this,” I say. “Any teenage girl with half a brain cell would. And not only will she see through it, she’ll hate it twice as much.”
I don’t know much about teenage girls, but once upon a time I was one. And the last thing I wanted back then was to be under someone’s lens. Constant supervision doesn’t exactly allow for a girl to find her voice and figure out her place in this world.
“She ran away last night. Again. She’s run away so many times in the past four months I’ve lost count. The police found her at Penn Station. I think she was trying to get back home, but she’s fourteen, for God’s sake. She doesn’t know the first thing about the real world, and she wouldn’t. She . . . had a bit of a rough start. Her father—my brother—died when she was a baby, and her mother . . . let’s just say Scarlett drew the short straw in that department.”
I sink onto the nearest barstool, hunched on my elbows as West opens up. He’s giving me an abbreviated version of her story, sparing any and all details, but it’s like a sliver of light peeking out from a closed door, a microscopic glimpse into West’s humanity.
For the first time in five years, my heart aches for this boardroom tyrant and his poor, sweet niece. She’s clearly grieving the loss of her old life. And he only wants to keep her safe.
“I don’t know,” I say. “As much as I’d love to be that touchstone in Scarlett’s life, you’re not exactly the easiest person to work for.”
“I’m aware.” He clears his throat. “But I’ll make it more than worth your while.”
“Not everything’s about money,” I say. “Maybe to you, but not to everyone. There’s not a salary you can give me that’ll make it worth suffering through your moods and your underhanded remarks.”
West responds with a rare bout of silence.
Or maybe he’s got nothing to say because he knows a tiger can’t change its stripes.
You can’t be an epic asshole your entire life, snap your fingers, and suddenly become a kindhearted gentleman with a heart of gold.
“I’m not a man who has to beg for anything,” he finally says. “But I’m not above making a fool of myself if it means securing Scarlett’s safety. So please. I’m begging you to do this—not for me but for her.”
Burying my face against my palm, I gather a hard breath into my lungs. “Your offer is extremely generous, and I’d love to be a positive role model for Scarlett, but I’m sorry, West—I can’t work for you.”
“Elle—”
“Which is why I’ll do it for free.” I sit up and find Indie’s mouth agape as she slams the lid on her laptop. “I’m not working; I’ve got nothing but time right now. I’ll spend time with her because it’s the right thing to do and because Lord knows this world is starving for authentic influences. But I can’t work for you. There’ll be no boss-employee dynamic between us. Not now, not ever. Understood?”
Indie waves her hands from across the room, frantic as she attempts to flag me down, eyes wild with unspoken protests.
I’m sure she thinks I’m making a grave mistake by associating with that man in any way, shape, or form, but I want to do this. If I’m not doing anything else, I might as well make a difference in someone’s life.
“Those are your terms?” he asks after a moment of contemplation.
“Those are my terms.”
Exhaling into the phone, he says, “Thank you, Elle. This means more to me than you could possibly understand.”
We end the call, and I get lost in my own thoughts while Indie fires off question after question about whether I’m making the right decision. I agreed to this for Scarlett—and only for Scarlett. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to unearthing the real West Maxwell in the process.
A dozen questions pollute my thoughts, followed by a hundred doubts and a million reasons to change my mind before it’s too late and I’m in over my head.
But something won’t let me.
An hour later, I’m lying in bed, replaying West’s phone call in my head until I have it memorized backward and forward, and I’ve deduced only one thing: West loves Scarlett.
Perhaps the tin man has a heart after all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELLE
“This is so weird.” Scarlett grips her backpack straps as we walk after school, her gaze trained straight ahead. She won’t look at me.
“Totally.” I sip my iced coffee, strutting alongside her as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“So . . . like . . . what do we do?”
From what I understand, West told Scarlett I’m her “summer mentor,” and she immediately saw through it, proclaiming she was too old for a babysitter. It took a bit of convincing, but he managed to get through to her. That and he told her it was either this or boarding school.
I shrug. “We can do anything you want.”
I figured we should start slow, and I should let her call the shots instead of planning out activities like a nanny would do for her charge.
“What do you usually do after school?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Nothing.”
I nudge her. “Come on. I doubt you do nothing.”
“Uncle West expects me to go straight home, but sometimes I hang out at Central Park or stop at the Duane Reade and look for a new lip gloss or get one of those celebrity weekly magazines with the fake articles. Mostly boring stuff.”
In a city chock full of life and culture and adventure and fascinating people, being bored is a punishable offense in my book.
“Ah, so you like magazines?” I muse. “A girl after your uncle’s heart . . .”
“I mostly like the pictures. All the stories are made up. Like, most of those relationships are for publicity or whatever. But it feels like you’re catching up on your favorite show, you know? One week Sabrina Carpenter is with Joshua Bassett, and the next week she’s moved on to someone new. And there’s always drama.”
