Bad Behavior (13 page)

“I think Nora will have access to a large Mexican immigrant population here in Chicago,” Tanya said.

“Yes,” Nora agreed. “I was just running through Pilsen the other day, and it seemed like a huge Mexican community.”

“Oh, right, that’s something you two have in common,” Sophie said, taking Grant’s hand. “Nora runs half-marathons.” She looked at Nora. “Grant runs every morning. He’s even got his sixteen-year-old nephew out there with him sometimes.”

“Begrudgingly,” Grant added with a grin.

Nora laughed. “Sounds like my son. He’s fourteen and thinks he’s super-fit until he tries to keep up with me on a run.”

“I didn’t know you had a son, Nora,” Sophie said.

“I have a son
and
a daughter. After my divorce I decided to leave nursing, and I figured I’d start training for a new career in psychology.”

“Wow, I’m learning all kinds of things about you today.” Sophie smiled. “Why did you want to leave nursing?”

Nora suddenly looked uncomfortable, and Sophie backpedaled. “I’m sorry for prying. Just ask Grant. I get into interrogation mode a little too easily—remnants of my counseling career.”

“You were in practice?” Nora asked.

Now Sophie seemed the hesitant one. “Y-Y-Yes,” she stammered, glancing anxiously at Grant. “But not anymore. I’m, uh, trying out the teaching thing now.”

“Oh.” Nora sensed the tension in Sophie’s voice. “Well, to answer your question, my ex-husband’s a physician, and I didn’t want to continue working in the same hospital as him. I figured a fresh start was in order—new career, new place to live. Though how I’ll keep up with the jogging once the weather gets cold is beyond me. I think I’ll be missing the Texas weather this winter,” Nora said. “Sophie, you should go running with Grant. It’s a great stress reliever.”

Sophie’s eyes widened and she shot Grant an amused glance, snuggling against him. “I don’t think I could keep up with this guy. He used to be in the Navy—you should see him in action on the ship.”

Tanya grinned as she watched Grant blush and clear his throat. “Speaking of ships, I better get going.”

Sophie nodded. “Okay, I’ll walk you out. Now you guys can get back to your meeting—sorry for the interruption.”

She followed Grant out of the office, and they paused in the hallway.

“Thank you,” Sophie told him, looking up into his cool eyes.

“For what?”

“For just being you. It’s nice to have a boyfriend I’m proud to introduce to my friends. You were great with them.”

“I can see why you like working here. Your colleagues are a little more civilized than Roger.”

They chuckled, and then trepidation crossed Sophie’s face as her eyes darted to something behind Grant.

“Hello, David,” she said tersely.

Grant spun around to find a gray-haired man of medium height moving their direction.

“Morning, Sophie,” David replied, his brown eyes crinkling as he smiled. He wore a gray T-shirt under a navy blue sport jacket with faded jeans, appearing casual yet professional at the same time.

To her horror, Sophie watched David stop in front of them, inquiringly observing the tall, dark man at her side. She silently hoped the McSailor Method would work its magic. A tense silence descended upon them until Sophie remembered her manners.

“Um, David Alton,” she forced out in a tight voice, gesturing to her boyfriend, “this is Grant Madsen.”

Grant immediately draped his left arm over her shoulders and reached out to pump David’s hand vigorously. “Sophie’s boyfriend,” Grant added smugly.

Feeling a possessive squeeze of his long fingers on her shoulder, it dawned on Sophie that Grant’s visit was perhaps not only to soothe her concerns about his family. He seemed to relish meeting David. Had he somehow planned on them running into each other?

There was a glint in David’s eyes—what was it? Anger? Jealousy? Whatever his reaction, he hid it well. “Nice to meet you, Grant,” he said smoothly. “So
this
is the boyfriend Sophie’s been hiding from us. I’m glad she finally decided to let you come for a visit.”

Grant’s smile was stiff. “I have a feeling I’ll be visiting much more frequently.”

Sophie gave a nervous chuckle.

“So what do you do for a living, Grant? Don’t tell me you’re a psychologist too?”

“Uh, no, sir,” Grant responded, letting the respectful address slip out before he could stop it. “I work in a top Chicago industry.” Seeing David’s questioning look, he added, “Tourism.”

David still appeared confused, but before he could ask a follow-up question Grant squeezed Sophie’s shoulder reassuringly and said, “I gotta run, honey. See you at home tonight?”

With that question hanging in the air, he leaned in, dipped her, and planted an intense smooch right on her lips. He held the breathtaking kiss for several seconds, even throwing some tongue in there for good measure, before finally drawing her back up and releasing her to try to maintain her balance on wobbly, boneless legs.

She felt her cheeks on fire as Grant sauntered down the hall, appearing quite satisfied with himself. Looking back to David, she tried to resume normal breathing as they stared at each other dumbly, both with no idea what to say. Their awkward silence was broken when Nora came out of Tanya’s office with her advisor in tow, still chatting excitedly about a research idea.

The women stopped short at Sophie and David rooted to their spots in the hallway. A slight step backward was David’s only sign of discomfort; otherwise, he was suave as ever.

“Ah, ladies, I can see I’m outnumbered here, so I’ll leave you to discuss female issues like men, or, uh, I don’t know, fashion.” He glanced down at his own ensemble. “Just don’t make fun of me for wearing my Garanimal professor uniform, okay?” He winked and continued down the hallway.

Shaking their heads and exchanging an exasperated look, Sophie and Tanya were surprised by Nora’s girlish giggle once David was gone.

“Garanimals?” Nora chuckled. “My kids used to wear those
. I
think his outfit looks pretty sexy, myself.”

She looked to the other women, both too taken aback to speak, and wondered if she’d said something wrong. “I have to get to class,” Nora announced more somberly, “Bye, Tanya. Bye, Sophie.”

The women murmured goodbyes, and Sophie stared at Tanya incredulously. “What the hell was
that?”

***

The blackness enveloped him and all he could hear were his desperate gasps for air. Then his eyes popped open and gradually adjusted to the dim light of the cell. He felt his racing heart begin to slowly settle down, one beat at a time.

The familiar noises of the cellblock began entering his consciousness—a random cough here and there, grunts from cellmates getting a little too friendly in the middle of the night, the measured cadence of a CO’s footsteps patrolling the tier above. Fortunately, the only sound inside his cell was the steady breathing of the inmate on the bunk below. His man had slept through any disturbance created by the nightmare. It would be damn near impossible to lead men—to
own
men—if they knew of their leader’s penchant for crying out like a baby as he slept.

Enzo Barberi exhaled loudly and turned over on his side, thumping his thin pillow in a futile attempt to make it more comfortable. Feeling fatigue press down on his eyelids, he dared to close his eyes again and was immediately rewarded with the image he’d been trying to avoid all his life: terrified brown eyes staring back at him, pleading and begging with their intensity. The gag prevented the owner of those eyes from speaking, other than muffled moans and screams, but his eyes did all the talking anyway.

Enzo snapped his own eyes back open, gritting his teeth with frustration. Why wouldn’t the fucking image go away? Why did he have to relive it almost every fucking night? And why couldn’t he get any fucking booze to erase the image? If only he could have one drink. God, he missed alcohol more than life itself. Sighing again, he shifted his body, feeling the metal bunk-bed frame vibrate with his movement. He was going to have to stay awake all night again—not that there was any need to be well-rested tomorrow. All that awaited him was another shitty day in Gurnee.

***

Grant was really getting into his rendition of Frank Sinatra this time. He knew he wouldn’t have the pleasure of crooning tunes much longer. Even Roger, who was typically grumpy by the last cruise of the day, was dancing in place at the controls as Grant’s smooth voice caressed each syllable, guiding the half-filled cruise home to the docks. Grant had come to find singing a release not unlike running. He was lost in the song, stringing notes together in a smooth melody, just like he strung his strides together into a five-mile run.

“What have you done to Ben?” Roger asked unexpectedly after docking the boat.

Grant gave him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“When I asked him to wipe down the benches after the five o’clock, he didn’t give me any lip—for the first time ever. Now he’s down there seeing the passengers off, and he actually looks like he gives a shit. He sick or something?”

Grant suppressed a chuckle. “He hasn’t quite earned his halo yet, sir, but he’s coming around, I hope. He’s trying to get out of being grounded.”

Roger raised one eyebrow. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. It’s much nicer around here without his sassy trap mouthing off every second.”

The owner of the “sassy trap” walked into the bridge. “Uh, Uncle Grant? This guy wants to talk to you down there.”

Feeling immediate alarm, Grant rushed to the window of the bridge and stared down at the deck, but he didn’t recognize any of Angelo’s goons waiting for him. Instead, there was a gray-haired man in an expensive business suit, talking on a cell phone. “Did he say who he was, Ben?”

“Nope. He just said he wanted to talk to the docent. That’s you, right?”

Grant rolled his eyes. “You’ve been working here how long, Ben? And you still don’t know the terminology? Stay up here and help Rog clean while I go talk to him.”

As Grant headed down the white steps, he heard his nephew say, “You get on
me
for my station being messy? It’s a pigsty up here, Rog.” He was relieved to be out of earshot before Roger gave his salty retort.

The businessman was just putting away his phone when Grant warily approached. The man squinted in the setting sun. “You’re the docent? The one who was singing?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man extended his hand, and Grant could detect warmth in his blue eyes. “Alex Remington.”

“Grant Madsen, Mr. Remington. How can I help you?”

“How long have you been singing professionally, Grant?”

His eyes widened and he stammered, “Uh, never. I mean, um, I’ve only been singing for a few months on this cruise.”

The man looked surprised. “But you’ve been trained, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Huh, I thought she said…” His voice trailed off, but then he decisively resumed. “Never mind—obviously you don’t need training with a voice like that.”

Grant appeared confused. “Sir?”

“Grant, I want to make you an offer. I’m opening a new bar in my hotel in a couple of weeks—a really classy, old-Chicago feel to it—and I want you to be the musical entertainment during cocktail hour. I’ve already got a piano player, but his voice is awful, so you can sing some of those Sinatra tunes, maybe some Tony Bennett, Tom Jones—the works, you know. You’d be great.”

“Mr. Remington, are you offering me a job?” Grant asked.

“You catch on real quick, don’t you, son? Listen, it’s only on a trial basis until I make sure you’ll work out, but I think this arrangement will likely benefit us both.” He extracted his business card. “Stop by the hotel tomorrow night when you’re done here, and we’ll iron out the details. How’s that sound?”

Grant felt totally awed that a job offer had dropped out of the sky right when he needed it. He’d be
singing?
For money? He was floored. Then his giddiness came crashing down as he realized this stroke of good fortune was hardly locked in.

“It sounds great, Mr. Remington, but there’s one thing you should know before we take this any further.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m, uh…” Grant bit his lip. “I’m on parole.” His voice dropped and he looked down. “I’ve been convicted of a felony.”

“Well, I can’t see how that would affect your singing voice,” said Mr. Remington, unfazed. “And that’s all I need from you—that and your handsome face. The ladies will love you. See you tomorrow night, Grant.”

Still in a daze, Grant could barely get out a “Thank you, sir” before the man was totally gone. Blinking, Grant let the reality of what had just happened sink in.

He had a new job!

Sophie emerged from the bedroom, suppressing a yawn. It had been a rough night. Grant had not one but two nightmares, waking them both each time with his cries:
Don’t make me do it! Please!
Then he’d come to—panting, shaking, his eyes wild, and on the verge of tears.

He’d reluctantly allowed her to stroke his hair as she murmured soothing, grounding words: “You’re an adult. It was just a dream. You’re safe now here with me.”

Eventually he’d fallen back to sleep with her comforting presence next to him. Having experienced this routine with Grant several times, Sophie had taken longer to drift off again—the ache in her heart had not been so quick to subside. She longed to go to that prison and slap the living hell out of Grant’s father for all the problems he’d caused. Her vengeful thoughts surprised her.

“We got a blender?” Ben asked as Sophie entered the kitchen. He’d paused his rifling through the lower cabinets.

Sophie ran her hands through her wet hair as she approached the kitchen counter. “I don’t think so. Why do you need one?”

Ben stood up and sighed with exasperation as he placed his hands on his hips. The indignant body stance reminded Sophie of Grant, and she smiled wistfully.

“’Cause I need to make a protein shake. My buddy Dylan gave me some of this powder stuff, and it’s really supposed to do the trick. I’ll be
ooge
.”

Sophie grinned. “Why do you want to be huge?”

“When Uncle Grant gets back from his run, I’m gonna do fifty push-ups. I’m gonna do it this time. I, like,
have
to get out of here, Sophie.”

She nodded, remembering clearly the misery of being grounded. “Let me make you some breakfast,” she offered. Yanking a banana off the bunch, she handed it to him. “You can start with this. Potassium is good for your muscles.”

“It is?” Ben begrudgingly accepted the fruit. “Bananas are kinda gross, though. All squishy and bruised and nasty.” He played with the banana, twirling it around in his hand, while Sophie dug through the contents of the refrigerator.

“Well, we don’t have any steak, Arnold Schwarzenegger,” she teased. “And we’re out of eggs, but I do have some turkey bacon here. You’ll be pumping out fifty with no trouble at all when your uncle returns.”

As she extracted a frying pan from the cabinet, she eyed Ben, who seemed absorbed in the unpeeled banana in his hand. He was uncharacteristically quiet, and he’d already showered and dressed, which was unusual for the sleepy teenager.

She was about to put the bacon strips into the pan when Ben quietly asked, “Does Uncle Grant have nightmares?”

So he’d heard the screams too. Sophie had naively hoped Ben slept through the noise, but that would’ve been difficult in the small apartment.

“Sometimes,” she said. “Maybe you should talk to
him
about it, though.”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Ben countered, frowning. “He gets really embarrassed and, like, sad. Like how he gets when we talk about my, um, my dad.”

Sophie tried to continue preparing breakfast, despite the stabbing sensation in her heart. Grant’s vulnerability could absolutely slay her, and talking about his pain with Logan’s son only overwhelmed her further.

“It’s hard to talk about the past, I guess,” she said eventually. Placing the last strip of bacon into the pan, she added, “We all have regrets.”

Sophie took out a loaf of bread and placed two pieces in the toaster. “Uh, Ben, your friend Dylan,” she began. “Does he drink protein shakes?”

“Yeah. He says it helps him with the ladies.”

“Ah.” Sophie hid her grin. “You guys worry about being muscular enough?”

Ben shrugged, continuing to play with the banana.

“Because you know, you don’t have to be super-muscular to be a ladies’ man.” Sophie tried to remember what she’d read in an eating disorders book about helping men with their body image. She could tell it hurt Ben that he hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. “Your body’s great the way it is.”

Blushing, the teen looked down, not responding.

“In fact,” she resumed, taking some butter out of the refrigerator, “research shows that women are attracted to more normal body types, not super-muscular guys. Women don’t want ’roid-rage, beefcake boyfriends.”

Ben couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So…” Sophie smiled conspiratorially. “Is there anybody special in your life? Anyone you have your eye on?”

Startled, Ben’s eyes enlarged and his cheeks reddened. “No!” he practically shouted.

“Okay, okay.” She smirked as she turned the bacon over with a fork.

After a few moments, Ben said, “Hey, Sophie, look.” She raised her head and found him grinning.

He’d peeled the banana halfway, but then carefully replaced the peel. Ben held the banana with one hand while the other suddenly whipped away the yellow flaps of the peel, exposing the cream-colored fruit.

“It’s flashing you, Sophie!” he cried with delight.

She arched her sculpted eyebrows. “What?”

“It’s flasher fruit,” he explained, folding the peel back over the banana before unfurling the flaps once again, this time thrusting the banana toward her face and imitating a scream. “Aaaahhhh! Watch out, Sophie, the banana’s flashing you!” He then pretended to be a passerby. “My eyes, my eyes!” he cried in horror.

Sophie took an immediate step away from the offending fruit. “That’s, uh, great, Ben.”

He appeared slightly wounded that she wasn’t amused, but he was soon distracted by the ring of his cell phone. As he hopped off the stool and jogged to his backpack, Sophie cautiously stared at the banana, left exposed on the counter. She shook her head, putting together that they’d been discussing dating, girls, and masculine prowess before the “flasher fruit” display. She rolled her eyes as she transferred the cooked bacon onto paper towels.

Once she turned down the burner, ceasing the sounds of popping bacon grease, she could hear snippets of Ben’s phone conversation. His humorous tone had long since faded.

“Why should I believe you
this
time?” he asked tersely. “Okay, okay, I’ll think about it!”

When he returned to the stool at the kitchen counter, he somberly watched Sophie pour orange juice into three glasses.

She said nothing.

After a big sigh, he confessed, “That was my mom.”

“Really? How’s she doing?”

Another heavy sigh. “She wants me to come back home.”

“That’s great, right?”

He slumped on the stool. “I guess.”

Sophie plopped another two pieces of bread into the toaster.

“Unless she kicks me out again when she gets mad at me,” Ben continued. “Maybe I should just stay here and save her the trouble.”

Her brown eyes found his, and the deep hurt there reminded her so much of Grant. “Maybe you should,” she softly agreed.

She cast a glance at the bacon and toast and had a flash of inspiration. “How about we make BLTs?”

“For
breakfast?”

“Yes, for breakfast,” she said. “Get over here and help me slice some tomatoes.”

They worked quietly together—Sophie washing the lettuce and Ben slicing the tomatoes—before he asked her, “Do you fight with your mom too?”

Sophie blinked, feeling a tightening in her throat. “Um, not anymore. She’s…dead.”

Ben looked horrified and began stammering, “I, uh, sorry, I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay, how would you know? I don’t talk about my parents much. My father…” She grimaced. “He doesn’t like Grant at all.”

“Why the hell not? Uncle Grant’s, like, Mr. Perfect.”

Sophie chuckled. “Mr. Perfect-Who-Served-Prison-Time, you mean?” Without thinking, she added, “And then there’s Logan—” She abruptly stopped, glancing nervously at Logan’s son.

Ben looked at her sharply. “Dad? You knew my dad?”

“I…just forget about it, I…”

Seeing her frightened look, Ben felt his stomach drop. “How did you know him?”

Sophie’s cheeks burned, and she didn’t dare say a word.

Ben couldn’t let it go. “Rog told me you met Uncle Grant outside your PO’s office? That—that you were in prison too. Did—did you do something to my dad? Did you have him killed?”

Hearing him close to crying, Sophie instantly answered, “No! I would never hurt Logan. Sure, I was angry with him, but—”

“Why were you angry with him?” he demanded, his eyes glistening with tears. “I deserve to know! Uncle Grant won’t tell me anything, and I can’t live here if I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Ben, some things are better left unsaid.”

“I deserve to know!” he railed. “Please, Sophie. How did you know my dad?”

She gripped the counter with both hands, staring at the floor. Would her crimes ever leave her? Would she ever stop paying for the past? Could Ben handle the truth? Did he deserve to know?

Lifting her head, she bit her lip, surrendering. “Your father—he was my client.”

“Your client?”

“I was Logan’s psychologist. The judge made him get therapy, after the, um, robbery.”

Ben still looked confused. “So you were his shrink. Why would your dad care about that? Why would that make him hate Uncle Grant?”

“Because my father knows what Logan did to me, and he doesn’t want Logan’s brother to hurt me too.”

“My dad hurt you?” Ben rasped.

“It wasn’t that bad—it’s not like you think.”

“What did he do to you?”

There was no going back now. “Logan stored dirty money in my office. I discovered the money—there was a lot of it—and the police came. They found some guns hidden there too, and one was a murder weapon.”

Ben’s mouth dropped open, and he looked sick. “But my dad took the blame for it, right? He told them they were his guns?”

Sophie paused. She hated telling him this, but she didn’t think lying would help him either. She quietly admitted, “Logan skipped town.”

Ben’s eyes were huge. “He left you all alone to deal with it? Y-Y-You went to prison because of my dad?” He was almost sobbing. “Uncle Grant too. My dad ruined your lives.”

“Ben—no, I messed up too. And your dad’s actions brought me and Grant together—”

Before she could finish, Ben had rushed out of the apartment. He slowed only for a second at the front door where he almost crashed into Grant, who was just returning from his run.

Grant took one look at his nephew’s wild eyes and called after him, “Ben, wait!” But he was too late. Grant walked toward the kitchen and found Sophie completely shell-shocked at the counter. As the smell of frying bacon wafted toward him, Grant glanced at the sandwich fixings and suddenly froze.

Still dazed from her conversation with Ben, Sophie tried to make sense of Grant’s silent stance. “What’s wrong?”

Pale and trembling, Grant stood rigidly still, seeming not to hear her.

“Grant?” She took two steps toward him.

He flinched and stared at her with unbridled fear.

“Grant?” Her voice rose with concern, but she stayed put.

He clutched one of the kitchen table chairs, lips parted and chest heaving. He wasn’t even blinking.

“Did something happen on your run?”

There was a small shake of his head.

She searched for the right words to draw him out of his trance. “Um, we have to be at Hunter’s in forty minutes, okay?”

He finally spoke in a shaky voice. “Shower…I—I’m going to shower.”

He slowly backed away, eventually disappearing into the bathroom.

Wringing her hands, Sophie wondered what the hell had just happened. She’d somehow managed to hurt Ben so thoroughly he’d probably never trust her again, and she had no idea what was upsetting Grant.

Glancing at the clock on the microwave, her jaw tensed. She sensed she was about to find out.

***

As soon as Hunter entered the waiting room, he knew something was wrong. Sophie’s face, riveted on Grant’s vacant expression, was etched with concern. In addition to his empty, troubled eyes, Grant’s body was like a tightly wound spring, held coiled only by Sophie’s firm grip on his hands, which were clasped in his lap.

“What’s going on?” the psychologist inquired. Fortunately there weren’t any other clients in the waiting room.

“Oh, Hunter!” Sophie cried. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been an awful morning.”

Grant grimaced but otherwise didn’t move, continuing to avoid Hunter’s probing gaze.

“Let’s go to my office, and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Sophie rose from the sofa and was grateful that Grant joined her. She clutched his arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine!” he snapped.

Hunter had begun to walk toward his office, and he widened his eyes at Grant’s sharp retort behind him.
Today’s session should be interesting.

After they were seated, Sophie began speaking immediately. “I don’t know what I’ve done, but first Ben was upset, and now Grant won’t talk to me.”

“Ben’s upset?” Grant asked worriedly, seeming to return to the present.

“Didn’t you see him fly out of there this morning? You were coming in from your run when he dashed out the door—right before you stopped talking to me, when you froze in the kitchen.”

Grant massaged his temples, wishing his headache would go away. He also noticed a burning, stinging sensation in his lower back that bothered and perplexed him. He didn’t remember Ben leaving—all he remembered was one scene, which now played over and over in his head.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Sophie pleaded. “What did I do wrong?”

“It’s not you,” Grant replied softly, looking down. He snuck a glance at Hunter and quickly averted his eyes when the psychologist met his gaze. “I can’t talk about it. Please.”

“I’m lost,” Hunter said, his brows furrowed. “How about you start from the top, Sophie?”

Glancing nervously at Grant, who still wouldn’t meet her eyes, she took a deep breath.

“Grant was out on a run. I was getting dressed after my shower when I heard Ben making some noise in the kitchen. I went in to help him with breakfast, and we got to talking…”

When she didn’t continue, Hunter prompted, “What were you discussing?”

“His mom called.”

She glanced at Grant, who seemed to be paying better attention now, then back at Hunter.