Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (5 page)

EIGHT

Marissa

I’m just gathering up my clothes to take to the cleaner when the doorbell rings. Even though it’s broad daylight and Olivia’s just on the other side of the condo, my stomach turns a nervous flip.

I chastise myself all the way to the door, where I lean against it to look through the peephole. My stomach reacts anxiously again, but this time for a different reason.

On the other side of the door, looking impatient as ever, is my father, David Townsend. He looks much like Olivia and her father, with his dark hair and greenish hazel eyes. But his demeanor gives him an elegance (and an arrogance) that shows in every smooth line of his entire body.

Even though he’s related to me, he’s still one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever known. He’s the reason I can hold my own with practically anyone in the corporate, legal, and judicial worlds. Cutting one’s teeth on David Townsend results in fangs. Long, sharp fangs.

I take a deep breath and throw the deadbolt, swinging the door open on my fake smile. “Daddy. What are you doing here?”

Without a word, he brushes past me in his thousand-dollar suit, carrying with him the faint scent of his nearly as expensive cologne.

He walks to the edge of the living room and turns toward me, his brow set in a line as stern and unyielding as his mouth. “Just what is it you think you’re doing, young lady?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say calmly, closing the door behind him. I learned long ago to bury everything I feel beneath a calm exterior. It’s the ultimate weapon in my world. Well, the world that used to feel like mine, but now feels more like just his.

“First, you leave to come home early, giving me no choice but to follow.”

“You didn’t have to cut your trip short, Daddy.”

“How would that have looked? My daughter has some sort of emergency she has to return to the States for and I continue working?”

Of course it would all boil down to appearances. That’s what it always boils down to. It’s the way my life, my family, my whole world has always been.

“I’m sorry it inconvenienced you.”

“No you’re not. You weren’t thinking of anyone but yourself. And then to show up at my house with some . . . some . . . criminal in tow. What were you thinking?”

I hadn’t told my father what happened when Nash brought me home. I told him it was personal and left it at that. Evidently, that was some sort of trigger. He backed off immediately. But not before he lectured me about the importance of keeping my personal life strictly aboveboard unless I could keep it discreet and forever hidden from public knowledge. I have no idea what he thinks I’m up to, but I suspect he thinks it’s deviant.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ll be more thoughtful next time.”

I’ve done this all my life—cater to Daddy, pander to Daddy, yield to Daddy. It’s always come naturally. He’s the type of man who demands it, without ever really having to ask for it. But today, for the first time that I can ever remember, I choke a little bit on the words.

“You’re a Townsend, Marissa. Mistakes like these can’t happen. One slipup can have lasting consequences on your career and your reputation. You know to protect them at all costs. I’ve taught you better than this.” I nod obediently, keeping my eyes cast down so he won’t see the change in me, so he won’t see the struggle. “Now, the cat’s out of the bag about our early return. There’s a fund-raiser you’ll be expected to attend tonight. I think it would be a good idea for you to bring Nash. I think that would go a long way toward dispelling any rumors that might be circulating.”

“Nash and I broke up, Daddy.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

It’s never worried me before that he keeps such a close eye on me. It doesn’t worry me now, per se. But it makes me very uncomfortable.

A curious thought pops into my head before he continues, a thought about how he might’ve known I was unaccounted for over a thirty-some-hour period. But I don’t have time to finish the disturbing notion before he speaks again.

“Do what you need to do to make up. He’s a rising star, as you well know. I wouldn’t waste my time on anything less. A match with him is a good move for you, for the family and the firm.”

“Even though his father’s in prison for murder?”

“That just makes him more relatable to constituents. Makes him seem more human. He’s the boy from the streets who overcame his humble beginnings. A man of the people.”

Constituents?

“And why does that matter? It’s not like he’s—”

I stop abruptly, for the first time recognizing my father’s big-picture plan for me. I always thought it had to do with him grooming me to take my place as a partner in the firm one day, but it didn’t. It never did. He never had plans like that for me. He was simply grooming me to be the wife of a powerful man. A very powerful man. Like a man in politics.

He has plans for Nash in politics.

“Oh my God! How did I never see this before?”

His lips thin, confirming my suspicion. He doesn’t even bother to deny it. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “I knew you’d catch on one day and see how perfectly this could all work out.” He takes a step toward me, narrowing his eyes on mine. “As long as you don’t screw it up.”

My mouth drops open. I can’t help it. Has he always treated me like nothing more than a pawn and I’ve just never noticed it? Is it possible for someone to be so wrapped up in an identity that she’d never notice she was living in such a twisted, narcissistic, superficial world?

Apparently so.

“Close your mouth. And don’t act like this is a foreign concept to you. You’ve been more than happy to go along with my plans up until now.” He walks to me and puts his hands on my upper arms, bending slightly to look into my eyes. It’s his version of tenderness. I recognize it. I’ve just never realized how cold, calculated, and practiced it is. “I only want what’s best for you, sweetheart.”

I close my mouth, but only to keep the words that are lodged in my throat from spilling off my tongue. I nod robotically and give him my best attempt at a smile. I need to keep up pretenses as much as I can until I have some time to think. And plan. And figure out how to live, how to make a life for myself, outside of everything and everyone I’ve ever known.

In a town that my father practically owns.

It doesn’t look very promising for me.

NINE

Nash

Visiting my father in prison, with all the security checks, thick bars, uniformed men, and violent-looking criminals at every turn, is a harsh reality check. It marks the first time I’m able to have a little sympathy for what Cash must’ve felt the first time he’d visited Dad all those years ago. As a lost kid, no less. That slap in the face must’ve hurt like a bitch.

“Sign in, please,” the guard says automatically. It’s the second time we’ve had to do this, which makes me wonder what kind of incompetent asshole is keeping the records when you have to sign in two different times, on the same day at the same prison, for the same inmate.

Good God, people! It’s not that hard.

I’m grouchy. I’ll admit it. None of this—from seeing Cash again, to finally finding the man who killed Mom, to how I’d spend my first few days “alive,” so to speak—is anything like I’d imagined it would be. It makes me wonder if the rest of my life will be as disappointing. Maybe this is the way everything will turn out—shitty.

I’ll be damned
, I think rebelliously. I refuse to let a cascade of events that was beyond my control and perpetrated by people other than me ruin my life.

I just need to get this figured out, get past this part, and move the hell on!

My head aches from the scowl I know is plastered across my face. It’s been a constant companion for about seven years now. I know the feeling well.

Because there are two of us, they put us in a small room to await Dad. It reminds me of an interrogation room from one of those cheesy law shows on TV. All that’s missing is a bright light swinging over the table.

I sit in one of the cold, plastic chairs and lean back to cross my arms over my chest. I feel impatient. And on edge. I’m mulling over all the negativity that’s swirling around inside me when the door opens again and a guard escorts my cuffed and shackled father into the room.

My headache and every bad thing I’ve been thinking of melt away the instant his eyes meet mine. Like waves crashing against the shore, a thousand feelings collide, sending a spray of emotion through me. At once, I experience a dozen states and stages of my life in the blink of an eye. I’m the scared kid I was when I left seven years ago. I’m the confident, determined teenager I was before my mother was killed. I’m the angry boy growing up and butting heads with his father. I’m the child basking in the comfort of his parent. And I’m the man who’s been in exile, away from what’s left of his family, returned.

I see the tears well in his eyes and, before the guard can reach me, I’m on my feet and across the room, wrapping my arms around my father. I feel his bound hands rise to touch my shoulder on one side. He can’t embrace me, but he would if he could.

The few seconds I got to reunite with my father are worth the few minutes of restraint I get when two other guards burst through the door and physically remove me from the vicinity of my father and plant me back in the chair I just left. Not for one second do Dad and I break eye contact.

Once the guards are reasonably comfortable with my willingness to cooperate, they leave Inept Guard Number One in charge of the room again. I should feel guilty for making the guy look bad, but I don’t. He can kiss my ass. This is the dad I haven’t seen in seven years.

When the room is quiet, Dad speaks. “For seven years I’ve prayed that I’d see both my boys again, alive and healthy.” His voice breaks on the last and my chest gets tight with emotion. He takes a minute to collect himself before he continues. “How have you been, son?”

There are an ass-ton of complaints I could give, but not one of them seems relevant at the moment. “I’m fine. Alive. Back. Ready to get all this over with.”

He nods, his eyes flickering back and forth over my face like he’s memorizing my features. Granted, Cash and I are twins, but he and Mom could always tell us apart. And now, what with my “look,” which is nearly the polar opposite of the one he last saw, I’m sure he’s noticing even more differences.

“It’s like you and your brother switched places,” he says casually.

I feel the sting of resentment, like salt in a raw wound that never gets a chance to heal. “For the most part, I guess we have. He’s everything you wanted me to be. And I’m everything you were afraid he’d become.”

His smile is sad. “No, I could never be more proud of either of you. You’ve shown a strength I only wish I had. You’re both just like your mother.”

My heart twists painfully inside my chest. “I guess there’s no greater compliment.”

A barrage of imagery flits through my mind, every one involving my mother—her sitting on the edge of my bed; her dark blue eyes smiling down at me as she pushes my hair back; her laughing at me and Cash as we flex our childish muscles for her; her shaking her head at the mess I made in the kitchen; her crying over a plaque I made her in shop class; her cheering me on from the stands of the stadium; her telling me she’s proud of me for staying sober so I could drive my friends home.

She was the glue that held our family together. When she died, we fell apart. Went our separate ways. Became people she wouldn’t approve of, doing things she’d be ashamed of.

Animosity and anger swell inside me like an old friend. The desire to lash out, to hurt the people who
hurt me
rises up to choke me. Like it has for seven long years. But thoughts of what she would say, how she would chastise me for sinking to their level, war with those feelings, making me feel torn and lost, stealing the purpose that has brought me this far.

With an internal shake of my head, I push those thoughts away. There will be time to torture myself over them later. Right now, I have time with my father. And there are questions. Hundreds of questions.

But he preempts me.

“I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you boys, to our family. That’s a regret I’ll take to the grave. That and a dozen others. I was young. And stupid. Something neither of you boys is. You won’t make a mess of things like I did. I know that. I trust you both to do the right thing. Always.”

He pauses before he continues. His face wrinkles into a cringe. I’m sure he’s beating himself up over his choices. Probably like he’s done hundreds of times over the last many, many years.

“I hope you can forgive me one day. In the end, I thought I was doing what was best. For you. For our family. Cash,” he says, turning his attention toward my brother, who has been sitting beside me, quietly observing. “I know it seems unfair that I didn’t tell you about your brother, but you were such a hothead. I knew what you’d do. Pretending to be him, learning some self-control and having a healthy focus for all your anger seemed like a good way to help you turn your life in a different direction. I never meant to hurt you. I hope you can see that.”

Cash says nothing. His face is a blank, unreadable mask. Even to me, his twin.

And then Dad turns to me. “And Nash, I knew you’d make it. I’ve never met a person more determined to succeed. You were born driven. And you were always a good kid. I knew you’d do what I asked you to do, without question.” He looks down at the table, like he can’t bear to look me in the eye. I see his throat work as he swallows hard before glancing up at me again. “I didn’t realize you had so much of your brother in you. But I should’ve. I should’ve known you’d be angry, that you wouldn’t be able to let it go. By sending you away, I turned you into something you hate. But don’t you ever think for one second that I’m not proud of you. You survived. You made a way for yourself without . . . anything or anyone. So few people could do that as adults and you were just a kid. I relied on you more than any parent has a right to. I only hope that one day you’ll see what that means. What it meant to me and your brother, what it would’ve meant to your mother. What it should mean to you as a man. And I also hope you can see your way clear of these years. Forgive yourself. Find a way to get back the life you gave up. Losing it would be the biggest tragedy of all. If your mother were alive, it would kill her to see you give up.”

Guiltily, he looks back and forth between me and Cash.

“You boys were like two halves of the same person from the day you were born. Like night and day, north and south. Up and down. I always hoped you could find a little bit of each other. It was all you ever needed, just a touch of what the other had. I would never have wished for this, though. I was proud of you both, regardless. I never wanted this for you—this pain, this hard life, this much regret and anger. I only ever wanted what was best for you. I did the best I could, with what information I had. It may not seem like it, but I always put you first. I just made a lot of bad decisions along the way.”

“We’re gettin’ ready to make at least a few wrongs right, Dad. We’ve got—”

Dad cuts off Cash, shaking his head. “Let this go, son. I’m paying for my sins. Maybe not what they
think
I’m paying for, but I’m paying nonetheless. I’ve lived my life. You two have so much ahead of you. Don’t let the past dictate your future. Move on. Find a job worth working, a wife worth having, and a life worth living. Don’t keep making mistakes that’ll keep boxing you in. Do the right thing. Let it go and move on.”

“And what? Forget that our father was wrongly imprisoned? That he was blamed for a heinous crime he didn’t commit?”

“I don’t expect you to forget. I’m just asking you to let it go. It’s what your mother would want. It would break her heart to see you boys giving up your present and risking your future for my mistakes. It’s like piling more casualties on top of her grave, God rest her soul.”

Guilt. I feel it, piling on top of me like the casualties he’s talking about.

Cash says nothing, which makes me feel a little better about my own silence. I don’t know what to say. I know Dad feels guilty and responsible, which he is in many ways, and that he wants us to understand. But I also feel like he’s trying to take away from me the one thing I’ve held on to all this time. My anger and my thirst for revenge have been like air to me for the last seven years. It’s the only reason I didn’t give up when I found myself in situations that were so abhorrent to me that I could barely sleep at night. I’ve done things—awful things—that would eat me alive if not for the anger that I’ve built a life inside. It’s like an impenetrable armor that shields my conscience from the damning pricks of reality. And if I listen to what he’s saying, if I give up everything that’s kept me going for seven hard, unforgiving, torturous years, what will I have?

One word rings through my head, like a ghostly echo of the emptiness I feel.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The earsplitting honking of some sort of internal alarm has us all covering our ears. All except the guard, however, who springs into action. Maybe he’s not so inept after all.

Immediately, he hauls Dad roughly out of his chair and toward the door, where he opens it and hands him off to another guard who’s waiting there. They disappear around the corner as another guard comes in, and he, along with the original one, order Cash and me to make our way to the exit.

Now.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand.

“Sir, all alarms in the prison are for the safety of prisoners as well as visitors. Keep moving.”

The two guards shuffle us quickly back the way we’d come less than thirty minutes earlier. Never once do they offer any information by way of explanation.

As we move from area to area, passing other visitors being herded to the exit just as we are, I see more than just flashing lights and hear more than just a deafening alarm. There are guards scrambling through barred doors, many of whom are dressed in black padded clothing and face shields. There are commands being shouted, something about cell blocks and lockdowns and weapons. One word stands out, though, and the fact that I hear it more than once gives me some clue as to what’s happening.

Riot.
There’s a riot in the prison. And there’s a protocol that’s being followed. And our presence isn’t a desirable part of it. So they want us out. Right now.

Once Cash and I, along with a couple dozen other startled, disgruntled visitors, are back where we started at the main entrance, they push us past the last set of secured doors. I hear them click shut and lock behind us.

The guard who was sitting behind the sheet of glass near the front door is still sitting there. He still looks as old and unconcerned as he did when we arrived.

“What the hell is going on?” I repeat, not really expecting anything more from him than I’d gotten from Guard Number One.

He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Riot. Must’ve started down on D block. Those mean bastards have been a pain in the ass for almost a year now.” He chuckles like he said something funny. Which he didn’t. I expect to see more teeth than I can count on one hand. But I don’t. Looking at his frail frame and kinda-crazy eyes, it becomes clear that this is probably the only post an old fart like this guy can man. That and he’s probably related to the warden, because he’s got to be long past retirement age.

I nod to the old man and he smiles his nearly toothless grin at me. I turn back toward Cash and I hear him say, “Come back and see us.” And then he cackles.

I just shake my head as I walk past Cash toward the glass door that leads outside, out to freedom. I don’t look back to see if my brother is following me. I need air. I have to get out of here.

I step out into the sunshine and take several deep breaths. Even in the wide open space of the area in front of the prison, with only the parking lot and a long expanse of road in front of me, I feel trapped. By life.

My father’s words resonate in my head. He’s asking us to let it go, asking
me
to let it go. He’s asking me to forget about the people responsible for destroying my family, for destroying my life and the future I thought I had. And he’s asking it for my dead mother’s sake.

I run my fingers through my hair. I feel the tug of strands being pulled out from under the elastic band that keeps it neat at my nape, but I don’t care. I feel like pulling it all out, like screaming at the world, at the unfairness of it all.