Irreplaceable (Underneath it All Series: Book Three) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (3 page)

It was in
her
laugh. Sadie. The vulnerability that Rose spoke of wouldn't be denied; it lived in the music that fell from her lips. Even from where I sat, I felt it deep in my chest, like she was a part of me. Wrapping me, wrapping Rose, in the sound.

In these situations, I knew better than most that people would lie, cry, and sometimes even laugh to hide the truth. But this wasn't a patronizing "It's gonna be okay". This was raw; notes wrapped in emotion as the laughter tapered off. Sadie’s face told no lies. Her natural blush was a few shades deeper, her involuntary tell. I saw
her
, Sadie’s dainty features anything but breakable as she let go. Tears spilled down her cheeks as her scarlet hair crashed around her face. I nearly swerved when she skated her fingers through the strands that veiled her. All the things I ran away from radiated from her, starting with the eyes. The emerald green sparkled with a sadness that I knew. The loss of something you never had in the first place; the parent-shaped hole in your heart that would never be filled. But that wasn’t all there was. There was a glimmer that was something beyond pain. It was something just as powerful and infinitely more compelling.

It was love.

Love for Rose, who was still shuddering from her attempts to suppress her laughter. Theirs was a bond forged in the flames; through a shared childhood filled with horrors that made me want to face their mother personally. Ask if she was blind or just ungrateful. Family was something that most took for granted. For a foster kid, family was one of two things. It was either something so fantastical that it was akin to a unicorn, or  it was something hidden behind impenetrable glass. Shoved in our faces when we were foisted on cruel foster parents who paraded their children around like royalty, while treating us like distant relations that had worn out their welcome the minute we walked through the door.

The fact that families were all around us made the longing turn to resentment. The kids who had families who were invested and gave curfews and gave a damn were the kids that complained the loudest, not knowing how good they had it.

The glass sheen in Sadie’s eye told me that she was well aware of what they didn’t have, and when she looked at me, I saw empathy for my story. My childhood. And she didn’t even know the half of it.

But that wasn’t what had me sniffling and clearing my throat and struggling to think of pickup trucks, sports, and Budweiser. I had to channel every ounce of testosterone I had in me to not start crying when I saw a tenderness in Sadie’s eyes. A promise that not only could she do it differently and let me in, but she wanted to. Even from the backseat, without pursing her lips in the mirror and eliciting a fresh eye roll from Rose, I felt her lips on mine. I felt her arms winding around my neck as she pulled me close.

I felt the thing I pretended I didn’t need, that I pushed aside every time I used The Tower, disengaging from past lovers who got too close. Underneath it all, I wanted love. I needed it. And Sadie did too.

Emotion had seized control of me and no amount of choking the steering wheel or manly clearing of my throat could change that. I didn’t let anything fall, but a quick glance over at Rose confirmed that my efforts to keep my emotions under wraps were in vain.

She had no hang ups with showing me the tears that glittered on her cheeks. “It’s all good. My allergies are acting up too.”

“I thought I was the only one that forgot to take my Claritin this morning,” Sadie added, rubbing my eyes. “That and my Bitch-B-Gone.”

I cut my eyes at the rearview mirror, sure that my Sadie hadn’t made a joke, and
definitely
not one about herself.

“Geez, Jax,” Sadie let out an extra dramatic sigh. “It’s hard enough to admit it on the rare occasion that I’m wrong. You’re gonna make me repeat myself?”

“I didn’t catch what you said,” Rose offered, not missing a beat. She offered something else too, a toothy grin that she turned directly on her sister. “What did you call it again? Bit-Sadie B Gone?”

“Hey, I don’t want Sadie to go anywhere.” I winked at her in the mirror and expected her to stick out her tongue or flash me the bird. Instead, she twisted her mouth to one side, then scrubbed her hands over her face. Being open and vulnerable was difficult for me too and the navigation was chirping that I was close to my destination. I didn’t need to look at her to see that she was struggling. Trying her best. Jokes aside, she felt like the spotlight was on her.

“After what I said, treating you like you’re every other-” She stopped talking and I wondered if she was going to say ‘client’ but caught herself. “It’s hard for me to trust people. And I know you’ve given me no reason not to trust you; you’ve been Jackson Colt from the start, but I’ve been hurt-”

She stopped. As much as I longed to reach back and take her hand, I kept my grip on the wheel.

“And that’s the problem,” she continued, after gathering herself. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been screwed over...and so have you. It doesn’t help me, you, or us if I keep holding you at a distance or stepping into the ring with you to find out whose scars run deeper. We all have scars. I don’t want to compete for the trophy of who had the worst childhood. I want to be there for you...and let you be there for me.”

More sniffling erupted beside me, but Rose didn’t say a word.

The next move was all on me.

Rationality told me to take a minute. Weight out the pros and cons.

My heart whispered, “Fuck it.”

“I’m here, Red. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

Driving be damned, when her fingertips stroked my neck, I closed my eyes and let the ripple of warmth race over me.

That word was back with a vengeance.

Love.

It was more than just a word.

Love was Sadie McLeod.

Love was letting Rose turn the volume back up on full blast after she murmured, “Mom’s gonna be okay. We’re all gonna be okay.”

“Y
ou look just like your mother.”

Most people who shared that assessment said it with nostalgia, like they were transported back in time just by looking at me. One glance and they were back at Falcon High, cruising down the halls, worshipping at the throne of my mother. Of all the cool kids: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the badasses who skipped class to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom, my mother was the coolest. Beautiful, athletic, decent grades; everyone just knew she was destined for greatness.

After I confirmed that I was Colleen McLeod’s daughter, their next question was,
How is she?
Their eyes were bright with hope. Riveted. They waited for me to regale them with stories about how my mother was kicking ass and taking names in the business world. Or a retired supermodel who had taken her contacts and started an agency of her own. Or how she was lighting up Broadway with that bright smile that was immortalized in the trophy case by the entrance of the high school.

Growing up, I’d lied to teachers, creating stories as fantastical as the ones I escaped into. My mother was in Africa, working with Doctors Without Borders. She couldn’t make Parents’ Night because she was penning the next Great American Novel in the Australian outback. I’d tell classmate’s Dads who had hearts in their eyes that I’d pass along their hellos when my mother got back from her top secret mission from the President of the United States. Eventually, they stopped asking and when they did, I stopped caring that the truth was nothing quite so extraordinary. She didn’t come around because she was too busy polishing off her daily box of wine and living vicariously through soap operas and the rich and famous on E!

The charge nurse, Donna, had no teenage sigh attached to her declaration. The nostalgia that flickered in her eyes wasn’t awe. Her memories weren’t happy ones, and it was clear that being faced with my mother, and a daughter that reminded her of Colleen McLeod, was far from a good thing.

Under different circumstances, like not being in the emergency room, I might have shared that I was no fan of my mother, either. Today was an exception.

Instead of blushing and trying to disengaging, making it clear that I wasn’t my mother’s daughter, I cleared my throat. I felt Rose and Jackson’s eyes on me, burning through the glass window that separated the waiting room from the hallway.

I straightened my spine and glared right back at Donna. “Thank you.” I didn’t have time or interest in using my imagination to figure out their connection. Like my mother, the woman in front of me was surely a ghost of her old self. Her scrubs were the color of gangrene and it made her pale skin glow as brightly as white blonde hair. The curl of her lips told me that she went to school with my mother, which meant she couldn’t be older than mid 40’s, but lines and wrinkles made her look a decade older. Age was just a number, and not a determinant of how beautiful someone was, but the scowl on Donna’s face turned anything that might have been beautiful hard and brittle.

Just in case she hadn’t made it obvious, she confirmed her disdain with a scowl. “That wasn’t a compliment, sweetheart.”

“I’m well aware,” I fired back. Years with my mother had given me a thicker skin (and sharper tongue) than most. “And I’m not your sweetheart.”

Anger flashed in Donna’s crystal blue eyes and before we could waste anymore of each other’s time, I added, “It’s clear you have some sort of history with my mother, but I’m not here to hash it out with you. I want to know how she is.” Anger was alive and well in me too. Anger directed at my mother, for leaving a legacy that I had to navigate my way through, whether I wanted to or not. Now, Donna Whitewater had joined the list, her hair seeming to defy gravity more and more by the minute. Any second, she’d let out a banshee screech and tear off her scrubs to reveal that she was really the Wicked Witch of Falcon.

Most of all, I was angry at my myself. Leaving the people you loved high and dry was in my DNA, courtesy of the woman that had soured Donna’s mood. If I was smart, hearing that she was no longer in critical condition would have been enough, and I could carry on before my mother got her hooks in me. In Rose. Instead, I was channeling my grandmother, who stood by my mother through it all.

“If your baggage is impeding you from doing your job, perhaps you can point me in the direction of a nurse who actually cares about my mother’s wellbeing.”

That got her attention and the annoyed look on her face morphed into something almost conciliatory. “That won’t be necessary. Your mother’s room is right this way.”

There was no apology for her rudeness or a signal that we were about to power walk to the room, so I turned back to the waiting room to look at the two people I cared about most in this world. I did the dorkiest thing I could have done and flashed them a thumbs up sign. Instead of pelting the glass with fruit, Rose made a heart with her two hands and Jackson flashed a thumbs up back at me. Tears stabbed my eyes like a thousand tiny needles, but I had no time to cry because Donna was practically a speck on the horizon.

I flew down the hall after her, white walls, white floors and the smell of disinfectant and sickness whirling around me. I’d barely run the length of the hall but by the time I was in step with the charge nurse, I could barely catch my breath. She didn’t slow, but she found the time to cast a smirk over her shoulder. Even if she was amused at my expense, I’d take it over drawing a line in the sand. No one won if we battled it out. It didn’t change the past and only served to complicate the present.

And while I was eager to blame my mother’s demise on someone, to have a target, the closer we got to her room, the more I felt my anger dissipating. Turning to mist as I remembered walking through the sliding doors. There’d been a family who’d lost someone huddled near the front, holding each other. And then there was those already parked in the waiting room, their faces perking hopefully when we entered, and instantly collapsing back into worry when they realized we weren’t the doctor with an update. A lot of families in this building would wait for hours, only to receive the glimmer that surgery or whatever procedure was a success, but the patient wasn’t out of the woods. Some would be faced with a reality that no longer had their loved one in it, filled with regret and all the things that were left unsaid. All the adventures and birthdays that wouldn’t be celebrated. First birthdays that wouldn’t even be reached. Lives lived but unexpectedly cut short.

The tears that were slicing a hot trail down my cheeks were suddenly selfish and I wiped my face in between pants. My mother was hurt, but she’d be okay. There would be no grief counselor waiting for us in a sterile room, away from the public so they wouldn’t hear our wails. We’d dodged a bullet we weren’t even aware we should have been looking for. My mother, the squirrely cat with nine lives.

“So, what happened?” I asked breathlessly. “The nurse on the phone didn’t give us too many details-”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Donna interrupted, pausing when we turned down yet another corridor. ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ was in big, red letters above the door and she tugged her ID card towards the reader. The doors creaked open automatically and she strode through like a woman on a mission. I noticed how the other nurses went from smiling and friendly to quiet and avoiding eye contact. I’d thought Donna’s vitriol was specific to my mother, but it was pretty clear now that her attitude didn’t discriminate.

I tried to not marinate on the fact that my mother was in the hands of a tyrant that made everyone scatter like roaches when she entered the room. “You know way more than I do. The last time I saw my mother, she was cozying up to her slimy boyfriend.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the douchebag’s name. Not when the image of him touching Rose was burned into memory. Not when my gut was telling me that he had something to do with my mother being in the hospital.

Donna finally slowed, but went from full throttle to a complete stop, almost forcing me to collide with her. “Does he drive an old Cadillac? Black and slightly rusted with gleaming rims?”

“What?” I frowned. Black Cadillac, rusted exterior...that described my mother’s old car to a T, but she’d given it to the bookie to secure her debt. She barely had money for groceries, which meant that her gambling debt fell to me, or I risked some shady ass characters resorting to other means to intimidate and get their cash.