Lovers and Liars (30 page)

J
ack hesitated. Rick had just come home from school, and as usual, he had made a beeline for the refrigerator, undeterred by Jack’s sudden return. Jack watched him, starting to lose control, a well of deep, dark emotions starting to simmer and roil. He didn’t know how the kid would take it—he hadn’t the foggiest idea whether Rick hated Janet or loved her. “Kid?”

“Yeah,” Rick said, busily making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“We have to talk,” Jack said softly.

Rick stopped what he was doing, knife poised over bread, and looked at him with a wary, hunted look. “I haven’t done nuthin’ wrong,” he said sullenly.

“I know,” Jack said and saw Rick relax. “Come here,” he said, putting his arm around him and leading him toward the couch. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

“What is it?” Rick demanded. “What’s happened?”

“Rick, there’s no easy way—Janet died last night.”

Rick went white and sat frozen.

Jack put his hand on Rick’s shoulder. “She had cancer—there was no hope.” He watched Rick’s face; he saw the grief rising and the struggle to quell it. Rick leapt to his feet as his eyes grew watery, and he bolted. He ran into his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

Jack didn’t think about it. He went after him. He got his hand on the door and threw it open. “Ri—”

“Get out,” Rick screamed. “Get the fuck out!”

The kid was standing in the middle of the room, trembling, tears welling but not falling. Furiously he swiped with a fist at his cheeks.

Jack reached him in two strides and enclosed him in a massive bear hug. Rick went stiff. Jack felt the warmth of his body and the hot surge of a choking anguish. Rick started to tremble. Jack hugged him harder. Rick started to cry.

“It’s okay, let it out,” Jack said, fighting to push away the pain in his own gut, absolutely willing control. “Crying’s okay.”

“She didn’t even say good-bye!” Rick sobbed.

Jack rocked him and felt guilt. Poisonous guilt. He had known she was dying. He had known and ignored it. He could have done something. He could have let Rick see her. God.

“Why didn’t she come and say good-bye?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Jack said hoarsely. “I don’t know.”

53

I
t was a beautiful day. The sun was bright and warm, with a pleasant breeze pinching at the grass.

Jack wore a dark suit and watched without expression as six hired pallbearers carried the casket toward the open grave. Melody and Rick stood at his side, Melody clutching a black bag, wearing a black dress, and glancing at him nervously. Rick was pale and silent.

Jack looked at the almost black coffin being lowered and didn’t really see it. Instead he saw an old kitchen, wallpaper
ripping and torn, stained and peeling linoleum floors, a table that wobbled precariously because one of the legs was too short. And the smell.

Her smell.

Thick, cheap musk perfume. Cloying.

Janet.

Janet nearly naked. What did a six-year-old know or care? A sheer red robe over stockings and garters, sending one of her men off. Jack shooting peas at him, laughing. Hitting the fat schmuck in the head.

Jack!

Laughing, racing out of the house.

Too late. Janet had caught him, dragging him up short. A hard slap—right across the head.

You bastard! Don’t you ever do that again!

Jack squirming, fighting tears from the pain, thinking. I hate you! I hate you!

I hate you. I hate you.

Something deep and threatening tore at him from far inside, bubbling up. Excruciating tentacles of pain.

I hate you.

His breathing became choked. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his face. Salty. Tears blurred his vision; and feeling panic, he fought them, panting.

I hate you. I hate you.

His heart was pounding wildly. A tear escaped. He brushed at it, struggling as he’d never struggled before. For control. For a mask. To hold back emotions that were growing at an incredible rate. The tentacles were huge knives thrusting upward through his chest, cutting off his air, ripping open his heart …

Jack heard an anguished kind of animal noise escape from someone.

Himself.

He turned, stumbling because for some goddamn reason he couldn’t see, Tears blinded him. He wasn’t aware of anyone or anything. Just the rapierlike pain in his chest, the
possibility that he might have a heart attack, the need to find his car. Doggedly he ran.

He didn’t hear Melody cry out.

Blindly he found the Ferrari and was in it.

“I hate you! I hate you!”

He was pounding the steering wheel. Tears coursed down his face. He heard huge grotesque sobs. His sobs.

“I hate that bitch! I hate her! I hate her!”

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

She never loved me, he thought, crying into his hands.

All I ever wanted was some love. Just a kind fucking word, one word, one pat—like you’d give a fucking dog—one lousy nice word, one iota of approval …

One fucking word
.

54

W
hen they got back to the Westwood condo there she was, Janet’s ghost.

Jack stared, frozen, feeling faint.

Janet’s ghost, only thirty years younger.

She was dressed in skintight gold spandex, four-inch spikes, and black lace. A mane of dark blond hair. All that heavy makeup. Janet’s ghost looked him up and down insolently and suggestively, and then Rick shouted, “Leah!” and reality intruded, crystal-clear.

Stunned, Jack watched Rick hug his sister. His sister. Their sister. This … whore.

This spitting image of Janet.

He felt sick.

“I got the key from the manager’s office,” Lansing said, and for the first time Jack became aware of him.

“Hi, bro,” Leah said, giving him another suggestive look. “Too bad we’re related.” She smirked.

Jack got a grip on himself. “Hi,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thanks, Peter—I think.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Lansing said, trying to wipe the amusement and pity out of his eyes. Melody ushered him out, closing the door.

A tense silence filled the room.

Rick was watching them both, standing close to his sister—protectively.

“Rick, could you leave us for a few minutes?” Jack asked. He could see it now: Rick was going to side with his sister in any confrontation that occurred, and Jack had no doubt there were going to be many. To his surprise, Rick left without protest. The kid was really shook up over Janet’s death.

Leah sauntered close, inspecting him lewdly. “You look just as good in person,” she commented. “Maybe better.”

“Cut it out,” Jack flared up, grabbing her arm. “Cut out the hooker crap. I don’t like it.” He hated it. This near-image of Janet was making his insides roil.

“Well, isn’t that too bad!” She had her fists on her hips and grinned. “You wanted to see
me
, remember, doll?”

He had the traitorous thought that this was never going to work. “Look, Leah, I want to help you start over. There’s no need for you to sell yourself on the street.”

She laughed. “Sure, I’ll take a handout. Too bad you didn’t pop up when I was eleven and turned my first trick.”

He wondered if he’d throw up. Could he really be related to this whore? Nothing he had done, or ever been, compared to this. “First off, why don’t we get you settled in. You must be tired from the trip,” he said evenly.

“I’m staying with you?” Her eyes slitted.

He was in trouble—he knew it. “You need clothes,” Jack said, unable to delay the topic a moment longer.

“You gonna take me shopping?”

“What’s your size?” Jack asked instead. “Seven, eight?”

“Right on. Five ten, one hundred and twenty pounds.
All in the right places, I might add.” She patted a round buttock.

Jack clenched his jaw. How was he going to hide this—for her sake as well as his own? “Look, Leah, I have no intention of taking you shopping while you look like you just finished a ten-dollar blow job. I’ll have Mel pick you up some jeans and a shirt, and then she’ll take you out.”

“Do I embarrass you?” Her voice was saccharine sweet.

“You embarrass yourself.”

“You got what you asked for, big boy, so don’t go laying any crap on me.”

“Let’s get you settled in,” he said firmly.

“When do I get my money? Peter told me you’d give me a few grand to pay for my travel expenses.” She grinned. “He make that up?”

“He didn’t make it up. You’ll get it as soon as you like.” What did he think he was doing? Panic punched him like a fist.

“Now
sounds good to me,” she said.

“Tomorrow. Mel will have to go to the bank. I don’t have that much cash on me.” He paused at the door. “I assume you want cash?”

“Of course,” Leah said airily. “I’m a cash-only business—you know that.”

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