The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) (17 page)

“I don’t give a shit! I need my best servers! Find Koby and Dominic, they aren’t answering their phones. Tessa is a no-show and I’m fuckin’ hemorrhaging staff right now. Amy went home sick and one of the chefs is barely keeping it together, there’s a bug going around. Half of Columbus is pouring in here.”

I heave a sigh and haul my ass out of bed, though very reluctantly. “What’s going on today? I thought there was just a wedding or something and you were covered.”

“We’ve got a last-minute wake, that’s what happened. Sorry that people don’t die according to your sleeping schedule,” Alex snaps, and I brush it off because I know he’s just stressed.

“Who died?” I ask, more to keep him talking than actual curiosity. It’s not like I really keep track of members.

Alex gives a cold little laugh, and then I can actually hear him stop moving and pause. He just breathes for a long moment, and then he asks cautiously, “Are you telling me you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I ask, and now I stop moving, toss my black pants onto my bed and decide the slight wrinkles will have to do. It’s not my fault I was called in last minute.

“Zeke…” Alex takes another breath, and now I’m feeling irritated.

“Who the hell died, Alex? Someone we know?” I’m not sure why he’s beating around the bush. I can’t imagine who would die and have a wake at the country club that I would particularly care about. I have a sudden, instant flash of Evie’s face. No.
No.
It’s not Evie. I tell myself to focus, to shut up and then reason that even if it is Evie, it’s not like I actually knew her. We’ve barely spoken, without arguing, at least.

“Ian Parker,” Alex says in a rush, and my heart drops when I hear the last name. Then I realize which name preceded it, and my relief is way too strong for how little I actually know Evie.

“Dr. Parker?” I finally manage to ask, and then I have to process it anew, feel all the emotions that go through me at
that
name. “He… died? When? How?”

“Friday night. He was shot. Look, Zeke, we can talk about this when you get here. I just really need you to get a hold of Koby and Dominic. We’ll adjust your shifts later this week, but right now I’m being attacked by Grandview, Dublin, and the entire Columbus medical community, not to mention I’ve got a hysterical widow on my hands, a stepson clapping his hands at the thought of his inheritance, and a grieving daughter who is just sitting by herself and crying. I need your ass in here, and I need it in here fast. You feeling me?”

Friday night. Ian Parker was shot and died… on Friday night. Shit. Damn.
Fuck
. All I can see in my mind’s eye is Cameron and the gun, the scene next to Dr. Parker’s Porsche. But we all ran. The door had started to open, and we had all run. So it wasn’t Cameron. Was it? It couldn’t have been. He’d already been sent away once for carrying an unregistered gun and running the streets high as a kite, surely he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, and then actually shoot someone? No. No, he was a dumb motherfucker, but surely he wasn’t
that
dumb.

“Zeke? Zeke! Come on, man, I need your help here!”

Alex’s voice pulls me back to the present and I snap back into reality.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m on my way, I’ll find Dom and Koby. We’ll be in as soon as we can.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Alex grumbles bad temperedly, and we hang up.

I toss the phone on my bed and stare at it for a long moment. I realize all of the sudden that I’m trembling. I franticly go over the night in my head. I didn’t
touch
anything, did I? If, just
if
Cameron did something, I won’t be connected to it, will I? No doubt he’ll try and throw me under the bus, but I will lie and lie until the end of time. There’s no way in hell I’m getting sent away just by association to Cameron, especially since I had nothing to do with anything. I’ve been working my ass off at the Parkers just to avoid that very fate.

Suddenly I’m smiling, grinning like a fool, because even though Dr. Parker dying really sucks, it means I’m out of the deal. No way will Mrs. Parker want me hanging around her house all summer, and I doubt in the midst of their grief, they’ll really care to press charges. I give a fist pump, because finally,
finally
at long last, something in my screwed up life is going right. All summer, free once again.

I finish getting dressed and manage to get a hold of Koby and Dominic, telling them I’ll swing by to pick them up within the hour. They’re not happy about going either, but at least the three of us will be together all day. Long events always suck when I have to work them alone. I pop my head into my dad’s bedroom and get an annoyed, sleepy assent to take the car and head outside.

As I’m backing out of the parking spot, though, the worry returns. Guilt by association. I know how I look, how my record looks. If Cameron really did do it… It’s Ian freaking Parker, after all. They’re going to be trying to find out who did it. No doubt Clarissa Parker is going to be hounding the police department night and day to try and make them find her husband’s murderer; she seems like the kind that would think that finding the guilty would make it all better. I know the reality of that. I know exactly who killed Cindy, but the fact of the matter is that knowing who did it won’t make her come back. She’s still gone.

Shit. I have a sick feeling of worry in the pit of my stomach, nervousness. What if Cameron is already in custody? Maybe they’re keeping it quiet because they’re looking for me, for accomplices. I haven’t heard from him since Friday night, after all. I’m sweating now, damp armpits and upper lip and the emotions are coursing through me. This is almost worse than love and affection. It’s stark terror. A murder. A freaking murder that I could be connected to.

I’m thanking God and all the angels that I never touched the gun, at least, but I still can’t push it all away. Before I even realize it, I’m pulling an illegal U-turn and heading the opposite direction from Dublin, back toward downtown and Cameron’s house. I have to do it, even if Alex will bitch about how long it took me to get to the club.

It takes forever to get there as I seem to hit every single red light on the way, get stuck behind every old man that’s out on the road heading for church. Finally I’m turning onto Hayden Avenue and parking in Cameron’s cracked, uneven driveway. I get out of the car and barrel up to the side door of the garage, throwing it open and almost recoiling at the morning-after scent of a wild party.

Stale smoke, old weed, day-old beer and sour vomit hit me like a brick wall and I have to hold my breath as I step inside, squinting in the gloom for Cameron’s stocky body. I finally spot him on one of the couches in the corner of the room, sleeping with his mouth gaping open. I push back the flicker of disgust, which isn’t hard since it’s eclipsed by my anger and the need to get it out of me.

I walk right up to him and yank him bodily up off the couch with adrenaline-fueled strength. He comes awake instantly, fighting at first and then relaxing a little when he sees it’s me.

“Quain, what the fuck are you doing here?” he asks groggily, rubbing his eyes and then looking down at my hands fisted in his shirt. “What are you doing? Don’t fuckin’ touch me.” He’s growling now, his dark eyes narrowed as he starts to try and pull away.

“Did you shoot Ian Parker?” I’m shouting and strive to modulate my voice, but fail. “The other night, by his car, did you shoot him?”

I give him a shake so he knows I’m not messing around, and Cameron reaches up to shove at my own shoulders, but I’m taller and stronger than he is and even though he’s struggling, he can’t escape me.

“Get off me, Quain!” he shouts, and around us some of the people sleeping or passed out on the floor are starting to stir. “Get your hands off me!”

“TELL ME!” I shout, fear and anger making me lose all control. I lift Cameron up a few inches off the ground and push him against the nearest wall, getting in his face. “He’s dead, and I want to know if you fucking shot him, Cameron! I’m not getting in trouble for this because of you!”

Cameron seems to realize that it’s pointless to keep fighting me. His eyes are wide now, and I think I see a hint of fear and anxiousness in them. “I didn’t even know he was dead!” he cries. “I didn’t know he got himself shot, okay? I ran that night, just like you. I fucking ran, all right? Now let me go!”

I push him more tightly against the wall, trembling all over as I stare into his bloodshot eyes, trying to gauge the truth. But they’re big, scared and probably as frantic as my own. I can see the truth in them, the worry that he might be associated with the murder. He didn’t do it. I’m confident he didn’t do it.

Slowly, I release my hold on him, allowing his feet to touch the floor once again, and Cameron sags against the wall. I start to back away, pointing my finger at him just like he always did to me.

“We’re done, Fuller. I’m not taking a scare like this again. All of your ideas seem to end with me in a jail cell, and I’m fucking done, you hear me?”

I turn and exit the garage, ignoring Cameron’s shout as I get into the car.

“Get out of my fucking house, Quain!”

I drive off, hands still trembling, but emotions under control thanks to the adrenaline rush of facing down Cameron. I meant what I said. My summer was threatened once before, and this incident is the final straw. I want to walk the line, don’t care to be good, but I sure as hell don’t want to be sent away, don’t want to live that life. I drive away from Cameron’s house and don’t look back.

By the time seven o’clock rolls around, along with the official beginning of the wake, my shoulders are burning as if I’ve spent the day digging at the Parkers. The only thought that makes me feel a little better is knowing that I’ll never have to do
that
again. I roll my shoulders back and then set my tray on the bar for Alex to refill with drinks, taking the momentary break to look around the room.

It has all the typical elements of a rich-people wake; a crying widow being comforted by her friends, one of them holding her hand while the rest of them are all nodding consolingly; Clarissa Parker. The ungrateful stepchild, standing with his friends in the corner with a serious, mock-grief stricken look on his face, but secretly rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the reading of the will; Hunter Grey.

And the real child, truly distraught and not speaking to anyone; Evie Parker. My eyes stray over to her before I can stop myself. She’s standing beside the big photo they have propped up of Dr. Parker, one of the two of them, actually. In it, they’re both laughing and the easel is surrounded by huge bouquets of flowers. Evie is just… standing there, her arms wrapped around herself, looking down at the floor. People pass by and offer their condolences, and she just looks up and nods at them before resuming her downward stare.

I feel a flicker of sympathy for her, and even though I’ve been trying so hard not to feel anything, especially where Evie is concerned, I allow this one little bit of emotion because it seems warranted in the extreme circumstances. I keep thinking how I don’t have any luck going for me, but when I think about Evie, this really is about neck and neck with my own bad streak. The girl had an abusive boyfriend who she finally escaped, and then he tried to kill himself—so the rumors say—and she’s finally starting to recover, clearly with the help of her dad, and then the guy gets shot. Talk about bad luck.

Alex knocks against the bar and I pick up my tray and resume my circle of the room, eventually stopping off at the kitchen to drop off the empty glasses before heading over to refill my tray again. People always drink far more at wakes and funerals than at weddings or showers. It’s the depression in the air, the heaviness of it and the awkwardness, the wanting to relax and not knowing how or what to say; so you drink and it all comes more easily.

Tessa catches up to me in the kitchen. She finally rolled into the club around three today, after all of us had called her multiple times. She’d come in with circles under her eyes and had already run to the bathroom once; I’m pretty sure it was to throw up. She’d been at Cameron’s last night, and apparently the party had been huge. Now, four hours later, she’s looking a lot better. I’m pretty sure she ducked away and showered in the locker rooms during one of her breaks, because her hair looks a little damp in its braid over her shoulder, and she’s actually wearing make-up now. She probably ate, too.

She heaves her tray onto the counter to be emptied, though hers is full of dirty hors d’oeuvres plates instead of glasses. “Cameron is pissed at you,” she says as we lean against the doorjamb of the kitchen and look out through the windows at the people milling around. “What the hell was going on this morning? I managed to make it to my own bed last night, well, I guess it was more like this morning, but I could still hear the two of you yelling at each other.” She pauses, and then glares at me. “
Early
, too.”

I shrug. I don’t know if Cameron will tell the truth of what we were arguing about, but I sure as hell am not. The fewer people that know about that night, the better.

Just in case.

“Let’s just say I’m not really welcome around Cameron anymore,” I reply instead. “And the feeling is mutual.”

Tessa rolls her eyes. “And they say girls are drama queens. Whatever.” We’re silent for a long moment, and then she finally comments, “Rich she might be, but you’ve got to kind of feel a little sorry for Evie Parker.”