“Jesus—I’d rather not go blind from an accidental glimpse of your nut sack. How about putting some clothes on?”
I shrug and lob an arm around Kennedy’s shoulders. “Clothes are senseless at this point. What brings you by, big guy?”
His black eyebrows lift, and reproach reflects in his steel-gray eyes. “I’ve been calling—is your phone broken?”
I tease, “Mom, you look different. Did you change your hair?”
He flips me off.
Then I give him the real explanation. “I’ve been busy—a lot of sex has been happening.”
Kennedy pinches my chest—and it fucking hurts.
While Jake’s face remains blank. “Congratulations.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So what’s up—why the house call?”
I’ve barely seen him at the office this week. He’s been in court a lot, working a murder case. And he’s been really busting his ass over it, because he truly believes his client is innocent. That’s an uncommon, double-edged luxury we aren’t often afforded.
“We’re having a barbecue this afternoon. You’re invited,” he tells me. Then he turns his rare, charming-Jake-Becker smile on Kennedy. “You’re invited too.”
? ? ?
That afternoon, Kennedy and I head over to Jake and Chelsea’s place for the barbecue. Their house has a great layout for entertaining—a built-in pool, a gorgeous garden, and an outdoor kitchen Jake just installed.
Sofia smiles warmly at Kennedy, the bond of being a woman in the legal profession overcoming any lingering animosity from their showdown in court a few weeks earlier. The fact that Kennedy is here with me, that she’s important to me, probably helps too.
I introduce Kennedy to the McQuaid brood, and her head is practically spinning by the time I get through Riley, Rory, Raymond, Rosaleen, Regan, and down to the littlest, three-year-old Ronan.
We enjoy the clear sky, the hot sun, and a few beers, until Jake sets a platter of burgers and hot dogs in the center of the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and we all sit down at the picnic table to eat. While the pleasant hum of kid chatter fills the lower end of the table, Riley McQuaid sits down with a huff in the chair across from me, her mouth fixed in a pout and unhappy blue eyes throwing sharp glances in Jake’s direction. A palpable silence flows between the teenager and her father figure—it’s heavy and awkward.
So, of course, I have to mention it.
“Everything okay here?” I ask, looking to each of them.
Jake takes a bite of his burger. “Yep.”
Riley’s eyes narrow. “If you consider living under the fascist rule of a dual dictatorship ‘okay,’ then yeah, I guess it is.”
Jake’s mouth pulls up at the corner. “Fascist? That’s cute.”
I lean into Kennedy and whisper, “This sounds juicy.” Then I lift my chin at Riley. “I thought we’d moved passed the angry-nobody-understands-me-teenage phase and were happily settled in the responsible-working-part-time-young-adult stage. What gives?”
Riley and Jake go silent—a Mexican standoff if I ever saw one.
Chelsea, doll that she is, fills in the blanks.
“Riley and Jake had a disagreement yesterday. She had a friend over. A friend who is a boy. In her room. With the door closed.”
And it all becomes so clear.
I turn to Jake. “Did you flip out?”
He shrugs, face deceptively blank. “I don’t flip out. I just got the drill from the garage. Problem solved.”
“Solved how?” I’m already grinning at what I’m sure will be an entertaining answer.
And I’m not disappointed.
“He took off my door!” Riley shouts. “I have no door! I’m sixteen years old with five little brothers and sisters, and no door!”
“Like I said, problem solved,” Jake says evenly.
“I have rights, you know,” Riley counters.
Jake’s smile is patient. “Yes, you do—and not one of them includes having a door. Or a window, for that matter. You might want to keep that in mind, and quit while you’re ahead.”
Riley grinds her teeth, but goes quiet. And I just bet she’s sticking her tongue out at him in her head—or, more likely, flipping him the bird. I know the feeling.
“Come on, Riley,” Stanton says, “don’t be like that. It could be worse.”
“I don’t know how,” the teen grumbles, folding her arms.
“You could be Presley—that’s how.” Stanton’s referring to his fifteen-year-old daughter, who lives most of the year in Mississippi with her mother. She’s been considering colleges in the East, and he’s been positively giddy with excitement.
Riley’s face loosens with curiosity. “I texted her the other day, but she hasn’t gotten back to me. Where is she?”
“In her room, without Internet, TV, or phone, where she’s gonna be for some time.”
At our questioning gazes, he elaborates. “It seems she tried sneakin’ Ethan Fortenbury up the oak tree outside her window to her bedroom.”
I notice eleven-year-old Raymond frowning deeply.