He wouldn’t know the truth because I rarely talk about my father. For the past two or so hours, the world has been obsessing over a new Celebrity Crush article by Wendy Collins titled: Who is Connor Cobalt’s Father?
The journalist disclosed his name (Jim Elson) but nothing else.
People on the internet took it upon themselves to dredge up information about Jim Elson, and now everyone is circulating this photo of a man from Philadelphia standing outside Citizens Bank Park.
His name: Jim Elson.
His hair: brown.
His eyes: blue.
Age: late fifties.
“You mean the photo of a man in a Philadelphia Phillies shirt?” He hears my curt tone enough to understand.
“He’s not your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I confirm. “He’s just some man with the same name.” I rest my hands on the counter behind me. “The only annoyance is that I now have to take time to placate investors and assure them that no skeleton will crawl out of my closet.” That no long-lost father will try to carve out portions of Cobalt Inc. Thankfully Steve Balm met my father before my parent’s divorce, so he knew this man wasn’t the right Jim Elson.
Ryke’s brows knot. “Someone just claimed to be your fucking dad, and your only annoyance is about investors? What the fuck kind of relationship did you even have?”
“None. I’m not like you.”
“No kidding.” He tears off a piece of paper towel from the roll to wipe his nose. He balls it in his fist when he’s done. Ryke being sick makes him appear more docile than he really is.
“I was sent to boarding school when I was seven,” I remind him but I add information he doesn’t have. I give him more than he’s ever received. “When I was twelve, my mother told me that she divorced my father. I can’t tell you when it happened because I wasn’t aware. I saw my mother maybe once or twice a year, if that, and my father never called me.” My mother did take advantage of my birthday as a child, using the day to invite potential Cobalt Inc. investors to a party. I thought it was smart.
“Are you fucking serious?” He looks heated.
“It was mutual. Everything was mutual. I never called them. I never longed for them. I wasn’t attached to people. I lost contact with my father before I even hit puberty, and what I know about him are just facts. That’s all he is to me, and I know the lack of feelings between us are as mutual as everything else was.”
Ryke contemplates this, concerned lines crossing his forehead. “You promise that’s fucking it?” He wants to make sure I’m okay.
It’s sweet.
“I promise.” I grin. “And my promises are better than yours.”
Just as he begins to roll his eyes, we hear a weak croak from the couch, “Lily?”
At the same time, Ryke and I leave the kitchen to approach a feeble Loren Hale. His hair is matted on his forehead and skin still pallid. The darkened room only brightens with the sunrise.
“Hey, beautiful,” I banter.
Lo registers us above him and tries to sit up, but he weakly collapses back down. To me, he asks, “How do I get better and defeat this thing?”
“He’s not a fucking doctor,” Ryke cuts in.
Lo feigns contemplation. “I don’t know, bro. He’s kinda fucking close to one.”
I wouldn’t argue with that.
Ryke puts his hand to his little brother’s forehead. “You’re fucking delirious.”
Lo lacks the energy to push his brother aside, so he lets Ryke take his temperature. “I’m…” He yawns. “…whatever.” Lo fumbles with his cellphone, his nose reddened from using tissues all night.
“My advice,” I tell him, “sleep, water, and medicine.”
Lo looks to his brother. “See, he is a doctor. The physician I went to yesterday said the same thing.”
Ryke tosses a pillow at Lo’s head. “You’re starting to sound like your wife.”
Lo knocks the pillow away and glares and points at him with his phone. “Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m always a dick.”
“So many truths,” I muse.
Ryke flips me off, and then asks his brother if he needs anything. Lo is too distracted by what’s on his cellphone. This time, he sits up quickly, ignoring the weight of his head and fatigued muscles.
“What the hell?” He scrolls furiously, and then his amber eyes flit to me. “Who do I need to fight?”
My lips rise, and I slip my hands into my pockets. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s a fake photo. And even if it had been real, it’d mean nothing to me.”
Lo slumps back. “If it means nothing to you, then it means nothing to me.” He turns to his brother. “Can you get me a glass of milk…and toast with butter…and maybe some scrambled eggs?” If you picture Lo with puppy-dog eyes, you’ve forgotten what he looks like.
He will always be as sharp as glass and ice.
“Anything else, princess?” Ryke asks while he dusts Lo’s dirtied tissues into a tiny bin.
Lo points at the patchwork quilt kicked to his ankles. Ryke lifts it up to his shoulders and then carries the bin to the kitchen trashcan. He never told Lo that he’s sick too—he wouldn’t. Because Ryke Meadows loves taking care of people.
Lo yawns again.
“Go back to sleep, darling.”
“Only if you’re here when I wake up,” he banters.
“I’m always here.” I watch him gently shut his eyes, and just as I ease away, I hear the crack of eggs and the slam of the refrigerator.
And Lo mumbles one of the greatest truths of our lives.
“I have the best brother.”
< 13 >
March 2019
The Avondale Hotel
New York City
DAISY MEADOWS
I sprint down the hotel hall with three paper bags labeled Ryke, Connor, and Loren. Running through empty carpeted hallways with less urgency and more fun. I extend my arms as I speed ahead. You can’t catch Daisy Meadows. Look at how fast she goes!
I veer to the door and slip my keycard in, panting a little, and with a giddy smile, I enter the Manhattan hotel room where the three guys chill out for a few minutes.
The photographer suggested leaving the “talent” in a warm hotel room while Rose, Lily, and select staff set-dress the rooftop pool area for a charity photo shoot.
My modeling days are over, but all of our husbands agreed to a wild idea.
“I come bearing gifts.” I shake the paper bags and slow my speed.
I’ve walked in on something.
Lo sits at the edge of the king-sized bed, Connor towering above. His hand tilts Lo’s head backwards, and he inspects Lo’s bloodshot eye.
“Did you bring the gift of sight?” Lo asks dryly. “Because my eye is burning.”
I toss both of their bags on the bed. “I brought the gift of underwear. Maybe you can fashion an eye-patch.”
“If I could fashion a fucking glare, it’d be on you.”
Ooh. He’s a whole lot less scary in Connor’s care, submissive and totally banking on the smartest person he knows to make his eye better. I’m guessing some debris is irritating the surface.
“Hold still, darling.” Connor examines him.
I notice Ryke doing sit-ups on the floor, and when he sets his shoulders on the carpet, I purposefully look away.
“Have you seen my husband anywhere?” I walk forward until my legs are on either side of his head. Standing right over his face. “He’s full wolf. Broody. And he has a very large co—” Ryke bites my ankle. I laugh, staring down. His unshaven jaw and thick hair calls to me, but not more than those darkened, dangerous eyes.
Hello there.
“You hear that, bro?” Lo says. “The love of your life married Sasquatch.”
Ryke props himself on his elbows. “How’s that fucking eye feel?”
“How’s that face feel? Gotta hurt being you.”
“We’re fucking related,” Ryke snaps.
Connor tilts Lo’s head towards the lamplight and says, “I assure you, Lo is better looking, and he uses more words.”
Ryke groans. “Come on.”
Lo tries not to blink. “At least your insides aren’t ugly like mine.”
Ryke groans more. “Shut the fuck up.”