She smiles, and I can't read anything in it before she turns back toward the hallway, leading us past an alcove filled with bookshelves and leather couches, closer to the formal dining room. “I'm designing a restaurant in La Jolla.”
Just a few years ago, I would have asked questions and had an interest in her answers, but that was before my father kicked me out. Before I found out he let a porn star—the infamous Priscilla Heat—talk him into selling his former mistress as a sex slave. When my mother chose to tow his line, she lost me.
We near the end of the hall, so I can see the candlelight flickering in the massive, formal dining room, and suddenly I want to turn and run. Instead, my temper flares, and I stop walking.
My mother turns, wide-eyed, and I relish the startled look on her face.
“What's the point of this, Mother? Why invite me into your house? Was it Drake's idea?”
Her brows narrow. “Don’t call your father by his first name. You’re not sixteen, Cross.”
I twist my face into something between a smirk and a scowl, and she folds her arms over her chest. “It was your father's idea. He'd like to make amends. And we want to...explain what happened while you were unconscious.”
“Explain what happened?” I cross my arms—another habit—and I notice my mother's eyes fly to my left hand. I drop both arms to my sides. My face feels hot. “Well, I'm here right now. Why don't you tell me—what happened?”
She squares her shoulders, giving me a defensive kind of look. Then her eyes flicker to my hand again and I grit my teeth. “You better get on with it, or I'm leaving.”
“Your father has bled us dry, Cross. Spent us dry.” She makes a dry-throated sound, a darker version of a laugh. “That's why we had you moved from the nicer facility at NVIR.”
I raise my brows. I'm surprised she even knows the name—Napa Valley Involved Rehab. After all, they never visited.
“Let me guess: too many hookers.”
As soon as I say the words, I want to take them back. My mother recoils as if I've slapped her, and I open my mouth to say something to undo the damage. But I can see in her eyes that she's still denying it. Pretending he's not a philandering dickhead who cheats from coast to coast. And that pisses me off.
“You know he has mistresses. Everybody does. You think because he's the governor that you can't leave him? Damnit, Mom. I don't know what he does to make you drink the Kool-Aid.” I shake my head. “Does he have something on you?” That's how things in this family seem to work.
My mother locks her jaw. She looks furious enough to hit me, and as I stand there with my heart pounding, I almost hope she does.
“I stay with your father because I was raised Catholic, Cross Evangeline Carlson, and despite his substantial flaws, he is still my husband. Don’t you disrespect me—”
I bark a laugh. Disrespect her? I cock one of my brows. “If you think I give a damn about respecting you, you're wrong. You don’t deserve it. Either of you.” I clench my jaw so hard it pops. My head feels hot, the way it used to when the Dilaudid would kick in, in rehab. “You deserted me. You didn’t even visit.”
I watch a vein pulse in her forehead, and I know I've gotten to her when her face screws up and she tosses her hands into the air. “It was too painful!”
That’s such shit. “You were a coward.”
She whirls, and then she's gone, stalking through the dining room and moving in the direction of the stairs. I hear a low murmur, followed by my father's voice at regular volume, followed by my mother's strangled sob.
Fuck her.
I stride into the dining room, my heart pounding despite the cold, detached feeling that's encased my chest. A second later, I'm staring my father down from across the massive Georgian table. He's wearing a Zenga suit and the same clean, in-control expression that got him elected, and I'm surprised to see that, unlike my mom, he looks better than the last time that I saw him.
As soon as he meets my eyes, his voice rings out. “Did you come here just to upset your mother?”
I grit my molars. I can ruin him. I can turn him in. I really can.
When I find my voice, it's quiet and controlled. “Do you think that's why I came?”
“Is it?” He arches one black brow.
“I came to talk to you.”
He spreads his hands before him, like he's got nothing to hide. “Let's talk.”
“Are you sure you don't want to go into your office?”
Without missing a beat, he motions toward the hall. “Anything to make you comfortable, son.”