BAD Beginnings Page 4

  He shook off his lapse into self-pity, grabbed three of the fourteen ties and rubbed the silk between his fingers. He had no clue how to tie the damn things, having not used one but once. If he walked out with it in a mess, she’d recognize his failure. It would serve to escalate her suspicion.

  Voices from the kitchen caught his attention. She was talking to someone? A woman? Had his accomplice returned—the unknown date from taekwondo land?

  He rushed toward the sound. He rounded the corner, fully expecting to be exposed.

  “Hey, asshole.” Of course. She was conversing with the parrot. Thank you, Tora. I love you too.

  Gemma’s profile as she stroked the bird’s chest was nothing short of amazing. She chuckled. “Guess he has you pegged. The question is, who’d he learn it from? Is that your mom’s voice?”

  He shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know? “Stupid bird. Why couldn’t he learn something useful like how to pour bourbon or work the television remote? No, he just picks up on the perfect insult. Remind me to work on his training.”

  “Yeah, right. I bet you barely remember to feed him and if it weren’t for that nosy neighbor of yours, he’d be dead. She has the hots for you, you know. She watches your place like a hawk.”

  He rolled his eyes and strode to the bar. “Want something?”

  A guarded look crossed Gemma’s face. “You sure you want to do that? I thought you quit.”

  If he was going to meet the parents for the first time, he could certainly use a little liquid courage. Ice clinked as he dropped it into the glass then added a dose of the golden liquid. “Stop frowning. It’s just a single drink, not a binge. Besides, what gave you that idea?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I can see the whites of your eyes for the first time in two years.”

  “You have to actually look at a person to see the whites in their eyes.” Baden handed her a glass of bourbon filled only to the half mark. Were they close before? He had no idea but doubted it if she hadn’t recognized the differences. In the short hours he drove for the man, Logan hadn’t seemed the type to let anyone get too familiar. Not to mention, judging by the way he had beaten his date the other night, he had some habits that didn’t lend nicely to long-term relationships. He doubted very many could stand the guy for more than a few hours unless their livelihood required it as hers did.

  *

  Gemma smiled at the lack of tie, and wrinkled shirt—his method of pointed rebellion. She doubted mommy-dearest knew about the tats either. Ironically, it served to calm her jitters. This was destined to be a big evening, one that could shed light on her stagnant case. At the very minimum, it would open up the locked diary on his past.

  She’d seen pictures of the woman but they were old. Engagement photos or wedding photos that were in the news from her other hubbies. Logan had no pictures in his office—of her, his dad, or anyone. He was a blank page, which in itself, was a bit eerie. And served to further substantiate her suspicions.

  She ran a glance across the sea of attendees at the event, searching for the dark-hair she’d seen in the last photo. “How long has it been?”

  Logan grabbed a champagne flute from a tray as the waiter weaved past. By the way he downed it, it was obvious the recovery was over. He scrunched his nose as if the bubbles surprised him. “What?”

  She heaved her shoulders up and down, noticing his glance never wavered behind the crystal glass. Apprehension filled her body and weighed like lead on her frame. Yes, he planned to get toasted tonight if he kept that up. Part of her looked forward to his loss of control. Maybe he’d slip up and she’d finally get some solid evidence. If so, would she be able to handle herself with him? Could she make the arrest single-handed? He was bigger. Stronger. And her only protection was the tiny .38 in her handbag.

  “When was the last time you saw your mother?”

  He closed his eyes in thought. Damn, why did the profile make her stomach turn? Not in fear, but in anticipation. The kind of anticipation one gets when they’re stepping into the ocean for the first time. It was the same feeling she’d had the first time she skydived. A subdued giddiness.

  “Can’t remember. You know, we could skip this thing and go have a nice meal somewhere. You like barbecue? There’s a great place two blocks from here.” His face had paled to the translucent color of wax paper. His vacation tan had disappeared, leaving a sheen of perspiration that thinly disguised –nausea?

  Gemma grabbed Logan’s arm. “Very funny. Us going to get barbecue dressed in formal wear. Sure. These people are counting on you, remember? You have a speech to make.” His face lost another shade of skin tone and she sucked in air. “You’re not going to puke on my fancy dress, are you? I spent a week’s salary on this thing and if you ruin it, I’ll—”

  “There’s my diamond in the rough!” called a loud, gravely voice with feminine undertones.

  They both whirled just in time for Gemma to get a glimpse of the aged face of his mother before she circled him in a hugging performance that rivaled the best actress. Hmmm. Yeah, that woman loved her son about as much as Gemma loved spinach. Now I know where the bird got its vocabulary.

  “Hey, Mom.” Logan patted her back before stepping away and jotting a glance around the room as if seeking a reprieve. Or hiding spot.

  “My name is Sharon. You know I hate to be called mom. This is Rafi, dear.” A man two inches shy of Sharon’s height stepped forward and offered a hand to shake. The only word that came to mind was—mousy. Rafi, the new husband, was bald, slightly round, and mousy.

  What kind of mother doesn’t like to be called mom by the only person in the world who can?

  The crash of glass and food utensils reverbed behind them and the room shifted gazes toward a waitress that had dropped her load. Food, drink, and cutlery scattered the floor. The woman with the tray stared for a second at Logan, then dropped to her knees and began clearing the mess. She voiced a string of apologies while swiping the food and drink onto the tray. One more glance their direction and she disappeared into the kitchen. Had she recognized Logan?

  Gemma analyzed his face—which was still the color of thin glue—and cocked her head sideways. “You know that woman?”

  He ignored her and turned back to Sharon. “Mom, you remember Gemma, my assistant?” Had he just intentionally defied her desire to be called by her name? She swallowed a giggle.

  “Charmed, dear. Good to see you’re cleaning him up a bit. Our table is this way.” Sharon Indiris turned and sidestepped through the crowd in the blue satin that shimmered over her shoulders and slid across her hips.

  Oops, was her name still Indiris? Gemma had no idea. There had been other husbands since Logan’s dad. What the hell was the biddy’s name?

  “Why are you shaking your head?”

  “Nothing. I—what’s her last name again?”

  He bent and whispered in her ear, “You tell me and we’ll both know.”

  Another giggle threatened to erupt but she frowned it away, realizing the wrong in laughing at such a sad family.

  Sharon chose that moment to whirl around a table and pat a chair. “You, here. Logan, here. We’ll take the other two.” She had completely ignored the nametags on the table that clearly put Logan facing the room and dropped into his place. He had officially been demoted from one of the honorees—to—what? By his own mother, who hadn’t seen him in years, no less?

  Logan cleared his throat and remained standing. He pulled Gemma from her seat. “Sorry, Mommy dearest but you’re in our chairs. Normally, I wouldn’t care but…” he swept a hand at the room, “I’d hate to have my back to this crowd when I speak.” He leaned over and tapped the microphone that sat conspicuously above her plate. “Unless, of course, you’d like to do the honors?”

  Gemma watched an icy chill cross Sharon What’s-her-name’s face and her stomach churned. A pasted smile did no
thing to hide the underlying fury. The woman patted Logan on the cheek, leaned forward and whispered something, then moved around the table.

  Shock crossed Logan’s features briefly before he reached for Gemma and pulled her with him to their seats. She glanced from one to the other, wondering where the resemblance was. What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Five

  Baden stared over the sea of unfamiliar faces. How could these people not see through this act? I’m nothing like the man. I used only one of the three forks by my plate, drank the wine in two gulps as Mommy Dearest stared in shock, and I can’t possibly give a speech.

  Gemma slipped a paper into his palm, and he focused on it, then blinked. “I’m supposed to read this? Out loud?” In front of this room full of people who hobnobbed with Logan on a daily basis and were sure to know?

  She smiled and his shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just not prepared to—I, um, I can’t.” His throat closed up. His head spun. He wanted to slide from the chair and bolt out of the room. Forever.

  Gemma dropped a hand to his thigh and squeezed. The warmth in her touch seeped through and calmed his quaking nerves. “Is this another example of your new-found humor? Go on. You love this stuff. You know you do.”

  No I don’t.

  She nodded. He stood and waited a full two minutes before the room quieted. Enough time to read through her words. Holy crap, she could write. He hoped to hell he could read it well enough to do justice. The lights dimmed around them and a spotlight focused with its glow bathing her hair in a golden pink sheen. Gulp.

  Where the words came from, he had no idea. Bullshit, he knew exactly where they came from and that’s probably why it had been an out-of-body experience to voice them. He hadn’t focused on any of the faces there—yet he’d connected with all of them. Through the words. Her words. Words of passion for a cause that was so close to home it hurt. He was speaking at a fundraiser for a program for troubled youth called Reconnect.

  Damn, why hadn’t there been something like this when I needed it?

  Only he hadn’t really needed it, because he wasn’t a troubled youth. He had been a normal, every-day teenager with a girlfriend. And some other troubled teen took it all away.

  The cold wetness of a tear on his cheek jolted him back to reality, then her breath whispered against his neck. “Are you okay?”

  Baden sniffed and smiled at the silent and tearful crowd. He had completely zoned out, entranced in her words, her cause. “I wish there had been programs like this when I was younger. Don’t you?”

  Two more beats of silence passed before the screech of chairs pushed against the floor, and the whistling, and surge followed.

  Baden’s heart chugged like a freight train, roaring along with the thunder of the claps of hundreds of hands. He had given a speech to a room of filthy rich sophisticates—and received a standing ovation. He couldn’t remember a fucking word he’d said. It’s a damn good thing he had it on paper.

  He leaned back to Gemma and spoke for her ears only. “God, that was painful. I’m shaking like a leaf. Is it time to leave yet?”

  “Before you hand over the check? That was a hell-of-a speech, but they’d lock the doors if you tried to jet before you doled out the money.” She drew a paper out of her purse and put it in his hands, then nodded over his shoulder. “Here they come.”

  The number on the check was surreal. He turned and his knees gave out. He grabbed for a chair. For the table. For anything that would keep him from falling flat on his face in front of the very man who had sent him to jail years ago. The man who was hell bent on getting into the prosecutor’s chair and didn’t care who he trod over to do so. Nor how many innocent kids he sentenced to waste their youth in a flawed justice system.

  “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.” Hell, even the voice was the same. “You don’t have me fooled for one damn minute.” The man charged forward, sweat splattered across his forehead. The pit in Baden’s stomach rolled and dug in with a healthy sting that made him twinge. The vile taste of food resurfacing resonated against his tongue—God, don’t let me vomit here in front of this room of thousands. Not in front of Gemma. The world went dark.

  He realized he had to be dreaming because his face was nestled exactly where he’d hoped. Right against Gemma’s perfect body. When she swiped a wet cloth over his head, he remembered what happened. He’d passed out. Hit the floor loud and hard. Great.

  He swallowed back the vile in his throat and spoke only to her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it. I was just…” In the wrong place at the right time like always.

  A sea of curious faces hovered over them. They were pushed aside by a man in a white shirt with a blazing red cross stitched on the pocket and a stethoscope hanging. “Move aside everyone, let the man have air.”

  Gemma released the comforting grip and, rather than lie down, Baden lifted to sit. He pulled a leg up and dropped a hand over it, not recognizing his own skin in the fancy clothes. She smiled, but the look in her eyes held concern—and perhaps a touch of fear. “You okay, boss? You dropped like a dove in hunting season.”

  When the stethoscope pressed against his cold chest, he realized his shirt buttons had loosened. He glanced around. His mother—correction, Logan’s mother stood in the background. Her eyes were riveted to the open neck of the starched white cotton/silk blend. He shoved the metal from his chest and drew the buttons closed. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Just got a little queasy with all the excitement. Leave me alone.”

  Gemma frowned. “You need to go to the hospital and get that checked.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I passed out. That’s what I get for skipping the meal and working like a fool.”

  “All the more reason to get it checked out.”

  No. That wasn’t happening. No one was going to “check him over”. Especially not anyone at a hospital. He picked himself off the floor and brushed the concerned hands away.

  “I’m fine and I’m not going anywhere. Take this bozo in the nurse suit out of here and let’s get this party going.” He raised a hand and waved. “Sorry, folks. Pretty lame of me to take the limelight away from these fine folks, isn’t it? Still, there’s food on the tables and lots of drink at the bar. Please help yourself. Me, I’m going to grab a dance with my fine-looking assistant here before someone else steals her away.”

  He grasped Gemma’s hand and strode toward the dance floor keenly aware that Sharon’s eyes bored holes into his back. Along with the District Attorney and a few others. Who cares? They probably all wished they were in his shoes at the moment.

  The music was slow and he hoped she wouldn’t expect him to do something fancy because he doubted he was up to that. His head still oozed with the loss of blood. It was only a matter of minutes before they grabbed him, tossed handcuffs over his wrists, and hauled him away. Until they did, he’d keep going—keep pretending long enough to have something he could remember the rest of his life. This is what it feels like to be that guy. The everyday guy who made good.

  “I thought you hated dancing.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “You’ve said it a thousand times. Every time you have to attend one of these things, in fact. You normally leave the minute someone tries to get you on the floor.”

  “Not me. I wouldn’t do that.” Basically, that was true. He’d always loved to dance with the ladies and considered it mean to say no if someone asked. For some reason, they always asked. He wasn’t all that fancy and sophisticated but he had a little rhythm in him.

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “No, not you.”

  He searched the crowd for the very man that was sure to end his charade but couldn’t find him. “On second thought, let’s get out of here.”

  “What? No. We can’t.” Her feet skipped a step and the heel of her shoe stabbed his toe.

>   Baden winced. “Sure we can. We are. Let’s go.” Without waiting for an answer or caring about Sharon and her new hubby, he pushed Gemma toward the side exit. A few steps down a quiet hall, they found an exterior door, and escaped into the darkness.

  Chapter Six

  Gemma followed him because she hadn’t a clue what else should be done. Everything smelled wrong. Sharon wasn’t what she had expected…contrary, she was a cold woman with little to no mothering instincts. The woman hadn’t even hugged him more than the once for the crowd, nor wanted to know a single thing he’d done. Though she was more than willing to take over his role as chair for the fundraiser.

  The look on Sharon’s face when they arrived wasn’t a welcome—more shock and fear. An unexpected and odd combination. Was the woman afraid of her own son?

  She struggled to remember the details of his family from his profile—there had been a sister when he was a child. She died young. His father disappeared soon after. Other than the many marriages his mother scurried through, she knew little about the woman. For all appearances, Sharon was a desperate woman seeking a man to keep her in Prada shoes and Escada dresses.

  Not a single sign of love for a son showed in her features. Sharon was afraid of her own child.

  “There’s the car.” Logan’s soft voice cut through her thoughts. For the oddest of reasons, it also cut through the coldness of the evening. She shivered. “Here, it’s a little chilly for a dress like that.” Logan slipped off his Armani suit coat and draped it over her shoulders. She stared at the fabric for a second before pulling it tight. It likely cost more than two month’s salary for her and it smelled—as if it had been hugging his neck for the past two hours. Mmmm.