The Gambler Page 13

  And then of course, maybe, in time—twenty or so years—I could win back Miguel’s trust.

  “Think about it,” Nora said, handing me a blue folder with the words So You’re Thinking About Being a Foster Parent? printed on the front.

  I am? The idea took hold, gripping me with such force I wanted to shout.

  Yes. I am.

  Later that week, my father Jasper Tremblant was staring down at the low-fat, low-sodium, low-taste gumbo I had made for our monthly dinner.

  “This isn’t étoufé,” he said.

  “Étoufé is all butter, Dad.”

  “When it’s done right, yeah.” Dad looked affronted and I tried hard not to sigh. I spread my napkin over my lap and scooted in closer to the dining room table.

  Aside from these monthly dinners, the napkins were usually balled up in a drawer and the table was lost under books and bills. But Dad liked a little pomp and circumstance. Or maybe he expected it. Or maybe I thought he liked it and so I did it.

  I didn’t know anymore.

  All I was truly aware of was the slight dread I felt about these nights. The apprehension that had long ago replaced any of the excitement I might have felt.

  While I’d swept the floors, and cleared off my dining-room table, I’d wondered if this was how every woman of a certain age felt about her father.

  Or if I and Dad were just special.

  I’d wondered if things would be different if Mom were still around, but somehow I doubted it.

  “Butter is off the menu, should have been a long time ago. I’m just trying to help you take better care of yourself.” I dug into my dinner—if he didn’t eat it, fine. Whatever. I couldn’t make him do anything. He was an adult, even though he didn’t always act like it.

  “Thank you,” he said, picking up his fork. “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

  I gaped at him, watching him spoon a bite of gumbo into his mouth. Man, when he did things like that—criticizing one minute and apologizing the next—it threw me off. I could handle all of Dad’s split personalities—Loving Dad, Suspicious Dad, Grouchy Dad—but every time he switched gears unexpectedly between his many incarnations, I was left flat-footed.

  “You all right?” he asked. “You seem…distracted.”

  Distracted. Sleepless. Confused. Sometimes hopeful. Usually worried. I was a delightful mix of all the worst emotions and I wanted to climb right out of my skin.

  In the past week, I’d attended the first two foster parent orientation meetings and I’d sent off my paperwork with letters of recommendation from Nora, Gaetan and teachers from the Academy. Now I had to wait for the home visit.

  But that wasn’t all.

  Talk to your Dad.

  Tyler O’Neill was back in my life, back in my head, and I didn’t know what to do about it, how to get rid of him.

  I wasn’t to be trusted around that man, because every day I went and picked up Miguel, and every day I had to tell myself that Tyler hadn’t changed. Not really. Despite appearances. Tyler was a master of reflection—of showing people what they wanted to see.

  And apparently I wanted to see a changed Tyler, which was just nuts. Crazy. Suicidal.

  Talk To Your Dad.

  “I’m fine, Dad,” I said with a smile, wishing I could tell my father everything and he could make it all go away. But he’d never really been that kind of Dad. Actually - I’d never been that kind of daughter. “Just tired.”

  “You doing some light reading?” Dad asked, pointing to the two giant juvenile psychology textbooks I had stacked at the end of the table.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “I’ve made myself family officer.”

  “Family what?” Jasper asked, setting down his spoon, sitting back with a serious air of disapproval.

  I explained, as calmly as I could, the new aspect of my job, all while he sat across from me like a growing storm cloud.

  “Is this about that boy you’ve got working out at The Manor? The boy who tried to steal that car?”

  “Now.” I sat back, my nerves on edge. “How do you know that?”

  “The whole town knows, Juliette,” he said, spearing a shrimp, his fork grating against the bottom of the bowl.

  “Yes,” I said through my teeth, bracing for the lecture. “It is about Miguel. It’s about Miguel and the rising juvenile crime rate in Bonne Terre.”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything. His thin nose practically twitched with his displeasure, but I took it as a small victory that he managed to keep his mouth shut.

  But it couldn’t last. Didn’t.

  Within moments, he threw down his fork and glared at me.

  “I thought that boy was going to be taken to DOC!”

  “Why in the world would—” I stopped, a terrible, terrible idea forming in my head. “No,” I breathed.

  “You can’t protect the criminals.”

  “It was you,” I gasped, the fork clattering out of my hand. I couldn’t catch my breath. Anger and hurt obliterated any brain function. “You called the Office of Community Services.”

  “You couldn’t keep what you were doing a secret forever,” Jasper said. “I was trying to help.”

  “Help!” I cried. My father was insane, there was no other explanation. Somewhere along the way his love for me had gotten completely destroyed by his job.

  “I could have lost my job!” I cried, and he brushed away my concerns with an elegant wave of his hand.

  “You wouldn’t have lost your job,” he said. “But you would have learned an important lesson about the nature of your job.”

  “Tell me,” I asked, “who were you trying to hurt, Dad? Miguel, Tyler or me?”

  “Listen to yourself. Hurt you? By sending a troublemaking kid where he belongs? You’re too attached. Too damn soft.”

  “That’s not true, Dad. Not at all. I’m good at my job. Damn good. And the world has changed—”

  “I know, I know police are supposed to counsel and hold hands—”

  “We’re supposed to help! We’re supposed to be reasonable—”

  “Reasonable? I suppose that would explain why Tyler O’Neill is still in town,” Jasper said, leaning forward, his words a terrible slap.

  I breathed hard through my nose.

  “Tyler O’Neill is in town because he’s done nothing wrong.”

  “People like Tyler O’Neill need to be shown who’s in charge, otherwise they run around taking things that don’t belong to them. Same as that Miguel boy.”

  I tilted my head, my skin cold and prickly with anger. “I’m sorry, are you referring to me as a thing?”

  “You had no business sneaking around with him behind my back.”

  “That was ten years ago.”

  “Are you saying you’re not doing it now?”

  “I am a grown-ass woman, Dad. I don’t need to sneak anything.”

  “You can be mad at me all you want,” he said. “But that boy left you without a word. Without so much as a goodbye.”

  The pain and embarrassment was a fast-moving storm, taking me by surprise.

  Talk to your Dad. Tyler had said that weeks ago and either I’d forgotten. Or…well, maybe I just didn’t want to face what that meant.

  “Did you have anything to do with that, Dad?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Did you have anything to do with Tyler leaving that night. Without a word to me.”

  “It was for the best.”

  I gasped and got to my feet.

  “Tell me.”

  “Juliette, sit down. It’s ancient history.”

  “Tell me!”

  “You were thinking about moving in with him. Giving up law school. You were changing your life around for a god-damn O’Neill!”

  I pressed my fingers to my nose. And truthfully, I didn’t actually need him to tell me what he did. I could see it. It was in my father’s police chief handbook.

  “Let me guess. You threatened him… no. No, Tyler wouldn’t leav
e just because you threatened him. You put Owens on him like a dog.”

  Dad was silent. Damningly silent. “So, that’s it. You beat him. Not bad, but enough that he knew you were serious. Told him it would get worse if he stayed. Maybe you threatened his sister. Or grandmother. Or you gave him some money. Sweetened the deal?” I shook my head, my stomach sick. “For sure you let him know he didn’t deserve me, trash like him. You played into every doubt he had about us. You were always wrong about Tyler.”

  “Listen to yourself. You think he’s changed? You think a man like that can change?”

  The words stuck pinpricks into my secret heart, where I carried that damning belief, that terrible wish that he was changing. I had to battle the impulse to tell my father about the land outside of town, the houses he was going to build, the way he’d helped me with Miguel and Louisa. The way he made me laugh again, when I thought the whole world was dark.

  But my father would only use it as further proof that I had no perspective when it came to Tyler O’Neill.

  “He should be given the chance to change,” I said, my anger a bright star on a dark night, leading me in the right direction. “And you stepped way over the line. You stepped over the line with Tyler and when you called OCS about Miguel. You need to leave.”

  “Leave?” He smiled. “Come on, honey. We’re just—”

  “Leave!” I cried.

  The silence was stunning, painful, a gauntlet I had to get through, but finally he stood, putting his napkin on the table.

  “I have only wanted the best for you,” he said. “And I know you thought it was a secret, but I knew something was happening with you that summer. You were changing and not for the better.”

  “Go,” I said, and then watched my father’s back as he left my home.

  My father was wrong about so many things, but there was one thing I could not deny.

  Falling in love with Tyler was like having my life realigned. And, stupidly, I could feel it happening all over again.

  I put away the dishes. Scrubbed my floors. I held my breath and told myself not to do what I was thinking of doing. What I wanted to do so badly it was like a fire in my belly. I did some work in my fostering handbook. I painted my nails. But when I contemplated making cookies when I was the shittiest baker to ever bake, I knew it was stupid trying.

  All the doubts. All the good solid reasons I had for not doing this just got put away. I grabbed my purse and my keys and I went to him. I just…went to him.

  I didn’t realize it was raining until I got to the Manor. A light mist in the air that gathered on my skin. My lips. My shirt was damp and clinging to me. I didn’t know what I was going to say. Or do. I just knew that I had to see him. That I had to… apologize? Tell him how sorry I was for what my father did. Ask him to tell me what happened that night. Any of that.

  All of it.

  I rang the doorbell that I could hear gong through the house and when the door didn’t open it occurred to me how late it was. Past midnight. Oh lord, what a mistake. I stepped back down through the half built porch and turned for the car. Halfway across the yard, I heard him.

  Running after me.

  “Jules!” He cried and I turned to face him. “Is everything okay?” He reached for me, half naked in the moonlight and rain, wearing just a pair of thin athletic shorts. His blond hair a mess.

  “Fine. Fine. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Why did you?” he asked. Rain gathered on his shoulders ran in drops down his chest. Across his face.

  “He told me,” I said. “He told me what he did to you. Owens and the beating.”

  “Baby,” he breathed and I realized I was crying.

  “I’m so sorry. Really sorry.”

  “Don’t. Don’t. It’s not your fault. It’s not-“ And suddenly like we both just gave up on talking he grabbed me and I grabbed him and we kissed like no time had passed. Like he was the boy he’d been. And I was the girl and the last ten years didn’t happen.

  “Come inside with me,” he breathed against my lips.

  I nodded. Of course. Yes. Of course I would. I was dying to. It was why I’d come to him like this in the rain and the dark. Because I couldn’t stand not being touched by him for one more minute.

  He swung me up in his arms, kissing me and carrying me across the lawn and over the makeshift, half-built porch.

  “Careful,” I said, worried he might trip or fall, break both our necks. But he just grinned at me and jumped up the steps like he was impervious to gravity and wrong steps and maybe he was right.

  The Golden Boy, too lucky in this way, too unlucky in every other way.

  I stroked his beautiful face and decided I would not wonder what if. Not right now. It was this moment and only this moment. We kissed and he carried me through the manor to his room, back in the corner. The room smelled of him and of rain. The back courtyard was fragrant with flowers and the smell came in through the damp screens. He lowered my legs to the floor and I practically slid down his body.

  “We should talk,” he whispered against my mouth and I shook my head. There would be no talking. Not tonight. Talking might take this moment away and I couldn’t stand that. He was hard against me and I slipped my hand over him, applying the pressure I knew he liked. I kissed his neck the way I knew he liked and he shook and shuddered in my arms.

  “Jules,” he breathed like he still wanted to make a case for talking.

  “No,” I said. “We can talk later.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” I said, but wasn’t sure I meant it. But it was what he wanted to hear and once I said it, he was a man unleashed. He yanked my shirt out of my jeans shorts and I kicked off my flip flops. He palmed my breasts in my old lace bra, kissing his way down my neck to my chest. Sucking my flesh into his mouth like he wanted to take a bite out of me. And I got it. I understood. I was feeling just on the edge of violence too.

  I yanked down his shorts, delighted to find him without underwear.

  “Hurry,” I said, reaching between us to open my shorts, to get them out of the way. Skin to skin that’s all I wanted.

  “No way,” he said, holding me at arms-length. “I’ve waited ten years for this, Juliette. I’m not going fast.” He dropped my arms and pulled his shorts off, standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born.

  He was always so good at this. Comfortable in his skin in a way that made me more comfortable in mine. I’d learned the hard way that not every lover did this for me. In fact, the two I had in the ten years he’d been gone, I’d only learned how special Tyler was.

  How special we were.

  I took off my bra, pushed down my underwear, watching his eyes flare. He reached down and palmed his erection. Stroking himself, almost idly. Like he didn’t realize I was watching. But oh my god, was I watching.

  Why was that so hot? I wondered. The thick grip of his hand and his wrist. The bright red skin of his dick. How personal it was, like a secret I wasn’t supposed to see. But Tyler, in this realm, had no secrets.

  He opened his mouth like he had something to say but there was no time for that. So I pushed myself against him. Lips to toes. Trapping his hard cock between us where it burned against my belly. His hand slipped around to my hip, palming my ass. He was warm and smooth and I wrapped my arms around him so I could feel him against my forearms and my wrists. The insides of my arm. More. I wanted so much more.

  I wanted what we had. Who we’d been without the ten years of heartbreak, secrets and lies. And he kissed me like he wanted that, too. He lifted me, walked me back to the bed so he could lay me down on his sheets. He tried to lean away but I held on.

  “Like this,” I said. Wanting him on me. The weight of him pushing me into the bed.

  “This first,” he said and kissed his way, slowly down my body. My breasts. My nipples. The swell of my stomach until he got to the patch of hair between my legs.

  “I’d forgotten how you smell,” he said, kissing the tops of my
thighs. The push of my hip bone against my skin. “Like spice and sweat and lilacs.”

  I moaned, arching towards him and he rewarded me with a finger slip down between my legs. Through tight curls to the wet of me. The slick heat. He sucked in a breath. I blew out one. His finger, calloused and wide and thick brushed my clit, sending electricity right through me. I arched on the bed, pressing down on his finger, wanting it inside of me. Wanting him inside of me.

  There was another finger, pressing the lips of my pussy out wide and then, oh God, then it was his tongue. And it was over for me. I put my fingers in his hair, draped my leg over his shoulders.

  “More,” I demanded and felt him chuckle against me. But he gave me more. A finger deep inside of me. Another one. And I was grinding down on him as hard as I could. Fucking his fingers the way I wanted to fuck him.

  “God-damnit,” he breathed and then sat up, still fucking me with one hand while he reached, his mouth slick, for the drawer beside his bed.

  A condom.

  I pushed his hand out of me, reaching for his cock with both hands and my mouth. Knowing I only had seconds before he was fucking me into the head board. I licked him. Sucked him. Stroked him. The taste and feel of him in my mouth exploded in my memory.

  “Jules,” he moaned and I felt his fingers in my hair, palming the back of my head.

  God, I’d missed this so much. This easy intimacy. The natural give and take of pleasure. Ten years ago I’d had no idea how rare this was.

  He pushed me away, his fingers shaking as he rolled the condom down over his erection. I moved back on the bed and he crawled over me, grabbing onto the backs of my thighs, lifting me, pulling me.

  “You ready?” he asked, braced on one hand, his blue eyes boring into mine.

  “Are you?”

  He grinned and in one smooth thrust he was deep inside of me. I screamed. He laughed, evil and dark. And then he started to fuck me like he had to make up for lost time. He fucked me like he had something to prove. He fucked me until I came twice, the second time so hard I couldn’t move anymore. I just held on, whispering his name. Trying as hard as I could not to say the words that wanted so badly to be said.

  I love you.