Darius places his napkin on his lap before he arches a brow at me. “It’s a valid question, given that I’m your guardian, of sorts. I want to be sure you’re doing okay.”
That’s the problem. My okay and Darius’s are worlds apart. I’m happy with two hundred dollars in my back account. In Darius’s world, I’m barely scraping by on pocket change. “My finances are fine. You don’t need to worry.” And in my world, we don’t care about these things and ask personal questions like that. But in Darius’s world, money and smart business are his biggest thoughts of the day.
He sticks his fork into the stir-fry he ordered and gives me a level look. “I found out today that you still haven’t touched any of the money I gave you.”
I chew my steak, buying myself some time to answer him, since I know I won’t ever touch the bank account he set up for me. The money is tainted, as far as I’m concerned, reminding me of the past and a life that I never asked for or wanted. But I can’t hurt Darius by telling him that. He’s doing what he thinks is right by me, because that’s all he knows. I swallow and narrow my eyes on him. “How do you know I haven’t spent any of the money?”
“Because my accountant told me.” He lowers his fork to his plate, and his eyes soften. “Allison”—Darius is the only one who doesn’t call me by my nickname and I’ve always wondered if that’s some messed-up way to keep me at a distance—“you don’t need to do this all on your own. Your mother would have wanted you to live a good life. Let me help take care of you.”
God, my stomach rolls at how he says your mother. It’s damn sad he doesn’t call her our mother, which is what she would have wanted. “I live a fantastic life on the salary I make,” I correct him.
Darius snorts. “You could live a much better life.”
One lesson I learned very early on from my mother was that money doesn’t make you happy; it’s the priceless things that create lasting memories. “Mom would’ve wanted you to be happy, too,” I fire back.
Darius freezes halfway from placing
a piece of broccoli into his mouth and slowly lowers his fork to his plate. “Who says I’m not happy?”
I raise my eyebrows in answer.
He looks down at his plate, and a few seconds pass before he finally answers me. “I don’t need to discuss my life with my little sister.”
“I don’t need to discuss my life with my older brother.” When his hard eyes lift to mine, I smile to ease the tension. “Regardless of how wonderful he is and how grateful I am for all he’s done for me.”
Darius finishes off his broccoli and sighs heavily. “Smart-ass—although, I’ve got to hand it to you, you can insult me and make me feel good about it all at the same time.”
I reach for his hand across the table, giving his fingers a squeeze, hoping he’ll realize I really do care about him. PDA always makes him squirm. But again, it’s all understandable. He wasn’t raised in a loving household; instead, love was bought with money, which makes me sad and wish things could have been different for him.
When he moves his hand away, I ignore the pang in my chest. “What can I say? I learned from the best how to stay on my toes.”
He tips his wineglass to me. “Don’t forget it either.”
Even his slight grin can’t hide the truth. My older brother appears to be the type of man that has it all, and yet has nothing that matters. He was deeply in love with Taylor, but he ended things with her, for reasons both Taylor and I don’t really know. Though I have my suspicions. Business came before her, because Darius had to fight his way back after his father cut him off. Then, when Darius began tasting his wealth, money became his only focus. Now that he’d made his billions, he didn’t know any other way to live anymore.
“Don’t you worry,” I reply to his statement. “I won’t forget.” Because if I’m not on my toes around Darius and Micah, and if I ever do forget that I wasn’t raised in a world where love didn’t come first, then I will lose the only thing left of my mother…my memories of her.
Micah
Rain pours from the skies, soaking my gray T-shirt and dark blue jeans, as I watch the taillights of the Bentley slowly fade into the night. The aroma of cooked meat fills the air from the vendor on the street corner near Pier 39. It’s an exceptionally dark night, while young people fill the streets, heading into the clubs and pubs, enjoying their weekend.
That’s my plan as well as I turn to the building behind me, spotting the O’Keefe’s burgundy sign decorated with a gold Celtic knot. I enter the pub, and the roar of noise is a quick indicator of how packed this place is already. The heavy wooden door shuts behind me, and the design of the pub looks better suited for a small town in Ireland than downtown San Francisco. But I have always thought that’s part of the pub’s charm.
Looking through the crowd, I find Gabe working behind the bar, flipping bottles high in the air, putting on the show he’s known for. My muscles begin to relax and finally the tension in my shoulders loosens. I need a little familiarity right now. And O’Keefe’s means kicking back with good food, great beer, and live music.
I move toward the bar, hearing the Irish folk music coming from the band in the back, which is right when Gabe sees me. He gestures with a tilt of his head toward the end of the bar, where there’s an empty seat. I adjust the tip of my baseball cap a little lower on my face, hoping no one recognizes me as I make my way through the crowd.
Once there, I drop down onto the wooden stool, watching Gabe move to me with a beer in his hand. His hazel eyes rake over me as he slides the beer my way. “You look like shit,” he quips.
“Never one to hold back your thoughts, are you, Gabe?” I take a sip of the crisp beer, attempting to reconcile my mood with myself, and in fact, feeling like complete shit.
Allie hadn’t been the first woman to look at me like I’d torn the fabric of her soul apart. The difference being: my reaction to that look. My stomach knotted, a dullness forming in my chest the second she left me today, and those sensations remain now and had even grown worse. I’m not used to the longing I feel for her. Nor am I used to second-guessing myself. The sadness in her eyes is haunting me. And tonight I came to Gabe’s pub so I wouldn’t go to her house.
I lower the bottle from my mouth, enjoying the bite of the cold hops aftertaste. “It’s been a rough day.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Gabe grabs a rag out of his back pocket and begins wiping away the spills on the wooden bar in front of me. “But luckily for you, bartenders are the best therapists.”
I snort. “You’re not a bartender. You’re the CEO.”