I’d never been honest with Kane about what I’ve been through thanks to dear old dad. I’d barely been honest with myself. Letting information about my work slip was a crucial mistake on my part, and I had to do whatever it took to stop the leak from turning into a waterfall.
“That’s what?” Kane dropped his arms. He reached for me for a moment and then stopped, like he realized he was about to comfort me, and dropped his arm again.
I took a deep breath. “He can’t find out I’ve been questioning my responsibilities. It’s really fucking important that heneverhears that. And now that your dad knows, it’s only a matter of time.”
“He won’t find out. I smoothed it over.”
“You’re sure?” I asked, biting my cheek, an act that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Why are you so fucking nervous? I’ve never seen you cower to your father.”
I started pacing again. “Yeah, well, you don’t know everything that goes on. Especially in that house.” I pointed to the backyard where my house was barely visible. It might’ve been a guest house, but we used golf carts to get from there to the mansion because the yard was that expansive.
“Do you need to stay here?” Kane asked, concern lacing his tone.
“I’m fine. Just stay out of my shit,” I snapped a little more aggressively than planned. I didn’t need to play nice with Kane. I didn’t need him taking up for me, worrying about me, or defending me.
It would only paint a target on his back.
He scoffed. “Fine. I’ll go back to treating you like shit. Just the way you like it.”
I cringed. I didn’t like itper se, but there wasn’t another way to survive this life. Barriers and cold-heartedness made our world go around. Everything was business–i.e. money. Nothing else mattered except that.
“I’m going to see Bobby. Want to join me?” I asked, knowing the answer but asking anyway because I liked to make him squirm.
“Got shit to do,” he responded with his head in the fridge, digging out another beer.
“Theo and Noah coming over isn’tshit to do.”
His grip tightened on the neck of his beer. “If I have to stay out of your shit, you can stay out of mine.”
Touché.
Although him staying out of my shit meant I didn’t get sold off to a rapist. Me staying out of his shit meant he never visited his brother.
Havinggrownupinits shadow, I was used to the mansion’s opulence and extravagance.
It’d been remodeled four or five times in the years since we moved into the guest house. It was currently sporting the minimalist aesthetic, which I found to be most-fitting for families like ours.
Hollow, barren, un-lived in. Don’t get me wrong–the place was gorgeous in that brand new, pristine, model-home kind of way. It just wasn’t my style, but Alana Moretti’s penchant for following the trends was unmatched.
The gray and white marble floors sparkled as I trudged across an ungodly amount of square feet leading to the east wing–the wing where Gio Moretti kept his oldest son tucked away.
Bobby’s door was open, but I knocked anyway and smiled when I saw him. His eyes lit up and he smiled back as one of his nurses waved me in.
I felt a little underdressed sporting a fancy pair of black yoga pants and an old white band tee, but Bobby didn’t care. He was happy to see me. Happy to have a visitor that was there because they wanted to be, not because they were paid to be.
The room was equipped with everything he could ever need including a hospital bed, a power lift recliner, television, wheelchair (for when he was allowed to venture outside these four walls), and a newly added handicap-accessible bathroom. It was decorated like the rest of the house–a lot of whites and a splash of gray here and there. Although no amount of aesthetically pleasing decor could cancel out the depressed vibes of the situation.
Bobby was in his recliner as he usually was when he wasn’t sleeping. The TV was on, playing a rerun of an old basketball game.
One of his nurses–Andrew–occupied the seat next to him, knitting a scarf. He dropped his knitting needles and shot out of the chair. “I’ll be on my break,” he smiled, understanding our arrangement and how I liked it.
I didn’t need anyone watching over my time with Bobby.
Andrew blew past me–eager to take a break from holding his chair down–as I walked up to Bobby. “Did you get a haircut? Lookin’ good there, Moretti.” He blinked once which meantyesas I tousled his dark brown hair. He also gave me a sound, which was as much as he could do to respond, and I pulled the chair so it was facing him and plopped down on it.
Bobby had lost much of his muscle from being in a chair for months. His doctors were hopeful that he would eventually be able to speak again. He was in a rigorous therapy program, but it would take time. There was also talk of an experimental surgery.