AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I hate all three of you," she says. "And with the reporters I have in my payroll, you're going to watch Sloane and Drake suffer."
Clutching her purse to her breast, she then turns on her heels and walks for the door, leaving me completely dumbfounded in the middle of the living room.
Before she can leave, though, I walk after her. I slam the palm of my hand against the door, stopping her from opening it, and look into her eyes. It hurts me to say it, but the person looking back at me isn’t someone I can call a mother. There’s just ice there, almost as if I were just another obstacle in her path.
But there’s something else too. It finally dawns on me.
“You’re jealous…” I whisper, and I notice a flicker of anger in her eyes. I can hardly believe it, but she’s jealous of me.
“Don’t be silly. Why would I be jealous?” she says, but her voice falters as she says it. I can see through the cracks in her armor. I open my mouth to speak, but then I realize it won’t do any good.
“Just go,” I whisper, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I step back from the door, and with one final hard look at me, she leaves. I lean against the wall and let my body slide down to the floor; burying my face in my hands, I let one huge sob rise in my chest and I finally let the tears loose.
I’m not crying because I’m afraid of her. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself; I’m crying because she’s my mother. I never had a close relationship with her, but to think that she has become a complete stranger… And, more than that, she’s on the verge of becoming my enemy. My own mother!
I pity her, to be honest. She always chased money and fame, the high-life, running after it like a dog chasing after a car. It’s everything she wants, but the last thing she needs. And that’s why I know she’s jealous of me. I live a life of freedom, doing the things I love and being true to myself. And she either can’t do that, or won’t.
Wiping away the tears with the back of my hand, I go up to my feet and take a deep breath.
Let her threaten me. Let her come after me.
I’m right here.
Drake
The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We're sitting at Cipriani's, and the broker in front of me takes a good, long look at the waitress' ass as she walks away, and then he continues his rant. He's been bragging about his firm's latest client for the last twenty minutes.
He's one of those old money types. His money's been handed to him from his father, and his father's father, and on, and on. It's a legacy that probably began when his family came over from the fucking Mayflower or something. You get the point. This guy's never known what it's like to have one foot dangling just above the gutter, or to claw your way to the top out of necessity.
It almost makes me smile. I don't care how much money I've made, having that knowledge of desperation simmering just below the surface never goes away, and it gives me an advantage against the competition. It brings out the blood-thirsty shark in me. Always.
"The IPO for my new client will be offered next week," he continues, "and the firm's going to make more money than it knows what to fucking do with."
"We'll see," I say, taking a sip of my drink. I honestly don't give a fuck about whatever new client he's waving in my face. I don't give a fuck about the IPO. My mind is all over the place, but it always returns to two things: Natalie and Sloane.
"There's no wait and see," he replies.
"I just mean that we'll see if the public wants to invest," I say, trying not to yawn. I've heard these kinds of predictions a million times, and these fucking things don't always work out as planned.
"Oh they'll want to invest," he continues, and then changes the subject. "What about that waitress, huh? That ass is something else."
I nod, just to humor him. She's okay, but honestly, her ass doesn't compare to Natalie's. But he's fixated, like a dog drooling over a steak, and who am I to burst his bubble?
"Yeah, nice."
"I'd like to grab two big handfuls," he says, a grin forming on his face.
I bet you would. Good luck with that. With the gold band on your finger, your receding hairline, and that gut protruding over your belt buckle, my guess is you don't have a chance in hell, I think to myself. But I don't say anything. Instead I smile. Schmuck.
Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and look at the incoming number.
Shit. "Excuse me," I say, "I need to take this call."
"No problem, buddy," he responds, and smiles, "I'll just continue to take in the sweet, sweet view."
I push my chair out and stand up from the table, quickly walking outside. I bring the phone to my ear and answer.
"Linda?"
