The snicker again from Aiden. The one that says he either already knows because someone said something at school today or is assuming.
Don’t lose your cool, Donavan.
“Five Three X,” he murmurs under his breath, confusing the fuck out of me but making perfect sense to the four of them by the way they whip their heads his way and their mouths fall open like they know perfectly well what he’s saying.
“What?” I ask.
Five pairs of eyes look down at hands on soda cans and leave me lost in the goddamn dark.
“Someone going to explain what the hell five three X means?”
Snickers times five now.
“Aiden?”
He looks up, meets my eyes, and the look he gives me tells me he knows exactly what I’m here to tell them about. A single scathing look that tells me he’s pissed at me for whatever it is he’s read about Ry—like it’s all my fault—and all I can do is sigh and run a hand through my hair. And try to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about.
A part of me loves this glare he’s giving me. He’s pissed with me because he’s protective of Ry, but at the same time . . . really? I’m being eye-scolded by a fourteen-year-old?
And then it hits me. The visual of what Five Three X looks like. 53X
SEX.
Jesus fucking Christ. When did I get so old I don’t know that lingo and when did these kids get so old when they’re not?
I jog my knee. Take a breath. What the hell am I supposed to say now? I wasn’t really going to go into the sex part of it. Was I? I don’t even know. I thought this was going to be a cinch. A little chat. Don’t believe everything you see or hear on the Internet type of thing.
And now I’m stuck with birds and bees and son-of-a-bitch Aiden just threw a whole goddamn hornet’s nest on me when I wasn’t looking.
Can anyone say fish out of water?
“Dude. It’s totally cool,” Aiden says, taking point for the brood despite the two youngest, Zander and Scooter, blushing.
“No, it’s not cool,” I say, finding my footing. “Rylee’s super concerned that you will be affected by this and she doesn’t want you to—”
“Look, we’re not going to click on anything, okay?” My eyes bug out of my head. “No one wants to see you bumping uglies . . . especially us.”
That’s one way to put it. My mouth goes dry as snickers fall, red creeps into cheeks, and eyes are averted from mine.
“Well . . . then . . .” Shit. Great job, Donavan. You’ve got Aiden pissed at you but you still haven’t made them understand that this is about more than just sex. I scrub a hand over my face and try to figure out what the fuck I need to say to get the point across. “Listen, guys, you love Rylee like I do, right?” All heads nod and each pair of eyes narrow as they wait to see what else I’m going to say. “That’s what I thought. So I need you to understand that there have been some mean, ugly things said about her because of the images out there of us. She’s upset and really hurt by them. But more than anything, she’s worried it’s going to affect all of you. So when I ask you not to click on anything online, don’t click on anything. When I ask you not to believe anything crappy said about her or her reasons for supporting The House, don’t believe them. You guys are her world, and she’d hate herself if you were hurt in any way from this. So can you do that for me? Can you ignore all of this and pretend like it didn’t happen so Rylee doesn’t have to worry about you guys?”
For fuck’s sake, please understand what I’m asking here.
Aiden’s gaze meets mine. Gone is the immature smugness from moments before. It’s been replaced with an understanding that seems to go well beyond his years. He nods his head once to me, eyes relaying his unspoken words: we promise.
I shift in my seat when all I really want to do is sag in relief. Thank Christ. I start to talk and then stop, unsure what to say next.
“Dodgers,” Aiden says, recognizing my uncertainty and owning this conversation like nobody’s business. “Let’s talk about last night’s Dodgers game.”
All I can do is shake my head.
I’m not ready for this parenting shit.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU mean early parole?” Colton’s voice ricochets off the stairwell and up into the room, shocking me from the case reports I’m trying to complete on my laptop and indicating he is home. Within an instant, I set my computer aside and move downstairs to find out what’s going on.
“I know, CJ. I know,” Colton says, one hand fisted at his side, posture tense, as I walk into the great room, his back to me framed against the open doors to the patio. “But it’s too much of a goddamn coincidence, don’t you think? The timing, his vindication . . . all of it adds up.”
Colton must sense me and turns to meet my eyes, holding one finger up requesting I wait while he finishes the conversation. I watch the emotions play over his face as he listens to our lawyer. He moves to abate the restlessness of whatever CJ is telling him, my eyes following him pace, my mind trying to figure out what’s going on. They say their goodbyes, and he turns again to face me.
“Eddie.”
It’s all he says as he smacks his hands together. That simple name—a blast from our past—and Colton’s reflex reaction cause details from three years ago to flood back to me. The CD Enterprises patent for an innovative neck protection device being denied because someone else was already in the process of getting a very similar one approved. Almost identical in fact. Investigations to find out that the other patent applicant had CDE’s same exact blueprints for the device, followed by digging into the layering of the corporation applying to find Eddie Kimball on the board of directors.
The same Eddie Kimball who Colton had fired for stealing said blueprints.
As I look at the fire lighting up Colton’s eyes, I think of the two-year legal battle that ensued over the right of ownership and future revenues from the device the blueprints made. I’m reminded of the stress, the lies, the accusations, the mediation meetings, and offers of settlement to buy time on Eddie’s part. After spending a fortune in legal counsel, the judge eventually ruled in our favor and convicted Eddie of numerous charges—fraud, perjury, false witness—and sentenced him to a four-year jail sentence.
“How?” I ask, making calculations about someone I mentally told myself was out of our lives. The trial ended three years ago. He had a four-year sentence.
“Early release. Good Behavior. Jails too crowded from the three-strikes statute.” He answers my unspoken questions as he runs a hand through his hair, his head nodding, and I can see him trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind.
“Tawny knew where we were.” It’s all I say, voice quiet, gaze fixed on him. He looks up, narrows his eyes, and grits his teeth, not wanting to hear me say it again.
“I know,” he says with a sigh, “but I’m trying to figure out how it all fits together. What? Did Tawny go up and get the video of us that night? If she had it way back when, then why keep it and release it all this time later?” He slumps down on the couch and puts his head in his hand while he tries to make sense of it.
I move and sit down next to him and rest my head on his shoulder.
“I can’t give you the answers but it all seems too convenient for her not to have had a hand in this.” My voice is calm but anger fires in my veins at the thought that either of them have had a hand in this. And yet I shouldn’t expect any less from them.
Bitches can’t change their stripes. Oh wait, that’s tigers. Hmpf. Doesn’t matter because I refuse to give her a second thought. If she did do this, then Lord have mercy on her when Colton gets done with her.