“Oh, sweetheart.” She rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t really want to either. It’s just . . . well, sometimes we just have to do things we don’t really like.”
“But why are you leaving?”
Easing him back, she reached up and wiped away a tear. “You remember my cousin? The little girl I’ve told you about?” At his nod, she said, “You know how I’ve said I’m the one who takes care of her, right? Neeci starts school this year and things aren’t going to work with me being at this library. So they are moving me to a different branch. It’s closer to where we live and the school she’s going to attend. I hate that I have to leave you kids, but I’ve got a little girl to take care of. And they’ve got good people here who will take over.”
She waited for the next question—others had asked it when she put in for the transfer. Why can’t her mama take care of her? Why do you gotta go?
But with her cousin, Kiara, that just wasn’t an option.
All Clayton did was lean in and rest his head on her shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”
“Oh, honey. I’ll miss you, too.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw his father and her pulse sped up.
He reached out and hooked a hand over Clayton’s shoulder. His fingers brushed her bare upper arm and she almost gasped as that light contact sent a jolt through her.
His eyes flew to hers and for a moment, they just stared at each other and her heart raced, so hard. So fast.
“Okay,” Clayton whispered. “I’ll . . . I’m gonna miss you.” He dashed a hand under his nose and said, “I still like you, Miss Ressa.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She stroked a hand down his hair. “I like you, too.”
He nodded and then moved to his dad, leaning against his leg.
Then, as Clayton turned away from her, she awkwardly rose to her feet. It was better this way, and not just because she needed the change to work things out with Neeci and school. She’d miss the son, but it was probably a good thing that she was getting away from CD.
The man just wasn’t good for her state of mind.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she met his gaze, felt her heart trip up as those intense eyes met hers. “Did you still need to speak with me?”
* * *
One hand curled into a fist as she stared at him.
Trey knew, without a doubt, that he had been right.
She felt it, too.
But his son was leaning against him, still shaking, still crying, although he tried so hard not to. His fingers were kneading into Trey’s legs in the way he always did when he was the most upset, like he just couldn’t get enough physical contact.
The doctors had said it probably had something to do with a need for the stimuli. Clayton had spent weeks on a vent, and then the first eight months of his life in and out of the hospital. He’d made strides like whoa and damn as he caught up, but he’d missed out on so many things that a young baby was supposed to have. Instead of being hugged and held by his parents at any given time, getting that vital physical contact, he’d been under lights, hooked up to tubes and wires, while Trey stood at his side, holding his little hand and talking to him. Talking, instead of holding, stroking a hand instead of rocking.
And now his son needed him again.
“Not a good time, I guess,” he said gruffly. Ducking his head, he scooped Clayton up and Clayton’s arms came around his neck, clutching tight. “Man’s had a rough day. I’ll just . . . never mind. Good luck at your new library, Ms. Bliss.”
He nodded at her, and as he walked away he focused on the soft, shaky breaths of his son.
“I don’t want her to go,” Clayton whispered.
“Yeah.” Trey hugged him tighter. “I kinda don’t want her to either.”
Chapter Five
Try to relax . . . and if you can’t relax, have a fucking drink—then relax.
The handwritten note left in his room made Trey smirk. Relax?
His agent knew him.
He ought to—he’d been working with him for coming up on five years now.
Which meant Reuben Mancusi ought to understand that one thing Trey wasn’t going to be doing was relaxing. Not while he was here in Trenton, New Jersey—at a writer’s conference, fuck him—and not while his son was in Orlando, oh, hey what was it? Over a thousand miles away. If he could get on a flight, in an emergency, he could be there in a few hours, but . . .
“You’re going to make yourself sick thinking like that.” He shook his head, then read the note over again, and then crumpled it up, shot it off to the side. It went straight into the trash can.
He barely noticed, too busy studying everything in the basket.
It was, without a doubt, customized just for him. Or the him he’d once been. Some of those interviews he’d done a lifetime ago had loved to ask questions like . . . favorite drink, favorite book to read . . .
Glenlivet had been the one hard and fast answer.
The book had almost always changed, because books changed with whatever mood he was in.
Hardly anybody knew that he’d stopped drinking. He had to admit, he was mildly surprised there wasn’t any Valium in there, though. Or maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough.
Eying the bottle of Glenlivet, he pulled it out, turned it to the side and watched as the light glinted off green glass. Thoughtfully, he carried it with him as he hunted down a glass.
Curious, he cracked the foil, splashed some into a glass—
And the smell of it turned his stomach. The sense of smell was a powerful thing. For the first couple of years, even the smell of whiskey had been enough to send his thoughts flying back to the hospital, where he was flat on his back, while that pain clawed his brain matter out and then he slowly remembered, all over again, that he’d just lost his wife—that he’d almost lost his son. Those first few years, he’d almost lost himself.
He wasn’t there anymore, but the smell of alcohol was still enough to turn his stomach.
He pushed the glass back and turned away.
So maybe he wouldn’t have a drink, but he would try to relax, lie down for a little while. He was exhausted. He’d been up early and hadn’t slept much the night before. Too busy thinking about Clayton’s face after he’d put him on the plane with his father yesterday.
Dawn had only been a thought when he gave up trying to sleep and it was coming up on six now. At six thirty, he was supposed to be downstairs.
For tonight, at least, he had plans.
His old friend Max was waiting for him.
Max was the one who’d nudged his agent into calling Trey, and Max was the one who’d called him every few days, all but holding his hand as he got ready for this.
He was doing a speech for a group of librarians and he was speaking on a couple of panels. Then there was a separate signing. All in all, it would take up maybe eight hours of his time.
He could do that, right?
The annual conference in Trenton was a low-key one, a mix of both readers and writers, but it wasn’t anything that had people lining up for days.
He could do this.
Maybe.
Abruptly, he felt a keen longing for that whiskey and he wondered just how sick he’d get if he gave it a shot. But he wasn’t about to tempt fate.
The absolute last thing he needed was to end up puking his guts up.
Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to just empty his head. That worked for all of fifteen seconds. He started going through the talk he had to do instead and was 99.8 percent certain he was going to sound like a doofus. Maybe he should rewrite—
His phone started to buzz.
It wasn’t a call, though.
As much as he sometimes hated technology, this was one of those times when he loved it.
Within seconds, he found himself staring at Clayton Braxton Barnes. Clayton was the one bright spot in the time that signified a hell for Trey, but that bright spot was all he needed to push the shadows back.
That bright spot was marred, in a way. Lately Clayton was all caught up in one idea. Can we maybe find Miss Ressa and ask her to my party?