A Night Of Mercy Read online

  "So, the kids are good then?"

  I swallow and try to ignore the fact that Parker is sitting right behind me. It's a busy restaurant with lots of noise to drown out my voice. Besides, I doubt he's even paying me any attention.

  "They are. For the most part." I take a breath. "Though sometimes I worry that Jason is keeping too much bottled up. It's hard getting him to talk to me."

  "Pretty normal for an almost twelve year old boy."

  "I guess," I say with a shrug. "Sophie is good too. Really good. She's stopped asking about Mom which I think means she's accepted it. She's about to start taking dance classes at Ms. Rhonda's studio."

  Sean smiles warmly. "And your father?"

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. "He's... not so good."

  "He was injured in the accident, wasn't he?"

  "Fractured skull, internal bleeding, shattered wrist. And then of course the broken back. The doctors say he could walk again, if he really committed himself to physical therapy, but..." All the breath leaves me in a giant whoosh. "You know he didn't wake up until a week after we buried mom? He was asking for her before he'd even fully opened his eyes and I had to tell him that she..."

  I stop that line of thought in its tracks, knowing it will likely lead to tears. "Anyway. He just kinda checked out after that. And when I say checked out, I mean he's just not there anymore. I didn't know it at the time, but he never even filed a claim with the insurance company. None of the bills got paid. I managed to keep up with the utilities and the basic stuff for the kids but I didn't know about any of the other stuff. I just assumed he'd asked someone to take care of it. I didn't realize how bad things were until about two months ago when we almost lost the house."

  Sean inhales sharply. "What?"

  I nod. "Yeah. Apparently things weren't great financially for us, even before the accident. Dad's construction company took a huge loss after a bunch of new developers came to town. When the accident happened, they'd already taken out a second mortgage and maxed out all the credit cards. By the time I figured out what was going on, we were six months behind on the mortgage, dad's medical bills were delinquent and we owed the IRS $8000 in back taxes."

  "Jesus," Sean says as he takes off his black framed glasses and rubs his eyes. "How the hell did you manage all that?"

  "I don't know. I just did everything I could think of." I fight back a shudder, remembering that horribly desperate time. "My grandparents left me a small stock portfolio that I immediately liquidated. I sold everything I could. Both of the cars, dad's construction equipment, a lot of my clothes. All of my Mom's clothes and most of her jewelry. My parent's wedding china..." I trail off. "The list goes on. But even after all that, I was still short about six grand and the bank was threatening to foreclose. Luckily, I..."

  I answered an ad for a cleaning service and ended up being hired by a high-priced call girl agency. "I managed to dig up enough cash to get us out of the hole and give us a few months of cushion. But we're far from out of the woods."

  I take a deep breath, feeling like I just ran a marathon. "Seven months ago when Dad first got out of the hospital, we were all optimistic. I figured once he started therapy he'd start talking more. He'd get better. But he's just gotten worse. He stopped going to therapy after two weeks and now he doesn't leave the house at all. He doesn't engage with me or the kids. Sophie is terrified of him. Jason doesn't understand why he won't talk to any of us. I'm the only parent they have at this point, Sean." I pause for effect. "Elena moved in a few months ago and she helps as much as she can, but I'm the only family Jason and Sophie have left."

  His eyes are kind and sympathetic. "Are you worried about custody?"

  "That's part of it." I nod. "I don't know how any of that works. Dad's still alive and technically I guess he's still the legal guardian. But what happens when people realize that he's practically a vegetable? Could Jason and Sophie be taken away?"

  My stomach rolls at just the thought. "There are other things too. Like the house, for example. Mom and dad bought it when things were good with the business but we can't afford it now. I want to sell it and move us into something smaller and more affordable. But Dad refuses to even talk about it and it's his name on the deed. Also, is there any way for me to like, legally force him to see some kind of psychiatrist? Because, he just can't go on like this Sean. We can't go on like this. I don't know how much longer—"

  "Hey, easy," he says, reaching across the table to cover my hands with his. "We can figure all of this out, alright?"

  Hope fills my chest. "So you can help me?"

  "Well, what you're talking about isn't exactly in my field of expertise," he says cautiously. "But I have colleagues I can reach out to. Just let me make some calls. I'll drive out to Holtsville this weekend and we'll go over everything."

  Out of nowhere, I get a flashback of me at seven years old, hysterical because I'd thrown a softball through Mrs. Abernathy's bay window. Sean came with me to tell my parents what I'd done, and helped me rake leaves in the yards up and down our street until I could pay to have it fixed. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel alone.

  "Thank you," I whisper, emotion clogging my voice.

  "Hey, none of that now," he says, reaching over to brush at a single tear slipping down my cheek. "Why don't you tell me more about the kids? Is Sophie going to march in the kindergarten Halloween parade?"

  I sniff loudly and then force a watery smile. "But of course. I'm sure that's all we'll be talking about in my house for the next three weeks."

  We spend the rest of lunch talking about happier things and reminiscing about old times. When the check comes, Sean refuses to let me take it.

  "You had to schlepp all the way out here to see me, the least I can do is buy you a meal," he says with a wink.

  Feeling lighter than I have in a year, I excuse myself to the bathroom. Every muscle in my body wants to turn around and see if Parker is still sitting at the table behind me, but I manage to resist.

  Five minutes later, I come out of the bathroom to find him leaning against the wall waiting for me. His head is bowed, causing some of his blonde hair to fall in his face. His suit is a sleek navy blue, his tie a deep silver.

  "Parker?" I breathe.

  His head snaps up, his gaze meets mine and oh. The next thing I know, my back is slamming against the wall, my face cradled in his iron grip as Parker all but snarls down at me.

  "Goddamnit," he grits out.

  I jump. "Wha—"

  Everything stops the second his mouth covers mine.

  Warm. Soft. Slow. My whole body goes rigid in surprise, I can't move. He swipes his tongue across my lower lip and then, the entire world is on fire.

  My hands bury themselves in his hair, locking his face against mine. I have never been kissed like this. I have never kissed anyone like this. So messy, so raw. I ensnare his lower lip with my teeth, answering his resounding moan with my own.

  Common sense and awareness have completely left me. Or maybe, I've left them. Maybe they're still there, standing on the precipice of reality, watching as I dive headfirst into nothing but sensation. The way he presses me against the wall, trapped beneath the hard stone of his body, awakens something dangerous and thrilling inside me. I can feel his erection, stiff as a brass rod where it presses up against my stomach.

  Without any warning, he wrenches away from me, leaving my body so horribly cold without his warmth. He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

  He looks almost tortured. "I shouldn't have done that."

  I can't answer him. All I can do is haul in short, rapid breaths and try not to beg him for more. He glances down at his watch and curses again, under his breath.

  "I'm late for a meeting." He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes and blows out a breath. After taking a moment to compose himself, he looks at me. "Would it be alright if I called you later?"

  Still incapable of speech, I nod. He reaches up and runs a light finger over
the curve of my cheek before leaving me alone without another word.

  CHAPTER 9

  Parker

  My relationship with my father is complex. While I love and admire him greatly, he is not a man without faults.

  Silas Callahan is a stubborn old jackass who hates change and believes a firm handshake that lasts more than a few seconds counts as a public display of affection.

  We’re complete opposites, both in physical appearance and in natural temperament. We do however, share a handful of common habits. For example, we’re both given to jingling our keys when we’re anxious to go someplace. We both have expensive tastes when it comes to cars and liquor. And we both have a very hard time hiding it when we’re good and pissed off.

  Right now, I’m about as angry as I think I’ve ever been. And based on how my employees are scurrying out of the way as I blaze a path through CG Headquarters, I’m sure it’s showing on my face. Part of me feels bad. I’m not the kind of boss who believes in leading through fear, but right now I can’t find it in me to care.

  “Hold my calls,” I bark in the direction of my secretary as I march into my office and slam the door behind me.

  I wrench out of my suit jacket and run a hand through my hair pacing back and forth in front of my floor to ceiling windows. The spectacular view of Freedom Tower from my lower Manhattan office is completely wasted on me this afternoon.

  “God fucking damnit!” I shout, banging my fists on the surface of my desk. The rage I feel is stifling, all-consuming and completely directed at myself.

  Why the fuck did I have to kiss her? What was I thinking?

  Of course, I know exactly what I was thinking.

  When I saw her in that restaurant with that man, I thought she was on a date. I just didn’t know if it was a regular date, or one that was bought and paid for. The worst part was, I couldn’t decide which possibility I hated more.

  That’s not true. The idea of Mercy with the kind of man who would put a price tag on her innocence was truly the more vile.

  Even after it became clear that I’d completely misread the situation, the aching need in my chest refused to abate. The need to claim, to take, to possess. I wanted to sink my teeth into the supple curve of her neck, to wrap all that silky brown hair up in my fist and force those sapphire eyes to look into mine. And so, when she went to the bathroom, I followed her like a man possessed.

  “She’s a kid,” I say, as if uttering the words out loud will be more effective. “She’s practically a child. She can’t rent a car. She can’t drink legally. She can barely vote for crying out loud.”

  My attraction feels like a bizarre sort of sickness. Perhaps all the more so because it doesn’t feel the slightest bit wrong, even though it most definitely should. I’m thirty and she’s nineteen. It doesn’t matter that she isn’t like any other nineteen year old, or even any other woman I’ve ever met. It doesn’t matter that she seems to carry the entire weight of the world on her shoulders.

  Because, hey, did I mention how we met? How she was brought to my penthouse under the pretense that I’d paid for her virginity, like it was some kind of trophy I could mount over my mantle?

  This whole thing is so fucked up.

  I run a heavy hand over my face and plop down into my desk chair. I need to send a note of apology to Jack Richards, a contact of mine from Deutsche Bank, whom I completely ignored through the duration of our lunch meeting. I’d been too busy trying to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place at the table behind mine.

  Despite my efforts, however, I was only able to pick up bits and pieces. The bits that I did pick up— words like lawyers and foreclosure and custody—are twisting like a knife of anxiety in my stomach.

  I know I can’t touch her. Can’t think about her sexually, and I won’t. But if she’s in trouble, I’m not sure I can keep myself from helping her.

  I lean forward and press the intercom button on my desk. “Get Mr. Maldonado in here now.”

  * * * *

  My chief of security Regis Maldonado is at once the most intimidating and the most charming man I’ve ever known. He claims to have worked both as an underwear model, and as a Navy SEAL. Not at the same time, of course.

  He strides into my office dressed in a skin tight black t-shirt and black dress pants, with a handgun clipped into his belt. He has a headful a tightly coiled black curls that he wears cropped razor blade close to his scalp.

  “You rang?” His voice is wry and amused as he drops a thick file on my desk, sitting down into one of the chairs across from me.

  “Just tell me what you found out.”

  He shrugs. “Not much to find out about a pretty little white girl from Long Island.”

  I shoot him a look, indicating in no uncertain terms that I’m not in the mood to joke around. With a suffering sigh, he flips open the file and presents the first document. A marriage certificate.

  “Robert Chase and Maggie O’Shea. High school sweethearts. They got married a week after graduation.” Licking his thumb, he flips to the next page. “A year later Mercy Meghan Chase is born at— wait for it— Mercy Hospital in Hempstead. They buy a little house in Holtsville, Robert starts a modest construction business and Maggie goes to work as a dental hygienist. The business does well, so they buy a bigger house and pop out two more kids. Jason Michael and Sophie Anne. Started having problems, though, in the spring of last year. Robert made some risky investments that didn’t pan out. That combined with increased competition in the area wreaked havoc on his bottom line.”

  He takes out a few documents and places them on my desk for my review before continuing. “Mercy was a normal kid. About as normal as they come. Well liked, lots of friends. Joined a competition dance team, stayed involved with her church. Mostly A’s in high school with a few B’s in science. First semester of her senior year she applied to the University of Connecticut and was accepted. That acceptance, however, was later withdrawn.”

  My head snaps up in surprise. “Withdrawn?”

  He nods. “She didn’t graduate high school.”

  “What? But you just said she was an A student.”

  “She was. And then she wasn’t.” He hands me a piece of paper. “My guess is it had something to do with this.”

  Holtsville, Long Island, January 1st, 2019 — A three car pile-up on the Northern State Parkway has resulted in several severe injuries as well as the death of a mother of three. Maggie Chase was traveling home from a New Year’s Eve party with her husband when a nearby car hit a patch of black ice and lost control, crashing into Chase and one other car. Robert Chase, who was driving at the time, was thrown from the vehicle and suffered several life-threatening injuries, while his wife was pronounced dead on the scene.

  “I got in touch with a few of the responders who were at the scene,” Regis says once I’m done reading. “They said Robert broke his back when he was thrown from the vehicle, so he couldn’t move. When the car caught fire with his wife still inside, he couldn’t move a muscle.”

  All the blood leaves my face. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Seems he was pretty messed up after that. Let the family’s financial situation go to absolute shit. Mercy had to take over. One of her friends, a nursing student named Elena Calvio moved into the basement apartment to help with the kids. Somehow, Mercy managed to keep them afloat but the mortgage was still a huge problem. Until a few days ago, the house was about a month away from being foreclosed on.”

  Until a few days ago. I don’t have to ask what happened. I know exactly what happened. What she’d almost been forced to do.

  And just like that, one more piece in the puzzle of Mercy falls into place.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mercy

  My father lives his life according to CBS’s weekday lineup. Half-way through the morning show he gets out of bed and into his chair. On good days he takes a shower. On really good days, he shaves. Most days, though, the most he can manage is a swig of mouthwash.

  Then
he wheels himself out to the porch where he stares at the backyard and listens to the radio until it’s time for Let’s Make A Deal at ten o’clock. That’s when he goes to the living room. He stays there through the Price is Right and through the mid-day news report.

  Through the Bold & the Beautiful and the Young & The Restless. Every day, he goes back to his room at the end of the afternoon talk show. I think it’s because he knows the kids will be home from school soon. I usually bring him dinner sometime between the six o’clock news and primetime. And no matter what time of night I walk by his room, the television is always on. I wonder if that’s because he can’t stand the silence of the prison he’s created for himself.

  It’s almost three o’clock now and on the tv, Sharon Osbourne and Sheryl Underwood are asking the audience if eleven-year old’s should be allowed to have Snap Chat accounts. The crowd responds all at once, a mix of loud yeses and even louder nos.

  My dad’s pale blue eyes are glazed over and lifeless as he watches the screen. I sit on the end of the couch closest to him, trying to find a trace of the father I once knew.

  Up until about ten months ago, Bobby Chase was in the prime of his life. Years of working construction sites had kept his body lean and his muscles strong. Now, he’s a shell of his former self. At least ten pounds under-weight. His dark brown hair is unwashed and uncombed, sticking out haphazardly. A five or six- day beard covers what used to be a ruggedly handsome face.

  “Dad,” I say, and wait for his eyes to drift listlessly to mine, indicating that I have at least some fragment of his attention. “Dr. Fields called again.”

  Nothing. No response. No visible reaction. I push on.

  “You have got to go in for your follow up. They need to take x-rays and make sure everything’s healing okay. And since you won’t go to therapy—”

  He turns back to the TV as if I’m not there, holding up the remote and turning the volume on loud. Sheryl and Sharon have the floor once more. I don’t hide my growl of frustration, and resentment, as I shove to my feet.