Page 8 of Punked By the Playmaker
Instead of laughing, Austin clenched his jaw. “No one asked you to take care of me.”
He was right about that. The one person who could have asked was no longer in their right mind—the majority of the time, at least. But that didn’t change the fact that he was my responsibility.
Irked by his attitude, I shot back, “Would you have rather been placed in foster care?”
Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, storm clouds gathered in his blue eyes—an identical match to mine. “I’d rather live with my dad.”
Fuck, not this again.
I sighed, dropping my head back against the seat as I navigated the route to the middle school. “Austin, we’ve been over this.”
He folded both arms over his chest. “You were seventeen when I was born, Arizona. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you never met my father.”
God, I wish I hadn’t.
Lying about this was in his best interest. I was protecting him from the brutal reality that was his origin story.
“I don’t know what to tell you, bud.”
“This is so fucked up.” Austin scoffed.
Maybe, but it’s for the best. You have to trust me on this one.
“I want to go see Mom today,” he demanded.
I knew exactly what would happen if I granted that request. In the mood he was in, he would press her for answers about the man who’d contributed DNA to his creation. If she wasn’t lucid—which was typically the case, her disease progression advancing far more quickly than the doctors had initially predicted—she might divulge information that he wasn’t ready to hear. Or worse, she would grow so agitated that the nurses would beforced to sedate her. Either way, it was a lose-lose for everyone involved.
The truth was better off buried, for everyone’s sake.
“Probably not a great idea. Her nurse said she’s having a bad week.” Another lie, but add it to my list of sins; it wasn’t like I was headed for Heaven anyway.
His fist beat against the side of the door in frustration. “When isn’t she having a bad week? This is so unfair. You got both a mom and a dad growing up, and I might as well be an orphan at this rate.”
“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing I could think of to say.
“Me too,” Austin muttered under his breath.
Pulling into the drop-off loop at school, I’d barely pumped the brakes before he jumped out, as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
“Have a good da—” My words were cut off by the slamming of the door.
Great. Dealing with a surly teenager this morning was the last thing I needed. Not when arguably the biggest sale of my entire career was on the line.
God, it was times like these when I really craved a drink, or something stronger, the most.
Shake it off, Arizona. Put on your professional mask where you’re the baddest boss bitch this side of the Rockies.
Hauling in a deep breath through my nose that I let out slowly through my mouth, I drove toward my office.
It was time to sell Levi Nixon a house.
“Mr. Nixon is here,” my assistant’s voice filtered through the intercom.
I pressed the button that would allow me to reply. “Send him in.”
A few seconds later, the man’s presence filled my open doorway, and I stood from my desk, smoothing down my skirt. Circling my desk, I approached my potential client with an extended hand.
“Arizona Cleary. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nixon.”
