Page 31 of Hold You Close
“I’ll just check on them real quick.”
“Okay. I’ll wait downstairs.”
“It’s late, and it’s been a long day. You don’t have to stay.”
She’s already heading down the steps, but she looks up at me, and for a second I see the eighteen-year-old girl she used to be. The one I gave up. “I don’t mind,” she whispers. “And we should set up a schedule. Kids need routine.”
I nod. “Right. Okay, I’ll be down in a minute.”
At the end of the hall is the room Christopher chose, and by the time I look in on him, he’s sound asleep. I pull the door shut behind me and peek into Morgan’s room, cringing at the mirror on the ceiling, but glad to see she’s sleeping peacefully as well.
I switch off the hall light and head downstairs, where I find London sitting at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pen. She looks up at me. “All good?”
“All good.” I take the seat diagonal from her, at the head of the table.
“So, tomorrow is Thursday. School day.”
“Do they have to go?”
She gives me a look. “Yes, Ian. It’s the law. They’ve been out for two weeks already. They need the routine and distraction. Now, over at my house I have the schedule that Sabrina gave me before she left for Hawaii.” Her voice catches, her eyes closing. “Sorry. Need a second.”
I reach over and touch her forearm, forgetting for a moment that I’m annoyed with her for being bossy. “It’s okay. We’re all going to need time.”
After a couple deep breaths, she opens her eyes and goes on. “I’ll get you a copy of that schedule, which has everything on it.”
“Thanks.” I take my hand back.
“But I thought maybe we could try to work out a plan for when you’ll need me.”
“Easy. Nights and weekends.”
Another give-me-a-break look. “Ian. No. You cannot be gone every single night and every weekend.”
“It’s my job, London. Sabrina knew that.”
“Maybe she thought you’d change your lifestyle if something happened to her.”
I shrug. “Well, I can’t. How did she think I was going to support the kids if I don’t work? I run a club. That means nights and weekends.”
London exhales like she’s trying to be really patient with me. It’s aggravating as fuck. “Work with me here, please. What nights would you be willing to take off? I would be willing to commit to being here Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturdays for now. Can you handle the other nights?”
“No fucking way.” I sit back and cross my arms. “That’s four nights a week away from the club, including Fridays.”
“So what nights are you willing to give up at the club?”
In the spirit of cooperation, which I’m trying to have, I give it some thought. “Mondays.” The club was closed that night anyway.
She waits for me to go on. “And?”
“That’s it. Mondays. Every other night is busy.”
“Come on, Ian. Surely someone else can pour shots and gawk at fake tits at least one other night during the week.”
“Fuck you, London.” And fuck the spirit of cooperation. “Is that what you think I do?”
She shrugs.
“Running a club is hard work, and I have a hand in every facet of the operation—the finances, the licenses, the hiring and firing, stocking the bar, keeping the lights on, booking music, managing crowds. I have to deal with investors, the government, the health and fire department, the police, fucking temperamental DJs, and drunk-ass customers harassing my staff and each other. I don’t just sit around on my ass and doodle numbers all day.” I’m sick and tired of people thinking my job isn’t work.
