Saving Cruz (The Moran Family) Page 5

  After a quick shower, I head downstairs to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and extracting a beer. I should eat something, but since I only have some dated milk, three more beers and a mummified orange, I turn my attention to the pantry in hopes to find something edible there. Helping myself to some stale crackers, I head out to the moonlit deck and settle into a padded lounger.

  I hate moments like this more than anything. When the air is scented with rain and thick enough to taste. When even the crickets are lonely. Times like this remind me of all I’ve lost, of all I will never have, of all that I secretly wish I could have if I were a different person. The funny thing is I have more than most people could ever want—certainly more than most people can obtain in one lifetime. Yet here I sit, drinking a beer and eating stale crackers, all alone at dawn after spending my evening with an over-priced whore.

  With a curse, I drain the beer, crush the crackers in my fist, and toss them out onto the grass. I briefly consider drinking something stronger than beer then shove the thought aside when I remind myself that arriving hung over to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner will do nothing but create a bunch of questions I don’t want to answer.

  Sliding under the crisp, cool sheets a few minutes later, I tuck my arm behind my head and stare out the window. Maybe someday I’ll be able to right all these emotions that are constantly dragging me down. Hopefully someday I’ll end the day on a satisfied note instead of hating myself for what I’ve done and wondering when it will all change. Chances are nothing is going to change, not because I don’t want it to but because it shouldn’t. I deserve to lie here all alone in the dark, night after night. I deserve to find companionship in someone who is paid to entertain me. I deserve to work myself to the bone each and every day and hope like hell what I do can make a difference … maybe not to me, but to those who work for me or at the very least for my clients.

  When I’m finally able to fall into a restful sleep, the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. I sleep for hours, well into the afternoon, and when I finally force my eyes open once again, the house is stifling. The warm afternoon sun spills into the stuffy bedroom.

  Throwing off the damp sheets, I pull on work-out clothes, brush my teeth, and head downstairs. My home gym sits at the end of the hall, in what should have been a second master bedroom. The mirror-lined space boasts a treadmill, elliptical, and stationary bike, as well as various weight machines and free-weights. A large, flat screen hangs in one corner, though today I feel like leaving it off and blasting music instead. My preferred choice of music is anything with acoustic guitars, preferably the Spanish music I grew up listening to. It’s soothing and reminds me of a much happier time in my life when I was allowed to have hopes and dreams.

  That being said, Spanish guitar music is not what I work out to. Most certainly not on a day like today. And especially after the turbulent night I had. What I need now is some of the crap Roman loves … that speed metal shit he listens to. I admit it serves a purpose, but it sure as hell is not something I’d put on in my car, unless my mood demands it.

  Once the music is blasting, I head first to the treadmill and work my way up to a fast run. I try to vary my workout day to day, never letting my muscles get used to what I’m doing. I always spend an hour or so on cardio, which not only keeps me fit, it does a hell of a lot to clear the fog in my head.

  By the time I wind down my workout, I’m dripping sweat all over the tile floor and salivating at the thought of food. Sadly, as I discovered late last night, my options are limited. So after a shower in the gym bathroom, I tuck a towel around my waist and pad down the hall toward the kitchen, resigned to settle on any scraps I can find.

  The sun is blazing today and if you look closely, you can see steam rising off the wood surface of the deck. Boats drift out on the sparkling blue water, taking advantage of the warm weather and mild currents. I wish I had time for a real day off, a day to soak up the weather and simply relax. I can’t remember the last time I took a moment to do anything more than just breathe.

  I down two bottles of water and get more stale crackers from the pantry as well as the jar of peanut butter. This will have to suffice until I get a real meal in me at my parents’ house later on—a meal I’m already salivating over even though I have no idea what’s being served. My mama’s Sunday dinners—hell, any of her meals really—are the kind people tell their friends about. The kind you beg to be invited to. She doesn’t know the first thing about moderation and frequently has more than a few entrees in one sitting. I don’t miss a Sunday dinner unless I absolutely have to, especially when it means I get to bring home numerous care packages.

  Once I finish my less than palatable snack, I jot down a note for my housekeeper to stock my cabinets and fridge and then head upstairs to dress. A quick scan of my phone tells me all is quiet this Sunday afternoon, which is an oddity for sure. I answer a few emails, two of which are from my efficient new assistant reminding me about early appointments in the morning. Then I set the phone aside and pull on light beige trousers and a short-sleeved black linen shirt. This is as casual as I get, though all of my siblings are always quick to give me shit about the way I dress. My baby sister, Sophia, constantly reminds me I need to learn to live a little.

  Right. Like pulling on a pair of tattered jeans or some cargo shorts will mean I’m living. Little does anyone know that regardless of what I wear, inside I’m still the devil. And this creature … doesn’t live. He exists. I exist.

  When I finally pull up in front of my family home, I briefly consider how many inquisitions I’m going to have to go through today. I’m an easy target, especially since I have no life and much of what I do is a mystery to most everyone. My parents usually stick to the standard questions: How are you? Are you seeing anyone? But my siblings are the relentless ones, hounding me constantly for details as to what makes me tick. It exhausts me just thinking about all the questions I’m going to have to field, and yet I know I need to remind myself that they ask because they care and not solely to irritate me or to intrude.

  Unlike my own home, my parents’ home is alight with bright colors, music, and mouthwatering smells coming from the kitchen. Family portraits line the hallway, as do various pictures of my siblings and me as youngsters. I can hear Mama speaking in fast, fluent Spanish (her preferred language), though she easily floats between it and English mostly for the sake of my less than fluent father.

  Stepping into the large kitchen at the back of the house, I find Mama and my younger sister Isabella standing in front of the stove, laughing with one another. They are mirror images of one another, pretty and petite with long, dark hair and eyes like mine. Marco is the only other sibling that resembles the three of us; Roman and Sophia are both lighter in coloring, a nod to my father’s more English roots.

  Across the kitchen and dining area, I can see Papa and my brothers in a heated discussion out on the back deck, beers in hand. It is as normal as any other Sunday. Predictable and perfect.

  “Hola, Mama,” I drawl, stepping up to her and immediately taking her into my arms.

  “Niño!” She presses her lips against my cheek and grips my shoulders, giving my face a quick once over. “You look tired.”

  “I’m fine.” I exchange a quick hello and hug with my sister, take the beer thrust into my hand, and lean one hip against the counter, surveying the pots bubbling on the stove.

  Isabella grins at me and lifts her dark brows. “So, Marco and Roman tell me that you have a hot new assistant.”

  Christ, I’ve been here less than five minutes and already the inquisition has started. “Yes, Miss Elliott is my new assistant.”

  She arches a brow at me and gives one of the pots a stir. “Not hot, then?”

  I ignore the question and direct my attention to my mother, who is currently bustling around doing three things at one time. Camilla Moran is not the type to ever sit still. Never has been, never will be. She was that mom when I was young. The one all kid
s flocked to, the one who always had snacks available for the entire block after school. She was also the one who had no hesitation disciplining someone if they misbehaved or disrespected her in any way. Our friends grew up knowing that if Miss Camilla opened her house to you, it was available to you anytime, day or night, but you sure as hell better behave. I remember there being a time when I resented how close she was with my friends, jealously wanting her all to myself. Dumb really, considering I’ve always had to share her with my four siblings.

  I’m very close to my parents, but the relationship I have with my mother is something I’d classify as rare. She knows things about me no one else does: fears, hopes that I no longer have, wishes for a future that ended fifteen years ago. She knows what drives me, what haunts me, what eats away at me bit by bit. I suppose I should be embarrassed to be a grown man who depends on his mother for so much emotional support, but since she’s the only woman who will ever really be in my life, the only one I trust at this level, I don’t much care how it looks. She understands me and sees something in me no one else ever has: the pain and regret I live with each and every day.

  “You like her, this new assistant?” Mama says, handing me the plates to set on the table. Millionaire or not, I’m still expected to help out without being asked.

  I offer a shrug. “I don’t know her. She’s only been with me a week. She’s done a good job so far.”

  A soft smile lights her face. “I am happy you’ve finally found someone to help out. You work too hard, Niño.”

  “He loves it.” Isabella grins, patting me on the shoulder and heading outside with the others.

  “Are you all right?”

  My mother’s inquisitive eyes always see more than I want her to. “I’m fine, Mama. Just have a lot on my mind.”

  She reaches up, threading her fingers through my wavy hair. “This new girl, you like her?”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes or cursing, mostly because I know she’d smack me if I did. “I told you, Mama, I don’t know her.”

  “She’s pretty, yes?”

  Drop dead gorgeous, I think to myself, and elusive as hell. “She’s young.”

  She frowns and thrusts her index finger in my face. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “Jesus Christ, Mama, I’m not lying. She’s my assistant. Nothing more.” Right away, I realize I’ve spoken out of turn. The worst thing I could ever have done is to take the Lord’s name in vain. To my Catholic mother, that’s a one-way ticket to hell for sure. “I apologize.”

  She frowns again. “You should go to confession.”

  Since we both know I haven’t stepped foot inside of a church in fifteen years, I don’t justify her comment with an answer. Instead, I pull her into my arms and take solace in the one good, true thing I have in my life, the one person who makes me want to be all I can be, the one person who believes I deserve better than this half-assed life I live.

  “I just want you to be happy,” she whispers.

  Me too, I think silently. “I know, Mama, I know.”

  “Good morning,” Mia says, briefly glancing up as I stroll into the office. I’m late this morning, later than I’ve ever been, and I can only attribute it to my inability to get a good night’s sleep. Well, that and the half dozen or so shots I decided to drink around midnight after a less than successful meet up with one of my hired escorts. Makes me cringe just thinking about it.

  I glance down at my efficient assistant, briefly take in her black suit and white blouse, and have to refrain from chuckling. Like me, she wears the same uniform to the office every day, varying it only with accessories and different shoes like I do with different, yet similar ties. Her dark hair is pulled tightly back into a fancy rolled bun and as I’ve done on most days in the month or so she’s been working for me, I wonder what her hair looks like when it’s not bound to her head. I suspect it’s like spun silk.

  Christ … where the hell did that thought come from?

  “Sir? Did you need something?”

  I realize then I’ve been standing there like the ass I am, just staring at her and making us both feel like idiots. Quickly shrugging off the question, I step into my office and toss my briefcase down on top of the desk. Jesus, what a way to start the day.

  Cursing myself for yet again doing a disservice to my mother’s lord and savior, I thumb through the mail perched against the keyboard and listen idly as Mia answers the ringing phone. She’s polite and professional as always, stern if needed, friendly to most. Except me, I’m quick to notice. Not that I’ve given her any reason to want to be nice to me. During this past month we’ve barely spoken to one another, other than the standard greetings at the beginning and end of each day and a few brief exchanges throughout the day.

  Settling behind my desk, I briefly consider that I’ve left the office door open when I usually prefer it to be closed, but since I’m expecting people for a meeting in a short while, I don’t bother to shut it. Besides, I get a kick out of listening to Mia handle people on the phone.

  My attention is stuck in the latest Profit and Loss statements, so when I hear laughter coming from outside the office, it sounds so foreign I have to assume I must be hearing things. But I hear it again, and then some muted conversation between what I can now tell is my brother Marco and my young assistant. And when I listen closely, the anger starts to roll through me. He’s flirting with her and she’s welcoming the attention.

  Up out of my chair, I move slowly toward the door, listening in on the conversation between the two of them.

  “I’m glad you like working here, Mia. Has my big brother been too much of a tyrant?”

  She laughs. “No, he’s very … uh … professional.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” I take a step closer to the doorway. “So, are you free for dinner this weekend?”

  There’s a long pause then, “No, I’m not. But thank you for inviting me.” There’s another short pause and when she speaks again her voice is barely more than a whisper, “I kinda have a boyfriend.”

  My stomach jumps uneasily, and I wish I could say what caused it. Not sure why I assumed she was single. I suppose since I never hear her carrying on personal conversations—not until this one anyway—and there are no pictures of any kind at or around her desk area, I just naturally made that assumption.

  “That’s disappointing,” Marco drawls.

  “Yeah, sometimes it is,” she states. Then I hear a loud gasp, like she never fully intended to speak her thoughts aloud. Makes me wonder what type of jerk she spends her downtime with.

  Marco laughs, cool guy that he is, and thankfully ignores her little outburst. “So, is my big brother free?”

  I step toward the open door. “I am. Come in.” I direct my gaze to Mia. “Would you mind bringing in coffee for the meeting?”

  “Of course,” she replies, shooting to her feet. “Right away.”

  She returns minutes later with a tray full of cups, a large carafe of coffee, sugar and creamer. Setting the tray down onto the low side table, she timidly glances my way and asks, “Anything else, sir?”

  “No. Thank you, Miss Elliott.” She nods and exits the office, pulling the door closed behind her. The minute she does, Marco starts to snicker, shaking his head and shooting me a knowing look. “What’s your problem?”

  He grins widely. “No problem. But you two are a hoot. All the shy looks and the ‘Sir … this’ and ‘Miss … that.’” He chuckles again and lifts one dark brow. “She call you sir in the bedroom too?”

  Glaring at him, I ignore the rude question and pour myself a cup of coffee. “By the way, in case it’s escaped your memory, we have a very firm policy in place about consorting with other employees.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “I wasn’t consorting with her. I was flirting. That’s different.”

  I shoot him a dark look that would wilt anyone else. “Not really. You asked her out, which is against company policy.”

  That statement earns me another eye roll and a
dismissive snort before he pours himself a cup and slides into a chair. “Heard that, did you?”

  “Yes, I did. I’d appreciate it if you’d apologize to her on the way out.”

  He throws me a quizzical look. “Apologize? For what?” His eyes narrow. “Big Brother, are you jealous?”

  “No, I am not jealous. She’s my employee. Imagine how it must look to have my brother putting the moves on her. Think of the company for Christ’s sake.”

  “Why should I? You do it enough for the both of us.” Getting to his feet, he moves toward the door. “You know what, man, I don’t get you sometimes. I was just trying to have a nice conversation with a cute girl, and you have to go and ruin it for me. Not everyone enjoys being as miserable as you are.”

  I could react to his statement, but we both know he’s right. I’m right too, which I know pisses him off. He does owe Mia an apology. Being a company executive, he never should have flirted with her or asked her out. I can only hope she blows it off and forgets about it quickly. Otherwise, I suppose I’ll be looking for yet another new assistant.

  I’m tied up in meetings for most of the day and when there’s finally a lull in my schedule, I buzz Mia and ask her to come into my office. I have to address this concern head on before she has an entire evening to stew about it and potentially turn it into something bigger than it is.

  She knocks once and moves with a purpose toward the chair opposite me, sitting on the edge and looking over at me with wide, frightened eyes. “Sir, is something wrong?”

  “No, Miss Elliott, not at all.” Steepling my hands in front of me, I force a neutral expression and try to ignore the panicked look on her face. “Did my brother apologize to you?”