Read Online Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) by Ann Christopher - Free Book Online
Authors: Ann Christopher
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huge fall wreath on the front door.
The overall effect of this million-dollar piece of real estate was to impress, which was, of course, his father’s whole reason for existing.
That and being V.J.’s father.
After a while, Justus got out of the car, walked up the long cobblestone path to the door, and rang the fancy bell, which sounded like the carillon at St. Paul’s in London. He still had a key, but he hadn’t used it in years and didn’t plan to start now.
Footsteps sounded inside. A light came on behind the beveled glass.
Justus braced himself.
The door swung open and revealed his father, who stared at him with drop-jawed astonishment.
Vincent had aged, Justus realized. Badly. His short hair was almost entirely white now, and deep grooves framed his disapproving mouth. And he’d lost weight. Probably a good twenty pounds or so. A paisley silk robe hung limply over his dark pajamas.
“ Justus ,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
“Uh, yeah...sure,” Vincent said with all the enthusiasm of a rancher letting a wolf into his cattle pen. He stepped aside and let Justus pass through, shutting the door behind him.
Justus surveyed the foyer, which was inside the tower portion of the house. Nothing had changed, not that he’d expected it would. The staircase still curved gracefully upstairs, and the same round table sat on the same fancy rug.
Justus hesitated. He just couldn’t bring himself to break the old man’s heart one second sooner than he had to.
Vincent stared at him, waiting.
Justus cleared his throat. “I...have some bad news, Pop.”
Vincent stiffened. One of his claw-like hands—had they always been so thin and wrinkled?—reached out to clutch the edge of the table for support.
“What is it?” he asked hoarsely.
Justus faltered, trying to get his mouth to produce words rather than sobs.
“V.J. and Carolyn ran into a deer tonight with the car. Maya’s okay—she’s with Angela—but they...were killed.”
Vincent, still clinging to the table, whimpered and doubled over at the waist.
“I got you, man,” Justus said, springing forward to grab Vincent’s bony elbow before he could fall all the way to the floor. Justus steered his father into an ornate chair, where Vincent collapsed as though someone had ripped his entire skeleton out of his body.
For the first time in a thousand years, Justus felt an emotion for his father other than anger, disgust, or contempt:
Pity.
“Breathe, man.” He stooped over Vincent and rubbed his back while Vincent’s lips opened and closed like a caught flounder gasping for air.
“Lena,” Vincent finally managed. “Get Lena.”
Lena! Yes! Vincent’s long-term girlfriend. Of course she’d be here, spending the night, even though she and Vincent maintained the pretense of living in separate homes.
“Lena!” Galvanized, Justus sprinted up the stairs and nearly ran into Lena belting her silky pink robe around her. Her short white hair was mussed, but otherwise she looked as cool and elegant as ever, and Justus was thrilled to see her. He liked Lena a lot and had never quite understood what such a nice woman saw in his father.
“What is it?” she demanded, clutching his forearms.
“It’s V.J.,” he said gently. “And Vincent’s having trouble breathing.”
“Oh, God.”
She spun around, ran back down the dark hall to the open door of the lighted master suite, and came right back out with a bottle of prescription medication in her hand. Justus followed her down the stairs, terrified of what they’d find when they got to the bottom. Despite the low lighting from a floor lamp, Justus could tell that Vincent’s skin had paled and his breathing was, if possible, even harsher than before.
Lena efficiently opened the bottle, shook out a tablet, and put it into Vincent’s mouth.
“Just relax.” She crouched by the chair and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Relax.”
But Vincent stared at her with
The overall effect of this million-dollar piece of real estate was to impress, which was, of course, his father’s whole reason for existing.
That and being V.J.’s father.
After a while, Justus got out of the car, walked up the long cobblestone path to the door, and rang the fancy bell, which sounded like the carillon at St. Paul’s in London. He still had a key, but he hadn’t used it in years and didn’t plan to start now.
Footsteps sounded inside. A light came on behind the beveled glass.
Justus braced himself.
The door swung open and revealed his father, who stared at him with drop-jawed astonishment.
Vincent had aged, Justus realized. Badly. His short hair was almost entirely white now, and deep grooves framed his disapproving mouth. And he’d lost weight. Probably a good twenty pounds or so. A paisley silk robe hung limply over his dark pajamas.
“ Justus ,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
“Uh, yeah...sure,” Vincent said with all the enthusiasm of a rancher letting a wolf into his cattle pen. He stepped aside and let Justus pass through, shutting the door behind him.
Justus surveyed the foyer, which was inside the tower portion of the house. Nothing had changed, not that he’d expected it would. The staircase still curved gracefully upstairs, and the same round table sat on the same fancy rug.
Justus hesitated. He just couldn’t bring himself to break the old man’s heart one second sooner than he had to.
Vincent stared at him, waiting.
Justus cleared his throat. “I...have some bad news, Pop.”
Vincent stiffened. One of his claw-like hands—had they always been so thin and wrinkled?—reached out to clutch the edge of the table for support.
“What is it?” he asked hoarsely.
Justus faltered, trying to get his mouth to produce words rather than sobs.
“V.J. and Carolyn ran into a deer tonight with the car. Maya’s okay—she’s with Angela—but they...were killed.”
Vincent, still clinging to the table, whimpered and doubled over at the waist.
“I got you, man,” Justus said, springing forward to grab Vincent’s bony elbow before he could fall all the way to the floor. Justus steered his father into an ornate chair, where Vincent collapsed as though someone had ripped his entire skeleton out of his body.
For the first time in a thousand years, Justus felt an emotion for his father other than anger, disgust, or contempt:
Pity.
“Breathe, man.” He stooped over Vincent and rubbed his back while Vincent’s lips opened and closed like a caught flounder gasping for air.
“Lena,” Vincent finally managed. “Get Lena.”
Lena! Yes! Vincent’s long-term girlfriend. Of course she’d be here, spending the night, even though she and Vincent maintained the pretense of living in separate homes.
“Lena!” Galvanized, Justus sprinted up the stairs and nearly ran into Lena belting her silky pink robe around her. Her short white hair was mussed, but otherwise she looked as cool and elegant as ever, and Justus was thrilled to see her. He liked Lena a lot and had never quite understood what such a nice woman saw in his father.
“What is it?” she demanded, clutching his forearms.
“It’s V.J.,” he said gently. “And Vincent’s having trouble breathing.”
“Oh, God.”
She spun around, ran back down the dark hall to the open door of the lighted master suite, and came right back out with a bottle of prescription medication in her hand. Justus followed her down the stairs, terrified of what they’d find when they got to the bottom. Despite the low lighting from a floor lamp, Justus could tell that Vincent’s skin had paled and his breathing was, if possible, even harsher than before.
Lena efficiently opened the bottle, shook out a tablet, and put it into Vincent’s mouth.
“Just relax.” She crouched by the chair and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Relax.”
But Vincent stared at her with
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