Read Online Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) by Ann Christopher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ann Christopher
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stricken eyes while his tongue worked the tablet inside his cheek. After a minute his breathing evened out and he slumped back, his head lolling against the chair.
“Vincent Jr. is dead,” he wailed, tears streaming from his closed eyes. “My son is dead. Carolyn is dead."
Lena stood up, murmuring to Vincent as she took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs. You’ll feel better in bed.”
Compliant as a small child, Vincent scooted to the edge of the chair.
Justus hurried to catch Vincent’s other arm. He could help him get upstairs and make sure he settled in before—
Vincent’s head whipped around and he stared at Justus with unwavering hostility.
Justus flinched.
For a horrible moment, they stared at each other while Justus absorbed the animosity radiating from his father like fumes from a skunk’s tail.
Finally Vincent’s lip turned up in a sneer. “I don’t need your help.”
Stung, Justus dropped his father’s arm and backed away, recoiling from the message that was as clear as any neon sign on Times Square:
Vincent didn’t understand why, if he had to lose a son, it couldn’t have been Justus rather than V.J.
When the resulting pain knifed through Justus’s own chest, it was, somehow, a surprise. He’d thought he’d made himself invulnerable to this kind of attack long ago, but he’d been dead wrong, and it hurt. Tears crowded his throat, and when his nostrils began to flare, he turned away, unwilling to let his father see how deeply he’d just wounded Justus.
“Vincent!” Lena hissed, shooting an apologetic look at Justus.
Vincent ignored her, snatched his arm away, and turned toward the stairs on his own steam.
Lena looked worriedly back and forth between the two men. Finally she reached up and kissed Justus on the cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Justus nodded numbly.
“We’ll talk first thing, Justus. Okay?”
But Justus had already turned and opened the door to leave, determined never to reach out to his father again. Ever.
5
A ngela woke slowly , her forehead shrieking with pain even before she cracked open her swollen eyes and saw the bright morning sun streaming through the blinds. For one second she couldn’t remember what was so wrong, and looked around her elegant yellow English country bedroom in bewilderment. The huge wrought-iron four-poster bed with her beloved luxury linens sure seemed the same, even though Ronnie wasn’t in it.
So why did she feel so— oh, God .
It all came flooding back. The accident. The hospital. Maya.
She groaned and immediately regretted it because the ache in her forehead and temples throbbed anew. Struggling not to cry again—not again —she put her hands over her eyes and sat up gingerly, trying to give her forehead time to adjust to the altitude change.
Luckily, the spell of lightheadedness disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Thank God for small favors.
Now was not the time to crumble anew. Not physically or emotionally. She’d sobbed and sobbed after Justus left last night, loud, racking sobs so violent they seemed to rip her skin from her flesh, her flesh from her bones. She’d cried until finally she’d vomited, the bile irritating her already raw throat. Every few minutes she’d think she’d gotten a little control, but then a fresh image—Carolyn holding Maya in the hospital just after she was born; Carolyn and V.J. crushed in their car by some stupid deer; Maya getting married with no one to walk her down the aisle—would flash through her mind and the endless tears would start again. She didn’t think she’d ever—
A rustling sound by her open door jarred her out of her thoughts and she dropped her hands.
Maya .
The little girl stood in the doorway, her braided hair mussed, her eyes still droopy with sleep. Tiny bare feet peeked out from under the oversized white T-shirt she’d slept in. Once again, she held her floppy-eared brown dog to her mouth and stared at Angela with solemn eyes.
“Hi,
“Vincent Jr. is dead,” he wailed, tears streaming from his closed eyes. “My son is dead. Carolyn is dead."
Lena stood up, murmuring to Vincent as she took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs. You’ll feel better in bed.”
Compliant as a small child, Vincent scooted to the edge of the chair.
Justus hurried to catch Vincent’s other arm. He could help him get upstairs and make sure he settled in before—
Vincent’s head whipped around and he stared at Justus with unwavering hostility.
Justus flinched.
For a horrible moment, they stared at each other while Justus absorbed the animosity radiating from his father like fumes from a skunk’s tail.
Finally Vincent’s lip turned up in a sneer. “I don’t need your help.”
Stung, Justus dropped his father’s arm and backed away, recoiling from the message that was as clear as any neon sign on Times Square:
Vincent didn’t understand why, if he had to lose a son, it couldn’t have been Justus rather than V.J.
When the resulting pain knifed through Justus’s own chest, it was, somehow, a surprise. He’d thought he’d made himself invulnerable to this kind of attack long ago, but he’d been dead wrong, and it hurt. Tears crowded his throat, and when his nostrils began to flare, he turned away, unwilling to let his father see how deeply he’d just wounded Justus.
“Vincent!” Lena hissed, shooting an apologetic look at Justus.
Vincent ignored her, snatched his arm away, and turned toward the stairs on his own steam.
Lena looked worriedly back and forth between the two men. Finally she reached up and kissed Justus on the cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Justus nodded numbly.
“We’ll talk first thing, Justus. Okay?”
But Justus had already turned and opened the door to leave, determined never to reach out to his father again. Ever.
5
A ngela woke slowly , her forehead shrieking with pain even before she cracked open her swollen eyes and saw the bright morning sun streaming through the blinds. For one second she couldn’t remember what was so wrong, and looked around her elegant yellow English country bedroom in bewilderment. The huge wrought-iron four-poster bed with her beloved luxury linens sure seemed the same, even though Ronnie wasn’t in it.
So why did she feel so— oh, God .
It all came flooding back. The accident. The hospital. Maya.
She groaned and immediately regretted it because the ache in her forehead and temples throbbed anew. Struggling not to cry again—not again —she put her hands over her eyes and sat up gingerly, trying to give her forehead time to adjust to the altitude change.
Luckily, the spell of lightheadedness disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Thank God for small favors.
Now was not the time to crumble anew. Not physically or emotionally. She’d sobbed and sobbed after Justus left last night, loud, racking sobs so violent they seemed to rip her skin from her flesh, her flesh from her bones. She’d cried until finally she’d vomited, the bile irritating her already raw throat. Every few minutes she’d think she’d gotten a little control, but then a fresh image—Carolyn holding Maya in the hospital just after she was born; Carolyn and V.J. crushed in their car by some stupid deer; Maya getting married with no one to walk her down the aisle—would flash through her mind and the endless tears would start again. She didn’t think she’d ever—
A rustling sound by her open door jarred her out of her thoughts and she dropped her hands.
Maya .
The little girl stood in the doorway, her braided hair mussed, her eyes still droopy with sleep. Tiny bare feet peeked out from under the oversized white T-shirt she’d slept in. Once again, she held her floppy-eared brown dog to her mouth and stared at Angela with solemn eyes.
“Hi,
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