A Family Affair: Spring: Truth in Lies, Book 2 (22 page)

***

Harry found Lars
Servensen two hours outside of Chicago in a town the size of Magdalena. It wasn’t hard to locate the jerk; the townies called him Lars the Giant, which didn’t bode well for Harry if the guy had a temper or liked to use his fists. Still, what Harry planned to offer the man was more powerful than twenty-inch biceps and a strong right hook. Once Greta realized the futility of fighting him, she relayed all sorts of interesting and bizarre information about her husband. He worked out four times a day, was covered in tattoos, including a sleeve on his right arm, had once thought of becoming a minister, and had fathered two other children, all born within seven months of Arnold. When Harry asked Greta what the man did to make money—inquiring about a profession would have been a stretch—she’d blushed and said he was a male model and actor. Right. Harry might have seen him in a few “movies” but it might be hard to tell, given the man would be wearing clothes when he met him today. What a scumbag. Impregnating multiple women, running off and pretending to be a superhero?

What the hell had Greta been thinking to take up with somebody like Lars
Servensen? The guy sounded like a narcissistic, manipulative bastard, only interested in his own pleasure. Damn, he kind of sounded like Harry. Maybe the real question was what the hell was wrong with Greta to take up with men like them? She appeared so squeaky-clean honest, but maybe emotionally damaged men turned her on. Was she a psycho? She was pregnant with his kid; did he need to have her evaluated? What if she tried to harm the child because she was a nut case? His brain burst with possibilities, all beginning and ending with blood and baby killing.

He sucked in air, forced his brain to calm down. Is this what being a parent did to a person? Made them so
friggin’ irrational they couldn’t think straight? If he was this way already and the kid hadn’t even popped out yet, what would he be like when the kid had to enter the world with all of its sickness and depravity? A surge of protectiveness pulsed through him and he thought he was going to puke. How was he going to keep the kid safe? How could he save him from pedophiles, disease, gunshot wounds, random acts of violence, and dammit, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time? And if the kid survived all of that, what if he hooked up with the wrong kind of people, got into drugs, shot up, overdosed?

Harry was only one person, and so was Greta. Two people could not protect a kid from the world; sometimes they couldn’t even protect him from himself. So, what the hell was a person to do? How do you deal with the knowledge that no matter if you took your kid for every
medical checkup, bought him the “safest” car on the road, installed a state-of-the-art security system, and gave him an Ivy league education, you could not protect him? That realization blew Harry’s mind, because now it was real, now it had to do with the child Greta carried in her belly. Their child.

By the time he parked his car in front of the three-story apartment building where Lars
Servensen supposedly lived, Harry was pissed and agitated. The pissed part had to do with the futility of man and Harry’s sudden sense of mortality and insignificance. He did not need or want to have those feelings jacking him up right now when he had to face Greta’s loser estranged husband. But it didn’t seem to matter what he wanted, the feelings were there and whenever Harry thought of his kid, he grew more agitated. He did not wish this sense of helplessness on anyone, and yet, he bet every parent and parent-to-be felt it.

Harry climbed the outside stairs of the apartment building to the second floor and knocked on 2B. “Hold on.” The voice was rough, gravelly, maybe from lack of sleep, too much booze, or a combination. The guy couldn’t be rolling in cash or he wouldn’t be living in an apartment with pizza boxes and beer cans stacked by the stairwell and doors that looked like they’d been kicked in a time or two. The place smelled of piss and stale beer. Had Greta lived in an apartment like this? Had her kids? The door squeaked open and a monster of a man towered over him. “Who are you? I paid my rent yesterday.”

Meaning, the man owed rent money. The beast behind the voice had a solid six inches and fifty pounds on Harry. Muscle on top of muscle, shaved head, nonexistent neck. And the tattoos. Lots of tattoos.

“I’m Harry
Blacksworth.” He kept his voice even, his expression bland.
Think of it as a business transaction, don’t let emotion get involved or you’ll lose your edge.
“I’m here on behalf of Greta Servensen. May I come in?”

The man’s blue eyes turned to slits of ice. “What’s Greta want?
You a lawyer?”

Harry shook his head. “No. But I do represent her.” That could mean anything and in a way, it was true. Lars
Servensen considered this, muscles flexing in his neck, his shoulders, along his forearms. Harry glanced at the tattoos on the man’s left arm; too hard to identify what they were unless he studied them, which he chose not to, seeing as the man attached to the tattoos was eyeballing him, and none too kindly either.

“I don’t know.” He crossed one trunk-sized arm over the other. “Whatever you got to say, you can say out here.”

So, the man didn’t want to extend an invitation into his pigpen. Well, that was too bad because Harry wasn’t dealing anything from a piss-laden doorstep. “No, I really can’t.” He glanced to the right, then left, dropping his voice. “I really can’t do that.”

The man sent him an extra five-second stare, an intimidation tactic
, no doubt, and stood back to let Harry enter. “Five minutes, that’s all you get.”

Harry entered the apartment, scanned the living room, and decided pigpen was an understatement. The place smelled like sweat and yeast and was strewn with clothes, bodybuilding magazines, and dog toys. The last one threw Harry. “You’ve got a dog?”

“Pixie, come here, girl.” Servensen whistled. “Come see Daddy.” A brown and white shaggy dog the size of a football ran down the narrow hallway, tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Pixie wore a pink collar with sparkly blue studs. Tattoo Man scooped her up and kissed her head. “This is my baby,” he said, his voice softening as he nuzzled the dog’s ear.

“She’s cute.” Harry knew nothing about dogs, less about owners who treated their dogs like children. Still, the dog might be the angle he needed. “How old is she?”

The man smiled at Pixie and lifted a monster shoulder. “Don’t know. I found her by the Dumpster last Christmas.” His thick brows pinched together and his thin lips pulled into a long frown. “Can you imagine somebody just dumping her? I mean, to not own up to your responsibility, like she was nothing? What kind of person does that?”

Scumbags like you,
he wanted to say.
Didn’t you dump your kids and leave them for Greta?
“I don’t know.”

“A worthless piece of shit, that’s who would do it,” he growled.

“Pretty much.”
And that includes you
.
“Look, I know you must be really busy, so I’ll be brief.” Harry reached in his suit jacket and pulled out the envelope with the letter and the check that would set Greta free. “Greta wants a divorce and here are the terms.”

“Who the hell are you?” Lars
Servensen stared at him, the veins in his temples bulging.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m a friend. I’m helping her out.”

“Ahh.” The man gave Harry a once-over, his steel-blue eyes knowing. “You’re banging her, aren’t you?”

If Harry didn’t need this asshole to show up in court, he’d punch him in the gut. He wouldn’t get a second punch because Muscle Man would floor him, but the jerk deserved one good shot for speaking about Greta that way. “What I am or am not doing with Greta is none of your business.”

Servensen laughed. “Yup, you’re banging her. She’s a piece, isn’t she? All passion and fire, makes you feel like you’re the only man in the world.”

“That’s enough.” If the bastard said one more word about Greta, Harry was going to punch him.
In the nuts. “Listen here, you piece of shit. I’m going to offer you a very large sum of money, probably more than you’ll make in the next ten years doing whatever it is you do. When the judge sets the date, you better damn well show up in court at the time on the docket. Not three hours late or the next day. You’re going to give Greta the divorce and agree to everything in this letter.” He tapped the envelope against his thigh. “Once you do, you’ll get a check for ten times what I’m giving you today. Got it?”

The man stroked Pixie behind the ears, his gaze honed in on the envelope.
“How much we talking about?”

Now he had him. Harry opened the envelope, pulled out the check
, and held it up. “That’s a helluva lot of food for Pixie, isn’t it?”

***

Ninety-seven days was a long time for a man to wait when he wasn’t accustomed to waiting ninety-seven seconds. But Harry did it; hell, he probably would have waited seven years to be with Greta. Who would have thought that Harry Blacksworth would actually be excited for his wedding day? Certainly not Harry, but here he was, dressed in a black suit and burgundy striped tie, his old man’s pocket watch in his hand as he counted the minutes before Greta became his wife.

Greta’s divorce to Lars
Servensen was official eight days ago, but he and Greta began making plans for their future the night he returned from seeing Tattoo Man. Actually, Harry was the one making the grand plans while Greta hung back, asking him every sixteen minutes if he was certain he wanted to take on the responsibility of a family. After the third day of questioning, he’d pulled her to him, kissed her long and hard, and said, “I love you, Greta and I want this, more than anything.” She’d pretty much melted after that, crying and telling him her heart was filled with love for him. He’d liked the breathy little hiccups that spilled out between her tears and profession of love. And then had come the sex, ahem, lovemaking, and it had been damn explosive, better than before.

They’d settled on a house in the suburbs, three
-car garage, colonial, six bedrooms, four and half bathrooms, with a pool table in the basement. A.J., formerly Arnold, liked that room the best and had already asked if Harry would teach him to shoot pool. Of course Harry had agreed and damn but the boy seemed more confident. Greta thought it was because he had a man in his life, but Harry attributed it to the new nickname. Lizzie loved the swing set in the backyard, complete with a fort and sliding board. She’d conned Harry into playing hide-and-seek with her and he’d pushed aside his embarrassment and done it, but he told her he wasn’t doing it again until he bought “play clothes” because he’d snagged his dress pants climbing up the fort ladder and ripped a hole in his shirt.

Greta had insisted on lugging some memorabilia from the old house
: a bowl from Germany, a crocheted afghan from her grandmother, a stack of photo albums with two inches of dust. What the hell. There were enough bedrooms and closets to stash things in and he’d agree to anything, as long as Greta and the kids were attached to it. What he would not and did not agree to was Greta’s mother taking up squatter’s rights in the new place. Oh, he might have halfway considered it had his future wife asked him to, but she hadn’t. Not once, not even when A.J. and Lizzie asked if Grandma Helene was coming to the new house. She’d told them it hadn’t been discussed, but one afternoon, a week before the move, it was discussed…in great detail and in loud voices.

Harry had swung by to pick up the kids and a carload of their junk. While they were gathering their things upstairs, he made his way to the kitchen where Helene stood at the stove, frying peppers and onions. He tried to make small talk but she ignored him, pointy nose in the air, thin lips pinched into a straight line. To hell with her, she was nothing but a miserable woman, moody, obsessively critical, and cruel. He’d taken three steps toward the living room when she’d lashed out, calling him a monster, a derelict, an immoral bastard—yes, she’d sworn at him—and wishing him and her sinful daughter to hell and back. Wishing Greta to hell? That was it.

Harry turned mid-stride and told her exactly what he thought of her in loud and colorful language. When he informed Greta of the blowout that night, she’d been silent, but she hadn’t scolded or frowned at him and the kids had actually seemed happier. Score one for Team Harry. Sometimes you had to fight the bullies, even if they masqueraded in the form of family.

“Mr. Harry. Mom’s ready.” Harry smiled at Lizzie who looked like a miniature version of her mother, hair piled on top of her head and stuffed with baby’s breath, white lace dress falling just below the knees, and tights with patent leather shoes.

“Okay, kiddo. Let’s get this show on the road.” Harry remembered nothing after that as his brain clogged with visions of Greta gliding down the aisle, A.J. at her side. If angels walked this earth, his Greta was one of them in a shimmery ice-blue dress, tummy round and full with his child, her blonde hair piled on top of her head. She wore his wedding gift to her, diamond drop earrings and a diamond drop necklace. Of course she’d had a fit when he handed her the Tiffany boxes, but he wasn’t backing down. This was his wedding, dammit, and she was going to wear them—and like it, too. He hoped. They’d already had the discussion about Harry buying her extravagant and unnecessary gifts, but the fact that she really didn’t care about them made him want to give them to her. Wait until she saw the new car he was having delivered next week: a four-door Lexus sedan. He would stop after that. Maybe. All Greta wanted from him was his love, commitment, and fidelity. For somebody who had spent his whole life estranged from those things, it was easy to promise them to the woman who owned his heart. His Greta.