Legacy (5 page)

Her eyes narrowed at the memory, worry replacing her smile.

“It’s no problem...How’s Corinne doing?” Wes asked, bracing himself for the confirmation that he was an unworthy best friend. Why hadn’t he gone back to see her the next day? Or the day after that?

Because she hates you, asshole.

“She’s about the same,” Morgan shrugged. “I’m worried about her.”

The same? Not worse? Wes chanced to feel a measure of hope.

“Well, maybe she just needs time,” he offered, saying the words for Morgan’s sake as much as his own.

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t have time,” Greg chimed in, looking, Wes thought, like an overgrown Boy Scout, creaseless, rational, and polite to a fault. Only the tone of his words gave any hint of annoyance.

“What do you mean...?” Wes asked as he watched the husband and wife eye each other across the table, a silent argument passing between them.

“She has time,” Morgan amended, still looking at her husband for a beat before bringing her eyes to him. “She just doesn’t have money.”

Wes blinked. Given what he’d expected, the thought of money seemed so...
mundane
.

“Money?”

“She hasn’t sold a painting since...
before,
” Morgan struggled, trying to be gentle with her words. “Before the accident. And she’s not working on anything new.”

This Wes could believe, remembering the state of her sunroom studio. But he found himself frowning. Wes never knew, of course, how much his best friend made, but he knew Michael had a good job. He always had money.
Always
. Didn’t he and Corinne have any savings?

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Wes said, still frowning. “Michael was always flush. Corinne must have something to fall back on.”

Morgan nodded, knowingly.

“They had put away a little—a few thousand—but we’re talking about a household that ran on two incomes that now—at least for the time being—has none. Corinne is paying bills out of their savings—when she’s paying anything, that is,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I went by yesterday and found a cancellation notice for her utilities. She was about 24-hours away from losing power.”

Wes winced. He didn’t know what their rent was, but in their neighborhood he wouldn’t be surprised if it was near $1200. That alone would wipe out her savings in just a few months, not to mention the rest of her expenses.

Aww, fuck.

Wes realized then, with a sickening certainty, that he was a giant ass. He’d just lost Corinne at least six months worth of rent. For nothing. Gone. Michael’s Pinarello could have been sold—easily—for eight grand. At least. He palmed his forehead and scrubbed his hands through his hair.

It hadn’t crossed his mind for an instant that Corinne would need the money. He hadn’t thought about her at all. He’d just been so proud of himself for doing something noble, giving Michael’s bike to someone who’d appreciate it. And he’d let Chad thank him—like it was
his to give.

Shame broke over him like sweat. Could Michael see—from wherever he was—how badly he’d fucked up? Wes hoped not.

“What can I do?” he asked, unable to look at Corinne’s sister. Did she know what he’d just done? Was that what this was about? He couldn’t ask Chad to give it back. No way. And Wes knew that he couldn’t just put up the money; he didn’t have that kind of cash in his savings. Even if he sold his Colnago, he’d only be able to erase maybe half of this debt.

Morgan bit her lip. Wes thought that she looked nervous enough to be asking for $8,000. She knotted her fingers together at the edge of the table, winding up for the snap. Wes held his breath.

“What would you think about taking the dog?” she asked, doubtfully.

Wes blinked, blindsided.

“What?”

“I know, I know it’s a lot to ask,” she started, almost breathless. “But Corinne could come and live with us for a while, but we can’t take that dog.”

That dog?
Buck was the furthest thing from
that dog
Wes could imagine. He was smart, obedient, easy, and just plain fun. How could Corinne want to give him up? Wes dropped his guilt for a healthy dose of indignation.

“Buck is the best dog in the world! Corinne doesn’t want him?!?”

It was Morgan’s turn to blink. Even to his own ears, he sounded a little defensive, harsh. Wes noticed that Boy Scout Greg sat up a little straighter, his eyes going flinty.

“Um...well,...” Morgan began, looking down at her hands. “She does actually. She wants to keep him, which means she needs a house with a yard—she says—but I thought that if you wanted him...maybe she’d see...that she doesn’t
need
to keep him.”

Wes understood in an instant that he’d been wrong about Morgan Bates. From the moment he’d seen her at Michael’s funeral as she kept Corinne steady, Wes knew that he and Morgan belonged to a kind of silent partnership. He, by oath, and she, by blood, were charged with the task of taking care of Corinne Granger. He wasn’t in it alone, and that was a relief! It was why he’d messaged her after leaving Corinne’s with the bike. As Corinne’s sister, Morgan would know—far better than he—what was best for her.

But what if she didn’t?

Wes had no doubt that Corinne needed to keep Buck. It wasn’t just that he was Michael’s dog. It wasn’t just for the company. It wasn’t just that Buck could keep her safe. He pictured the train wreck of a house he’d seen just weeks before. Dishes on the floor, trash overflowing, a fridge filled with rotten food. Corinne couldn’t take care of herself. But she could take care of Buck.

He hadn’t seen any sign that she’d neglected to feed him or let him out. At least, the house didn’t smell like dog piss, and there were treats and food in the pantry. If she was managing to take care of him, that was something. To take that away from her had to be a mistake. Without that sense if onus, would she even need to get out of bed—or stay alive?

“Maybe she does need to keep him,” Wes offered, hoping Morgan would see his perspective.

Morgan rolled her eyes again.

“If she could come and stay with us, we could look after her, and after she felt better,” Morgan said, brightening. “She could help me with the baby.”

Wes drew a breath to tell her what a stupid, selfish plan that was, but he clamped his mouth shut instead. He was used to telling people what he thought—even his clients. Especially his clients. It was one of the things that made him so successful. They made progress because he was honest, sometimes brutally honest. But Wes stopped himself because he couldn’t see how telling Morgan off would help Corinne. And he couldn’t help but feel that Michael would have disapproved.

“Maybe...,” he started, grasping for ideas. “Maybe she could take a roommate.”

Wes heard Greg huff a suppressed laugh under his breath. Morgan raised a brow and eyed Wes skeptically.

“You have met my sister, right?” she asked with sarcasm.

Yes, and you’re just as charming.

But she had him there. Wes
had
met Corinne. Plenty of times. The woman could make you feel like shit on a shoe just by looking at you. Michael had to have known what Wes thought about her—that Corinne was 99 percent bitch and the other 1 percent was bitch—but Wes never dared say it out loud. Michael would have knocked his teeth in—or shown him the door.

It was embarrassing how much the guy loved her.

He couldn’t have been the only person who could live with her, could he?

“I never heard Michael complain,” he countered, only a little chagrined that it took him several long seconds to respond.

Sadness softened Morgan’s eyes, and for the instant before she looked down, he could see more of Corinne in her.

“Michael was a saint,” she whispered.

“Michael was awesome,” Wes said, the familiar lump filling his throat. He swallowed with a shake of his head and pressed on. “But he had his fair share of flaws and vices. Roush was no saint.”

The human tendency to idealize the dead, to sanitize their memory, had always grated on Wes. Even the day he’d lost his best friend, Wes vowed to himself that he would remember Michael as he was. Anything else was disloyal. Remembering Michael—the real Michael, with his set-downs, and his sarcasm, and his insistence that he was always right—this was the only way to honor him. Forgetting half of what made him who he was? Well, that was just insulting.

“I just meant that he had a gift for handling my sister,” Morgan said, giving him a bittersweet smile.

No argument there.

“So you won’t take the dog?” Greg chimed in, clearly eager to reach a solution and put the matter behind him. Wes cut him a look and wished that they were standing face to face. He loved to step into a jerk’s personal space, cross his arms over his chest, and let his biceps speak for him.

“I’ll talk to her,” he conceded. “If she wants me to take Buck, of course, I will.”

But she won’t.

“Thank you, Wes,” Morgan sighed, smiling in obvious relief. “She’ll see that it makes sense.”

Except it doesn’t.

Wes pushed himself from the table, the euphoria from his ride long gone. His legs felt heavy and clotted, and the prospect of going to Corinne’s just depressed him.

“I’ll be in touch,” he promised, vaguely, nodding to both of them, and left the restaurant.

As he walked away, he raked his fingers through his hair again. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to talk to her about the dog. It wouldn’t change anything. Nothing he could do would make one bit of difference. Helping Corinne was just beyond him. If anything, he’d made her life worse. He’d practically robbed her of thousands of dollars without a second thought. With that track record, she’d be homeless before the end of the week.

His phone chimed as he climbed into his truck, and for a nanosecond, Wes wondered if it was Michael. He slammed the door of his truck and dropped his head to the steering wheel.

A thousand shocks a day.

That’s what it seemed like—crashing against reality and forgetting about it just long enough to crash right into it again.

After a solid minute of listening to the pulse of his blood in his ears, Wes sat up and read the text.

Don’t leave me hanging, big man.

Bethany Wallace loved to drag her manicured nails down his chest, turning him to gooseflesh. Wes pictured her taking his nipple between her teeth and smiling up at him. It
would
be great to stop thinking for a while. His thumb hovered over the keypad as he weighed his options.

On my way.

Chapter 5

B
uck’s sleek, black ears were the softest things in the world. Corinne stroked the dog’s head as he snoozed in her lap. Sunlight from the window caught the waft of dander, motes rising up from the velvety ears and swirling in the shaft of waning light. She had watched the display for a good 20 minutes, ignoring Trisha Yearwood and her Rainy Day Food episode.

She was biding her time until the sun went down. On her last trip to the store—five days before—she’d made an interesting discovery in the medicine aisle: ZzzQuil. It didn’t taste much better than Nyquil, but it did work, helping her sleep through the night and then some, and it didn’t require a prescription or the need to
talk
to anyone.

Corinne had made a deal with herself. She could dose up as soon as the sun had fully set. Not official sunset time, which the Weather Channel app on her phone said was 7:18, but when she could no longer see any remnant of sunset in the sky. If she waited that long, then she could take the dosage cup and fill it all the way to the top, not just to the factory-imprinted line in the plastic.

In the store she’d debated about liquid over gel caps, but she decided that the liquid gave her more flexibility. And while it was tempting just to re-dose as soon as she woke up in the morning—and several times throughout the day—Corinne actually feared what might happen if she did. She noticed, too, that even after five days of indulging in her special nightcap, she still felt it necessary to lie down a few times a day, even if she only actually slept a couple of those times.

The downside was ZzzQuil seemed to keep her from dreaming—or remembering her dreams—which meant the illusion she clung to was evaporating. Michael invaded her dreams so much that it felt like he was willing himself to stay near her, that he was really only just beyond the veil of a temporal reality.

Dreamlessness made him seem more...
dead
.

After the second night without a dream, Corinne vowed that she would shelve the ZzzQuil so she could get him back. But near midnight, as sleep eluded her, hopelessness enveloped. Her dreams weren’t portals to another place in the universe that held Michael and the life they shared intact; her dreams were chemical pulses in her brain, determined to stimulate her pleasure centers the best way they knew how and fulfill her deepest wish. Corinne had scrambled out of bed at the realization and downed a dose right then.

The clock on the cable box read 7:37. The light had softened further outside, and Corinne knew she only had about 15 or 20 minutes to go. In the meantime, she would feed Buck his dinner and escort him outside.

“C’mon, boy. Dinner time,” she said, bracing herself as he jolted out of his rub-induced stupor, clawed himself upright, and darted to the kitchen. She moved much more slowly, rising from the couch and brushing the black dog hairs from the legs of her pink and gray plaid pajama pants.

Corinne had taken a gamble today and won. Since Morgan’s kidnapping attempt four weeks before, she had started trying to shower every other day—or every third day if she were honest, and she tried to put on day clothes by 10 a.m. just in case her sister came by. Morgan seemed to be averaging about three visits a week, but there was no rhyme or reason to her pop-ins.

But today she just didn’t feel like bothering. She felt bloated and raw, and Corinne guessed she was about to start her period. She couldn’t be sure anymore because she couldn’t bear to take her pill after Michael died. What was the point? She doubted she’d ever have sex again, and the little pink box with it’s foil backing was just another reminder of how many days she’d lived without him and the life they’d never get to have. But ditching them meant that she no longer could keep track of when she’d start.

Corinne fed Buck and watched him gobble up every kernel in the time it took her to wash her hands, and then she led him through the sunroom to the backyard without even glancing at her paints. She sat on the back steps and watched Buck sniff around the yard.

She’d gotten her period about a week after Michael died, and it had hollowed her out. There had been a hope she had not even admitted to herself that he had left her with child, a hope that there remained something to live for, something of him.

Buck was mid-squat when the scraping sound of a car in the drive carried over the yard. The startled look of the defecating dog made Corinne laugh, and as Buck gave two quick grass-throwing kicks and ran back into the house, she couldn’t wait to tell Morgan that she’d disturbed Buck’s evening poop.

“She’s kinda late today, isn’t she?” Corinne didn’t bother hurrying to the front door since Morgan had refused to relinquish Michael’s key, using it at every opportunity. Instead, she sauntered to the living room and plopped down on the couch. At least the late hour meant Morgan couldn’t be sure that Corinne had stayed in her pajamas all day.

A knock sounded, and Buck gave one short bark.

“What are you waiting for?” she yelled from the couch. “Just use the damn key like you always do.”

“Corinne, it’s Wes. I don’t have a key. Can you let me in?”

Buck barked again at the masculine voice and scratched the door excitedly. Corinne just blinked.

What the hell does
he
want?

She pushed herself off the couch again and went to the door, unlocking the bolt but leaving the chain latched. Sure enough, there was Wes frowning through the gap in the doorway, his glossy faux hawk looking extra mussed. She couldn’t help but think that he was a caricature, something you’d find in an anime cartoon. They stared at each other for a beat.

“Well, can I come in?” Wes asked, the indignation in his voice hard to miss.

“That depends. What do you want? More of Michael’s stuff?” At her question Wes blanched, and the frown disappeared.

“No,” he said, his voice changing. “I came to see you.”

A hint of guilt needled her, so Corinne opened the door.

“Come in.”

If her welcome left something to be desired, Buck made up for it with fervent wagging and pitiful whimpering.

“Hey, Buck,” Wes said, stepping inside and bending down to greet the dog. “I see that propeller tail.”

Propeller tail.
How many times had Michael called his dog that? Buck’s tail, indeed, whirled around in a happy, manic circle, and the dog stole the opportunity to lick Wes on the cheek. Buck had greeted Michael in just the same way so many times. Without her even realizing it, tears splashed over Corinne’s lashes. She quickly brushed them with the sleeve of her gray pajama top, trying not to go over the edge. She would have to choose irritation and impatience if she didn’t want devastation to win the day.

“If he pees from excitement, you’re cleaning it up,” she said, harshly.

Wes stood, still scratching Buck behind his ears.

“He won’t pee. He’s a good boy,” he said, cooing to the dog. Corinne folded her arms over her chest and eyed Wes with disdain.

“Why are you here, Wes?”

Wes looked her in the eye and sighed.

“I saw your sister this morning,” he said, grimly.

Shit.

Corinne wondered what Morgan had said about her. It could only be humiliating. Had she told him about the day she’d arrived to see Corinne eating melted ice cream and cereal because there was nothing left in the house?

“Well, you two have just become best buds,” she sneered. “Facebook and Sunday brunch, is it?”

Wes ignored her and crossed to Michael’s favorite chair, the mod, charcoal swivel, and sat down in it. Corinne found herself staring again in shock. Had anyone sat in that chair in the last three months?

Wes looked back at her while she remained by the door.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he said.

“Just one?” she asked, moving back to the couch and flopping down as Wes scowled.

“I’m trying to tell you something difficult, Corinne,” he droned. “Could you just hear me out?”

Buck jumped on the couch with her, and she instinctively reached for his ears.

“I’m listening,” she conceded.

Wes leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, and she watched him draw a deep breath. His color had washed out again, and for the first time, she felt curious. What on earth could bother
Wes?
If the guy had a conscience, it was news to her.

“Morgan told me that you are having money trouble,” he started.

Corinne ignored the flush of shame and set her jaw.

“I have money. And that’s none of your business.”

His eyes shot to hers, and the ire she saw in them surprised her.

“It is my business.”

“No, it’s not, Wes. My life is not your business—”

“It is when I owe you,” he barked, his eyes aflame and nostrils flaring. He actually looked kind of scary all pissed off, but his words confused her.

“You don’t owe me anything, W—”

“Yes,” he cut in. “I do. I took Michael’s bike without giving you anything for it, and I gave it away for nothing.”

“So?” she asked, incredulous. “I didn’t want the bike. It wasn’t like I was going to use it.”

Wes shook his head.

“No, I mean it’s worth a lot of money. A lot, Corinne,” he explained, surprising her with a stricken look. “I should have sold it for you. I could have gotten like $8,000 for it, but I didn’t think it through...I owe you a lot of money.”

Corinne frowned. She knew the bike was expensive, but it wasn’t like it had been hers. It was Michael’s, and he would have wanted to give it away to someone—just like Wes had done.

“You don’t owe—”

“I can’t pay it all back in one lump sum, but I think I can do it in installments, like $300 a month,” he said, shrugging.

“What?” Corinne felt her eyebrows leap as she did the math. “You think I’m going to take money from you for the next two years?”

Frowning again, he reached into his back pocket and produced a check that was folded in half.

“I know it’s a long time to pay you back, but I intend to do it,” he said.

What the hell?

This was too much to deal with. The future was impossible to contemplate. Corinne could not imagine what her life would be like in two years, but she could only hope that it would be better than it was now, that she
somehow
would have managed to move on. The thought of cashing a check from Michael’s best friend for the next 26 months was like a yoke around her neck. It would always call to mind his bike, his races, his body glistening with sweat after a ride, his hunger to be with her after each shower.

Corinne knew that she didn’t want to forget any of this, but the assault of memories was sometimes enough to bring her to her knees. Why ask for more?

“No way,” Corinne said, sitting forward and refusing the check. “I don’t want that.”

Wes’s color had returned, but he looked tired. In fact, he looked like nothing more than a Wes Clarkson impersonation. The same stupid hair. Under Armour t-shirt. Shaved legs jutting out of knee-length Nike track shorts. But where was the swell and swagger? And the pity in his eyes made her want to scream.

“Corinne...” he said, softly. “You need the money. Morgan said you aren’t working. What are you going to do?”

“Ok, that’s it,” she said, bouncing to her feet and startling Buck. “You need to back off. I can take care of myself, and for the record, the thought of
selling Michael’s things
so I can pay the bills is
absolutely disgusting.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she thought that she saw some of the Wes Clarkson smugness return.

Good,
she thought.
Better than his pity.

Wes stood and flicked the check onto her coffee table, a curl of derision in his lip.

“You know, Corinne,” he said, pinning her with a ruthless look. “Michael always said you were one of a kind. All I can say is thank God for that.”

Michael.

You’re one of a kind, and you belong to me.

The memories pounced. Catching his breath on top of her, their hearts coming back from near-explosion after making love, Michael would say those words and kiss her face, her throat, her chest.

Hearing them now from Wes with so much disdain was a physical blow. There was no hiding. Her lungs emptied in a sob, and her body bowed. Corinne gripped her thighs, and a wail escaped her throat before she could summon words. When she could finally inhale again, she let loose.

“Leave now!” she shrieked, though she hardly needed to. Wes was already backing away from her, eyes rounded in horror. Buck slunk low by her feet, his ears pressed tight against his head.

“Corinne, I’m sor—”

“Don’t ever come here again!
Ever
!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I never want to see you,” she vowed, reaching the door first and yanking it open, grateful that her fury at last was trumping her decimation. “I don’t even want to know you!”

Wes backed out of the doorway with hands raised as though she’d strike him. At another time, it might have been funny.