Hold You Close Read online

  “Ian,” my bartender, Toby, calls with his hand out.

  “What’s up?”

  “You have a call.” He pushes the phone toward me.

  No one calls the club for me other than vendors, and it’s eleven-thirty at night, so whoever it is can wait.

  “I have to deal with something now, send them to my voicemail.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s called three times.” The annoyance in his voice is clear, even over the music.

  She?

  The only woman that would resort to calling the club is my ex-wife. God only knows what bullshit she wants now. For all I know she broke a nail, it’s my fault, and she thinks I should pay for her new manicure, or a hand replacement. She’s like the gift you’ve tried to return but can’t find the receipt for, so you’re stuck with it. I hate unwanted presents, and I hate Jolene.

  “Send the devil to my voicemail,” I say and walk away.

  I head out to the sidewalk. Drea wasn’t kidding, the line is nuts. “Hello, Officer,” I say to the pudgy cop standing next to the bouncer.

  “Mr. Chase, we’re getting complaints,” he says, looking down the sidewalk at the line.

  “I can’t help that we’re popular.” I shrug. “I’m at capacity, and can’t kick out the paying customers to take care of the line.”

  “You’re obstructing the entrances of other businesses because of the way your overflow lines are set up.”

  How the hell would they like me to handle it? We’re not inside the casino, there’s no way to control the line. I’m not about to turn away people when we hit the number ten. This is a business, and part of the free marketing I get is thanks to the line.

  “All right, I’ll figure something out.” I grip the back of my neck.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. If this is Jolene, I swear to God, I might lose my fucking mind.

  The name flashes across the screen, London Parish. For fuck’s sake. Like I need to deal with my sister’s uptight, irritating best friend right now. London would be incredibly hot if she wasn’t such a raging bitch. I look at my call log and see this is the third time she’s called.

  I walk down the strip a little, and after a few deep breaths, I call her back.

  “Ian, you need to come to my house.”

  I smirk. “Well, this is a first. Did you have the stick removed from your ass?”

  “Don’t. Not today, please. Just come here.” I hear her sniff and my protectiveness kicks in. Someone made her cry. We don’t get along at all—partly because we’re polar opposites and partly because of our history—but no one gets to make her cry.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “Not in the way you think.” Her voice hitches.

  I’ve known London for twenty-five years. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen or heard her cry—I was the reason one of those times.

  “What’s wrong? Is it an emergency? Because I’m at work and the club—”

  “Now, Ian. You need to come here now.”

  She also doesn’t play games.

  Fuck.

  I look at my watch and blow a deep breath through my nose. It’ll take me at least thirty minutes to get there. This is seriously a shitty night. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Just . . . hurry,” London says and hangs up.

  Dread pulls at my stomach, telling me there’s something going on. I don’t know what, but I know I need to get there.

  “Get rid of the line, no more get in,” I tell the bouncer, and then head inside.

  Drea is at the bar, and my anxiety is starting to grow. London needs me there, why? What happened? Did someone break into her house? Mine? Maybe it has to do with an ex, if she even has one, or it could be nothing like that. Regardless, her voice was shaky and I can’t waste time wondering.

  “I have to go,” I tell Drea.

  Her eyes widen. “Go? Go where? It’s a packed house.”

  “I’m aware of that, but something came up. I need you to handle things tonight.” I turn to Toby. “Stay until Drea is done closing and I want you to escort her to her car at the end of the night.”

  He nods.

  I never let her walk out of here alone. Even if I have someone coming home with me, Drea’s not going to be unescorted. Too many men get the wrong impression because she’s nice to them. Over my dead body will she be hurt as a result of working at my club.

  After I get in the car, my mind is racing. I drive faster than I should, telling myself that London is just being dramatic.

  And then I remember . . . she has my nephew and nieces at her house.

  My foot pushes down on the pedal of my Jaguar, making the engine howl with each mile. I turn into the development where we both live, pass my house, and head to hers. I still hate that our backyards touch. Every damn day I see her sitting out on her deck, reading her books, looking down at me with her disapproving attitude.

  When I get there, the flashing lights of a police car brighten the road. I don’t think. I don’t know if I even put the car in park before I’m out of the vehicle.

  “London!” I yell as I rush through the door. “Christopher? Morgan? Ruby?” I call out for the kids, praying it’s not one of them.

  When I get to the living room, I release a heavy sigh—they’re all there, not hurt.

  Then I see the tears streaming down Morgan’s face. London gets to her feet. Her eyes are red, puffy, and black mascara runs down her cheeks. “Ian.” She chokes on my name.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  The girls start to cry again, and my nephew pulls them into his arms.

  London moves toward me, placing her hand on my chest. “They’re gone.”

  “Who?” I ask, confused.

  “Sabrina and David,” she whispers.

  Yeah, they went on a trip. Why the hell are they crying? “This is what you called me for? They’ll be home in a few days. Why are you crying too?” I ask.

  Her green eyes meet mine and her lips part. “No.” She shakes her head. “They won’t.”

  I look over at the kids again, and then to the muted television. My feet move closer, because I have to be sure the words flashing across the screen say what I think they say. “Flight 1184 crashes off the coast of Hawaii. Three hundred missing and presumed dead.”

  My sister was going to Hawaii.

  My sister is gone.

  I sink to my knees in front of the kids, unsure what to say. They just lost their parents, and my heart is breaking. My sister was my best friend. She was the one who pushed me to open Veil and do what I wanted. I’ve always had her support, and now she’s gone.

  Christopher lifts his head, his brown eyes filled with unshed tears. “They’ll find them,” he says with conviction.

  “Okay,” I reply. We both know it’s a lie, but it’s one he has to tell himself. I remember being fifteen; there was no telling me I was wrong.

  “Dad wouldn’t . . .” he starts, and then stops as his lip quivers.

  My own tears start to fall, as Morgan grabs my hand. “What do we do now?”

  I have no fucking clue. How do I tell these kids how to survive? I’m the last person in the world equipped to give this advice. I look to London. Her hand touches my shoulder and she wipes the tears that fall silently down her cheeks.

  “We hold each other close,” she says.

  Our eyes meet and I’m transported back to a time when London and I weren’t always at each other’s throats. A time when we had feelings for each other. Even though we’re both aching, there’s something keeping us from breaking completely—a trust that even in the deepest pain, we can still come together and offer comfort.

  London kneels beside me. She looks like she’s on the verge of falling apart, but won’t allow it to happen. “Did you call my parents?” I ask.

  “They’re getting on a plane.”

  The five of us huddle together and soothe each other, as we all realize our lives will never be the same
again.

  Two

  Ian

  Today, we buried two empty caskets in the Las Vegas desert. It’s been two weeks and no survivors have been found. Neither my brother-in-law’s nor my sister’s body has been recovered. But my parents thought it would be best to give the kids some sense of closure and have the services.

  Whatever that means.

  How do you close a door to your parents?

  “Uncle Ian?” Christopher calls for my attention.

  “How are you holding up, man?”

  At fifteen, I wouldn’t have been able to act the way he has. He’s been a pillar of strength for his sisters.

  For the first time, I see a crack in his armor. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I don’t know how to go back to the house today. They’re really not coming back.”

  The first night, we all stayed at London’s. No one slept, and all of us were lost in a sea of grief. When Mom and Dad got here, they took the kids back to their own house so they could sleep in their beds.

  “One day at a time, Chris. That’s all any of us can do, but I’m always here, you know that.” I tell him.

  He nods. “I keep waiting for Dad to walk in the door. But now . . .”

  I know the feeling. Each day, Sabrina would text me, telling me something I needed to do better with my time or telling me to stop torturing London with the backyard parties. I keep checking my phone, looking for her sarcastic yet loving messages. Logically, I know they won’t arrive, but emotionally, I can’t stop myself from hoping.

  “I hope you know how much they loved you,” I tell him.

  Christopher looks at me and a tear falls. “I know, it’s why this hurts so bad.”

  “You’re going to get through this,” I say to both him and myself.

  I miss my sister.

  Sabrina was the best person I knew. She picked my sorry ass up when Jolene fucked with my head. Even David, who I fucking hated for knocking up my sister in college, became a brother to me.

  He did right by her, took care of her, provided a life for her and their kids. I admired him, and I don’t know that I ever told him that.

  Now I never will.

  So many goddamn regrets.

  “Do you think we’ll have to move to Florida?” Christopher asks.

  My mother tried to bring that up last night, but I wasn’t in the right mindset to discuss it. Talking about all of it was too much. The idea of not seeing the kids anymore after losing Sabrina is a road I can’t go down.

  I don’t claim to be the world’s best uncle, but I love those three. I’m the one who buys them the cool thing their parents won’t let them have. When I show up on Christmas, it’s clear who Santa Claus really is—me. I’m their godfather, all three of them are mine in some way. I spoil the shit out of them, teach them things they should know, and love them with my whole heart.

  I’m well aware of what people think about me. I’m divorced, drive a sports car, own a nightclub, and get laid whenever I want, but that doesn’t mean things don’t bother me. I’ll never have kids, so they’re it for me.

  “I really don’t know what’s going to happen.” I give it to him straight.

  Right then my mother walks over. “We’re all going to follow the lawyer back to his office.” She touches Chris’s arm. “All of us, Ian.”

  “I have to get back to the club.”

  She gives me the look that makes even grown men shit themselves when they see it. The eyes that demand you listen. “The lawyer stated that you, London, living parents, and the children were to be at the reading of the will.”

  Even in death, Sabrina is in charge.

  I open my mouth to refuse. I have a business to run and Drea is really not as capable as I’d like her to be. We’ve only been open four months, and I can’t screw this up.

  “Please, Uncle Ian,” Chris pleads.

  Well, shit. I can’t say no now. This is my first godson. The one I hoped to corrupt and teach to drive his mother to drink. He's supposed to become my protégé, and I can’t let him down.

  “All right, I’ll be there.” I clasp his shoulder and walk to the car.

  “Thanks.”

  London walks over with huge black sunglasses on her face, but they don’t disguise her grief. She has had no problem shedding tears. I’ve never seen her cry as much as I have in the last five days. I had to lock myself down to keep from trying to comfort her with each sob she released. She’s made it clear, however, that I’m not the person she seeks out when she’s in pain.

  I’ve managed to keep it together for now. Mostly because my father always taught me that when the women are struggling, they need the men to carry the weight. So he’s helping Mom, and I’ve got the kids.

  He and I share a look as my mother starts crying again. I hear him in my head. “Men are fixers, Son. Men are strength. Men don’t let anyone see vulnerability. When someone hurts your mother or sister, you’ll fight. If someone you love is in pain, you fight, got it?”

  Those words were drilled into me, and every part of me wants to fight, but there’s no one to battle. I wish there was.

  “Can I ride with you? I don’t have my car,” London explains.

  Under normal circumstances, London would never ask to go anywhere with me. And if she did, I would throw out some smartass remark or give her crap about it, but since we lost Sabrina, neither of us has taken a single jab at the other. Part of me wants to pick a fight with her just to have something be the way it was before.

  But I can’t do that.

  “Fine.” I start walking toward my car, and she falls in step beside me, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair is twisted up in that strict-librarian style she always wears. She should wear it down more often.

  “Have you seen the will?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “What do you think will happen with the kids?”

  I shrug, irritated that she brought up the one subject I’m trying to avoid thinking about. “My parents will probably get them.”

  “Will they take them back to Florida?”

  “How should I know?” My tone is a little too sharp, and I feel like an asshole for being rude to her today. She and I have our issues, which are not entirely my fault, as she would like to believe, but she loves those kids—she’s their godmother. They call her “Aunt London,” and she was there the day each one of them was born.

  She looks over at me. “It was just a question, Ian. I thought maybe your sister had talked to you about it.”

  “Well, she didn’t.”

  “Maybe if you spent a little less time partying at the club and more time with your family, she would have.”

  There’s the London I know. Maybe she wants a fight too. Happy to oblige, sweetheart.

  “It’s my fucking job, London. I’m working, not partying.” We reach the car and I unlock it with the fob in my pocket before opening the passenger door for her.

  She pauses, looks at my hand on the door and then up at me. “Only you could be a dick and a gentleman at the same time.”

  “It’s a gift,” I tell her. “Now get in. I’ve got things to do today.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she gets into my car and I shut the door after her. As I walk around to the driver’s side, I wipe the sweat from my forehead. It’s warm for April, almost ninety today, and I wish more than anything I could spend the afternoon at the pool in my backyard, a cold beer in my hand and a sexy blonde in the chair next to me. Maybe two blondes. One on either side.

  I wish I could blow off work and drink all day and play loud music and mess around with the blondes in full view of London, and she’d call me to complain I was being completely obnoxious, but I’d ignore her, so she’d call my sister and bitch about my disgusting behavior and my complete disregard for my neighbors’ Sunday peace and quiet. My sister would text me to please quit being a jerk and consider other people’s feelings, by which she’d mean London’s feelings, and I’d say it wasn’t my fa
ult London was a crusty old maid with only her cat for company, and maybe if she wasn’t such a bitter, puritanical goody-goody, she’d come over and join the fun instead of stewing about it from her deck and tattling on me.

  I wish a lot of things.

  I wish I could change the past. I wish my sister was still alive. I wish her kids still had a mother and father. I wish I knew how to answer questions about their future and how any of us are supposed to move on.

  “I saw Jolene,” London says, probably just to annoy me. Which it does.

  I pull onto the highway, grunting in response. I saw my ex among the crowd, wearing a ridiculous hat and crying fake tears, but I didn’t speak to her.

  “It was nice of her to come, don’t you think?”

  Nothing my ex-wife does is charitable or kind. She’s a snake, filled with venom and ready to strike at the first thing she can stick her fangs into. Usually it’s me. And speaking of fake—London doesn’t like Jolene any better than I do. “No. I don’t.”

  London rolls the window down and grumbles under her breath. “Whatever.”

  I roll up London’s window and turn up the A/C, just to piss her off. “She didn’t come to be nice, London. She came to gawk and get gossip so she can be the center of attention at work tomorrow. It’s not as if she even liked Sabrina.”

  “Everybody liked Sabrina.” Now it’s London whose voice has an edge.

  “You know what I mean.”

  She turns toward the passenger window, giving me the cold shoulder for the rest of the ride.

  Fine with me.

  But it’s true, what she said. Everybody did like my sister. Sabrina didn’t have a mean bone in her body, and she always had a smile and something nice to say to anyone, even my shrew of an ex-wife. Sweet was a word I heard over and over again today as her friends and family mourned her. Kind-hearted. Generous. Thoughtful.

  Did you know she volunteered at the Humane Society?

  When my mom passed, she brought dinner over every night for a week.

  I can’t tell you how much we’re going to miss her at work—she was the hardest working nurse on the floor.