I could have tried to answer in the nanosecond she gave me, but she turned on Jackson instead. She put his plate in front of him. “What are you thinking? You know he has the weakness in his leg.” Jackson opened his mouth to answer, but Lupita rolled right over him as she swung back to me. “I will make you a restorative smoothie. Mango with vitamins A and C. It’s good for you.” She added that last bit like I was going to argue.
“Do I get one, too, Lupita?” Jackson asked. She looked him over as if deciding whether he was worthy. Jackson leaned back in his chair. “I’m feeling faint.”
Her eyes went wide. “Strawberry banana for you. Potassium.” With that, she turned on her heel and left while we both shouted, “Thank you, Lupita,” after her. She responded with a wave of acknowledgment.
Jackson turned to me. “How do I get her to adopt me?”
“Pay her an exorbitant salary to put up with you,” I said. Like Jackson, I paid Lupita and Juan very well. Given that I had no family to lean on, they were worth every penny.
“I think she’s out of my league,” he said.
“Then make sure I don’t fire you so you don’t lose access,” I said.
“You’re not going to fire me,” he said.
“Oh no?” I asked. I was surprised and a little impressed by his confidence. I could be a moody son of a bitch and had fired people for less.
“No one else will put up with you,” he said.
“Says you,” I countered. It was true, but I wasn’t about to agree with him and lose my bargaining position.
After dinner, Jackson left to go and attend one of his evening clients. With envy in my heart, I watched him grab his bag of gear and jog out the door. That used to be me. I had believed I was invincible. If I set a goal, I could achieve it. Nothing could ever stop me. Until it had. And now I was a prisoner in my own body, afraid to leave my house, afraid to walk, afraid to run, afraid of everything, and man, I hated it. But more than that, I hated myself. I hated what I’d become but I didn’t know how to change it.
I spent the evening like I always did, with no real sense of purpose. It was exhausting. I read every single page of the newspaper and watched television. For the first time in my life, I was caught up on every show I’d missed when I was busy having a life.
Before my life imploded, I’d had more life than I could handle. I’d been a thirty-five-year-old mogul on the rise. After my family unraveled when I was fourteen, I bounced around several foster homes and a group residence for boys. I’d escaped it all at the age of sixteen when I emancipated myself and started work as a carpenter, hanging drywall. I worked for local construction outfits in the brutal desert temperatures for two years. It didn’t take me long to realize I wanted more.
I went back and got my GED, then I went to college at night. I studied business. I didn’t finish. The degree had never been my goal. I wanted to know how business worked and how to get ahead, and once I had it figured out, I quit school and was in the game. I saved every damn dime that came my way and started buying properties in low-income neighborhoods that were on the brink of being gentrified and then I began flipping them.
The 2008 recession had destroyed my city, but it gave me my first out with a slew of foreclosed properties ripe for the picking. I knew the streets, the neighborhoods, and the zoning ordinances. I knew exactly how to leave one wall standing to be able to call it a historic preservation project and then build a cheesy McMansion around it. I scooped up all the tax breaks and then charged a fucking fortune for a place that wasn’t worth the aesthetically pleasing yet cheap materials we loaded into it, except for location, location, location.
With the onslaught of rich Californians pouring into Arizona for the cheaper cost of living, there was money to be made in the housing industry, and I was determined to be one of the ones to make it. Soon, I was flipping entire neighborhoods, and my builders and I could hardly keep up with the demand. I made a fortune and was at the top of my game and then BOOM.
My body essentially gave me the big middle finger and crapped out on me. I hadn’t been able to get my old self back since. When I looked in the mirror now, I didn’t recognize the man with the shadowed eyes, who didn’t sleep, who woke up drenched in sweat with his leg going numb, who never left his house, who was, for the first time in his life since childhood, not in control.
I thought about Jackson’s suggestion that I see a therapist. My entire body went rigid. Nope, nope, nope. They’ll want to talk about your entire life, not just your post-trauma stroke issues. Do you really want to wade around in that cesspool? Oh, hell no.
Looking for a distraction from these disturbing thoughts, I settled into my recliner by the fire, sipping the thimbleful of whiskey that I allowed myself on bad days while reading the latest Gray Man thriller from Mark Greaney.
I had just gotten my chair into the perfect recline when I heard a very soft splash. It was coming from the pool area. I waited. I heard another very soft sound. Someone was in the pool. I knew it wasn’t Lupita or Juan. They’d already retired for the night. And Jackson was still out and wouldn’t return for at least another hour.
My wheelchair was parked beside my recliner and I pushed myself to standing. I took a moment to check the feeling in my legs. Did they feel weak? Could I get to the window and back without falling? I didn’t want to risk it. I lowered myself into the wheelchair and rolled to the window just to be on the safe side.
I pushed aside the curtain, just a few inches, to peer into the yard. My first glance was at the pool. It was lit up at night, a restful Caribbean shade of ocean blue. It was empty. My gaze swept the citrus trees that circled the pool. I didn’t see anyone. Then my gaze was caught by a movement coming from the hot tub.
There she was. Annabelle Martin. In a tiny scrap of a bathing suit, with a plastic cup sitting on the ledge of the hot tub, while she floated in the hot steaming water with her hair streaming out around her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. It hit me that this was what she’d look like during sex. The thought staggered me. Parts of my body that had been dormant to the point of me thinking they were broken reared to life. My breath was short and I had to close my eyes and try to think of something, anything, else. I thought of taxes and root canals and diarrhea. Nothing helped.
The sight of her, drifting in the steam, looking dreamy and sexy as hell, was now going to be imprinted on my brain forever. Shit!
I would never admit it to Jackson, but in this moment, the way she looked all honey skinned and wet from the water, Goddess was actually the perfect description. I shook my head. I blinked. I tried to rattle reason back into my brain.
This could not stand. I’d given her carefully detailed rules, pages of them. I had specifically said that the pool was for the exclusive use of the homeowner—i.e., me. And yet there she was, flaunting the rules and herself and—dayum!—she was a sight to behold. I was riveted.