room across the hall from hers and let the tears slip past the dam she’d constructed to keep them back.
Gabe had said he’d help her, but she’d never ask him for it. How could she? He’d left her when she’d needed him the most and never looked back. Just like her father had left her and Momma.
God, what will I do?
* * * *
Gabe lifted the bottle of water to his lips and stared out the French doors of the kitchen in his Nashville home. The late Wednesday morning sun sparkled on the pool in the center of his enclosed, professionally landscaped backyard. For a brief moment, he considered completing his morning workout by taking a dive into the heated, crystalline water. When was the last time he’d swam in the pool?
He’d returned to Nashville four days ago and had gone to a meeting with several bigwigs from his record company. They were confident he would sweep the Country Music Awards in early November. His album was sitting on top of the charts, with the first three singles blasting to the top of the country charts within weeks of their releases. Sales of his first and third records were climbing into the double-platinum range. Even profits from his disastrous, self-produced second album were on the rise. His concerts were all sold out, and his agent was booking bigger venues next year.
The executives wanted to put together a live version of his current album. Recording was to happen at his last two shows of the tour--Cheyenne, Wyoming, on Friday night and Dallas, Texas, in early October. Tomorrow morning he was flying out to Cheyenne.
He lifted the bottle to his lips to drink again and made his way toward the front of his home into the great room. Why wasn’t he more excited? Just a couple of weeks ago this was what he worked and sweated for. Now all he could think about was the cornflower-blue eyes of a woman who’d broken his heart and the little brother he loved with all of his heart.
He wanted to go west, but Wyoming wasn’t the place. Jesse was safe and happy with Michaela and her mother, but he was worried about him. Tom Fleming had secured temporary guardianship of Jesse for Michaela and him, but for how long wasn’t specified. Lemont hadn’t given up; that he was sure of. Leaving the little boy behind had been hard, but he couldn’t stay any longer.
When his cell phone rang, he set his empty bottle on a marble-topped table next to a black leather couch and picked up the iPhone. He glanced at the ID, frowned, and connected the call. “Michaela?”
“Gabe! They took him.” Micki’s voice was borderline hysterical.
“Who took whom? Jesse?”
“Yes! That witch in heels and pinstripes came here ten minutes ago and served me papers that said our guardianship of Jesse was revoked. Lemont petitioned the court and is going to adopt him.”
“Fuck!” He stood straighter and tightened his hold on his phone. He had to work at unlocking his jaw to bite out, “Has Tom contacted you?”
“Yes! He said DFPS sent you a letter.”
He glanced at the pile of mail he’d put on the large table in the center of the dining area. The sleek chrome and glass table with its eight black leather captain chairs had never been used, except to be a place for the mail he collected every morning he arrived home after his five-mile run.
He bounded up the step past a stone pillar supporting the loft above. When he reached the pile on the table, he started flipping through the junk and bills he’d brought in that morning. His assistant stopped by and collected the bills to pay every couple days and threw away the junk mail.
“Gabe, are you still there?”
“Yes. I’m checking to see if they sent me a letter.” His stomach ached when he finally found the letter from the Texas Department of Family Protective Services. “I have it.”
“What’s it say? Don’t you know? How long have you had it?”
He stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders at the accusation in her rapid-fire questions. Annoyed at
Learning to Kill: Stories