“Like the jar? No thanks.”
Boone just grins behind her like a big dumb loon. Never thought I’d see the day that my mule-stubborn brother would let a little blonde waltz all over him, but he does. I bet this baby’s gonna have some trendy, crappy name like Juniper or Pastel or some shit. “Ford?” I suggest.
“Like the car?”
“Good, solid car.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Ivy finishes messin’ with my hair and then runs the lint brush over my jacket. “All right. You look good. Are the wreaths in the cars? Everyone have umbrellas?”
“We have hats,” Seth says, a bit of sulk in my youngest brother’s tone.
“Umbrellas,” Ivy repeats firmly. “This is a funeral, not a bowling alley.” She fusses with the string of pearls at her neck, looking worried. “I want you to look the part. Everyone’s going to be focused on the fact that the Price family is showing up—”
“We look good, baby girl,” Boone says, moving to press a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “They’re just giving you shit. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
Ivy gives him a smile, reassured by his calm words. I wish I was so easily placated. The knot’s back in my stomach and growing. Ain’t no avoiding this. Eddie deserves a good send-off, and we’ll be there. I just wish . . .
Fuck, I don’t know what I wish.
***
The funeral’s a good one, I guess. I’ve only been to two, but compared to my father’s funeral, this one’s done right. Eddie’s in the most expensive coffin that Price money can buy, since he died working on one of our rigs. There are flowers and wreaths all over the small chapel, and a shit ton more at the graveside. The service is nice and decently attended, and I try not to look at Eddie’s widow and the three little boys she has sitting on the pew next to her. If I do, that knot in my stomach just grows and grows.
Eddie was too old to be roughnecking. Well, not too old. Too broken and too slow. It’s a young man’s job, and Eddie was pushing 45. He just didn’t have the moves he used to, and when equipment snaps—like it did this last week—you have to move fast. The good news is that when the pipe tripped and hit him, it hit him in the head. Never felt a thing. Just snapped his neck like a potato chip and boom, no more Eddie. I guess if you have to go, that’s a good way to go. I wiggle my foot in my shoe, feeling the gap where my two missing toes are. When I lost them on a rig accident, it fucking hurt like hell and I bled like a stuck pig. But Eddie would have gone instantly. One minute there, the next, gone. The world is minus one Eddie Murteen in the blink of an eye.
I worshipped Eddie as a teen. He was a great guy. Worked with me when I started on my first rig, just a shitty kid with a chip on his shoulder and a broken heart. Bought me a beer when my dad died and I couldn’t sack up enough to stop crying, even on the job. He was mentor and friend to both me and Boone, and when Price Brothers Oil hit it big, we gave him work. He’s not great at what he does, but he’s loyal as hell. That counts for a lot.
Guess that should be past tense, now. My gut churns again. I glance over and Ivy’s rubbing the widow’s back while Boone talks. I know what he’s telling her. PBO is gonna cover the funeral expenses and make sure she has a pension. The good thing about being rich is you can throw money at people and it makes it seem like everything’s gonna be okay. Except it doesn’t feel like it’s okay. It just feels shitty and this knot in my stomach won’t go away.
Someone sits down next to me. Even though most of the family and friends are getting up to go to the wake, I can’t quite pull myself out of my seat. I’m staring up at the altar, at the front of the church where the coffin was a short time ago. Eddie’s gone, six feet under. Shit, that’s a mindfuck. I rub my mouth and look over at the person next to me—it’s Knox, my younger brother. “What do you want?”
“You look like you’re gonna puke,” Knox comments, picking up a Bible from the back of one of the pews and flipping through it.
I snatch it out of his hand and put it back.
“I wasn’t gonna take it,” he says, but it’s clear he’s amused by my actions. “You’re in a shit mood.”
“It’s a fuckin’ funeral.”
“Yeah, but you usually crack jokes no matter what.” He lifts his chin at me. “And you still look like you’re about to upchuck. What gives?”
He’s a jerk, my little bro, but he’s a jerk with good instincts. I cross my arms and shrug, sliding down in my seat like I’m a little kid instead of a grown-ass man. “Just . . . fuck. Reminds me of Dad’s funeral from back in the day. Don’t it to you?”
Knox considers, then shakes his head slowly. “Nah.” He gestures at the front. “Lots of flowers. Dad didn’t have none.” He indicates the widow and her kids with another sweep of his hand. “Got family here that grieve him. Dad just had us. All his lady-friends didn’t show up.” He glances over at me. “And the company men are paying the expenses. So no, it ain’t much like Dad’s funeral.”
I hate that he’s right. I hate that our dad got buried in a cheap-ass coffin at an empty funeral. I hate that he didn’t matter to no one but us. Even after all this time, it still burns in my belly.
“Dad was a piece of shit, though,” Knox says. “I know what you’re thinking. That when you pass, you should be surrounded by loved ones, but Dad was a user. I mean, look at me and Gage.” He smiles thinly.
Yeah, I know what he means. Knox and Gage were born two months apart, two completely different moms. Dad was married to my mom at the time. He wasn’t a good guy, but damn. We all deserve someone that’s gonna love us until the end, don’t we? “I guess I’m just thinkin’ life is short, you know? Eddie was in his forties. Should have had a lot of good years ahead of him.” I nod at the three boys at the front. “See them graduate from college and all.”
“Mmm. So this isn’t about Dad. This is about regrets, huh?” Knox leans back and puts an arm on the back of the pew, and for a moment he looks wise beyond his years.
Is this about regrets, then? Is that burning fireball in my stomach because I’m picturing what my own funeral would be like? That I’m not imagining anything but a few employees and my brothers? I try to picture Natalie here, but yeah right. Her ass wouldn’t be here if wild horses dragged her.
The thought’s fucking depressing—both in that Natalie is disgusted by me, and that I’m still hung up on her after all these years. I must be an idiot. “You’re wrong,” I tell Knox. “I’m good.”
He ignores me, tilting his head. “So what is it you want out of life? Money? Success? You already have both.” He nods over to Ivy and Boone. Our brother has his hand on the small of Ivy’s back, and he’s gazing down at her as she speaks like pearls are dropping out of her damn mouth. Boone’s totally fucking besotted. It’d be funny if I wasn’t so fucking jealous. Not of him and Ivy—they’re perfect together. I just . . . I rub my jaw again, feeling the bristles of my beard. I haven’t looked at anyone like that since . . .
Goddamn it. That’s twice now I’ve thought of Natalie in the same day. Must be getting moody. “Dunno what I want. Ain’t this, that’s for sure.”
“No one wants this,” Knox says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But it comes for all of us in the end. Question is, you gonna end up in that box with regrets?”
The knot in my gut returns. “Maybe.”
“That’s your problem,” my wise little brother says. He wags a finger at me like he’s scolding a child. “You ain’t ruthless.”
“Huh?” I squint at him like he’s crazy.
“You’re the nice one, Clay.”
“I am?”
Knox nods sagely. “You’re the one everyone goes to when Boone needs softening up. You’re the one everyone looks to for a laugh, or to smooth things over. Everyone’s friend. You don’t know how to be ruthless. You’re so busy making sure everyone else is happy and smiling that you don’t go after what you want.
”
Is that who I am? Just a happy go lucky piece of shit whose miserable on the inside? I don’t think that’s me, but then again, this ache in my belly might be telling me otherwise. I look over at Boone and Ivy. She’s got her head on his shoulder, and I know when they leave here, he’s probably gonna rub her feet or rub her belly or, hell, just rub her all over. And she’ll fuss over him and they’ll end up doing it on the sofa in foyer and someone will catch ’em. Again. And they’ll just laugh like it’s funny and Ivy will blush, and they both won’t be able to stop smiling.
They’re so goddamn happy.
I look over at the widow and her boys. She’s herding them out of the building, tears streaking her face. She’s sobbed through the entire ceremony. Loved Eddie to pieces.
And I think of Nat again. Nat, and the way she curled her lip at me the last time I saw her. Nat, and how she told me I wasn’t good enough for her. Nat, who chose her daddy and her family name over me, when I would have given her the moon if I’d have had two nickels to rub together.
Nat, who I still jerk off to, because I’m a sick son of a bitch with a massive hang-up.
“Gotta be ruthless,” Knox says. “That’s the only way you’re gonna get what you want.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time I nut up and use some of this ridiculous money and be ridiculous with it. I glance over at Boone again. He threw around all kinds of money to push Ivy into dating him. Maybe I need to throw my weight around and act like the big man. Buy my way into the heart of the girl I always wanted but I could never have.
And then, once I’ve bought her heart, I can hold it in my hand and decide if I want to crush it or keep it.
Gotta be ruthless, after all.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jessica Clare writes under three pen names. As Jessica Clare, she writes erotic contemporary romances, including the Billionaire Boys Club novels and the Hitman novels with Jen Frederick. As Jessica Sims, she writes fun, sexy shifter paranormals, and as Jill Myles, she writes a little bit of everything, from sexy, comedic urban fantasy to fairy tales gone wrong.
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Jessica Clare, Dirty Money
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