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I shake my head again, not buying it.
Sure, this place is a shithole, but it’s intentional. I know for a fact he’s one of the richest men in Garden City. And he stays rich by looking so poor.
In his type of business, if he flaunted his wealth he would be quickly parted from it.
His face growing redder and his words angrier, Mickey insists, “I’m serious, Eden. I’ve been wiped out. That job with your dad—”
“Don’t!” I nearly shout to stop his excuse.
Abel freezes in my lap and my eyes start to burn with tears.
When Abel starts to cry, I’m tempted to start crying with him.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, I bend forward and press my forehead against Abel’s. Trying to get my shit together.
Trying not to fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper after a few moments, feeling like an utter piece of shit for upsetting him.
Kissing Abel’s head, I stroke his hair a few times then hug him to my chest.
Looking at Mickey over Abel’s head, I say quietly, “Don’t use my dad as an excuse.”
His death can’t be the reason for everything wrong in my life.
It can’t.
Uncle Mickey lets out yet another heavy sigh then nods his head. He looks down at the cash he left on the table until Abel settles down again.
Then he wipes a hand down his face and says, “Fuck, Eden. I don’t know what to do. I want to help you, believe me, I do. But that’s all I have to my name.”
I shake my head, still not believing him.
Mickey throws his hands up in the air. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to prove it to you? Do you want to see my bank accounts? They’re fucking empty! They fucking emptied them out forreparationswhen… Fuck!”
I calmly watch him reach for his cigar only to pull back and shout, “Where’s that fucking scotch?!”
The bald man bursts through the door so quickly I swear he was standing right outside it, listening in.
“Right here, boss!” he says and carries a tray over to my uncle.
“’Bout fucking time,” Mickey grumbles and snatches the glass off the tray.
The bald man watches Mickey throw his head back and down the glass in one gulp. Then he nudges the tray at him.
Licking his lips, my uncle glares at his empty glass before he notices the tray. Giving a grunt of approval, he drops the empty glass on the tray and picks up a fresh one.
“You’re a good man, Stewart,” my uncle says.
Smiling with pleasure, the bald man walks over to me.
Lowering the tray for me, Stewart offers me a glass of champagne and a glass of milk.
His voice soft with a touch of embarrassment, he says, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what the little one can have.”
Given my current mood, it’s on the tip of my tongue to say he certainly can’t have champagne.
But this man has done nothing to me.
