Betrayal Page 3

  “That’s very shrewd of you, Ian,” he murmured, his voice infused with something akin to pride. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “Considering I lost a scholarship and a potential pro contract, I’d say you’ll be getting off pretty damn easy.”

  He grabbed a pen and met my gaze. “Give me a number.”

  I hesitated, knowing I was selling a piece of my soul and putting a price on my silence. “Three hundred should do it.”

  “Three hundred thousand dollars?” he fumed. “Are you insane?”

  “Three years rent and utilities, two years of undergrad tuition and an MBA for me, and any miscellaneous fees not covered by Finn’s scholarship after he transfers.” The corners of my mouth twitched at his distress. “I fully intend to get a job after I move. I just want to make it a little easier for us to get settled.”

  “I don’t have that much capital sitting around. Everything’s tied up in stocks and mutual funds.”

  I sat back and crossed my arms. “We can do a pay-as-you-go arrangement, but I need a guarantee you won’t back out.”

  “I could have papers drawn up and have them notarized if that would make you feel better.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Or we can just tell Mom you’re financing our move. She’ll think you’re being generous.” I leaned forward slightly as I moved in for the kill. “You’d have a hard time explaining why you cut us off if you ever miss a payment.”

  His brows lifted. “You would willingly drag your mother into this?”

  “I don’t want to, but I’m afraid I can’t trust you. Mom is my guarantee. Because you know what will happen if she ever leaves you.” I felt dirty as hell using her in that way, but even as despicable as Connor was, he would never reveal that ugliness to my mother. Part of him still loved her deeply.

  Dad sagged in his chair. Not only would he lose my mother if he broke his word, but he would lose her money as well. Mom came from money—old money, and lots of it. She didn’t act like it, and neither had her parents, but it was there, the backing Connor had siphoned to fund his various political pursuits after his own family’s coffers ran dry. It would be a massive hit if he ever lost it.

  “Fine. I’ll open an account at the bank of your choice and fund it for three years. Whatever you need.” He stood and offered his hand. I rose opposite him and took it. “But I expect both of you to be employed within the first year—at least part-time, since you’ll both be in school—or the deal’s off. By the beginning of year three, I want you to be self-sufficient. The remaining funds can be the start of your savings. You and Finley can work that out.”

  “Deal.”

  He released my hand, and I turned to go. “Ian...” he began, his voice carried the barest hint of remorse. “I’m truly sorry about baseball. I—” He released a heavy sigh. “I know how much it meant to you.”

  I didn’t face him. I couldn’t. Anger was all I had at that moment, and if I saw genuine emotion in his eyes, I’d lose more than I already had. I’d willingly sold my soul to the devil, but I’d be damned if I gave him a piece of my heart.

  “I wish you had felt that way eight weeks ago. Maybe if you had, we wouldn’t be here now.”

  With that, I walked out, toward my new future.

  Chapter Four

  Eight Months Later...

  I’d always known Finn was gay. So had Mom and Mason. Even Dad knew it—he just wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t. A gay son didn’t fit within the family legacy and wouldn’t allow his bloodline to continue. Or so he believed.

  Shortly after we relocated, Finn decided to come out—to me, at least. He was terrified when he brought it up, as if he thought I would kick him out on his ass for his sexual orientation. Instead, I supported him. When I looked at Finn, I saw family. I saw my first best friend. That was it. He was my brother, and nothing else mattered to me.

  Unfortunately, like most young males, Finn was reckless in matters of the heart, and things went to shit by summer. The semester was over, and final exams were behind us. Finn went out to celebrate with friends, leaving me to enjoy a quiet evening of baseball and beer. I was in heaven. At least, until Finn came home. He arrived during the seventh-inning stretch, and I knew immediately that something was wrong. His posture had turned inward, his shoulders hunched, and the corners of his mouth curved down. It was a drastic change from the jubilant expression he wore when he left earlier in the evening.

  “You okay, dude?”

  “I think I fucked up.” He shook his head and sighed. “No, I know I fucked up. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  I clicked off the television and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. “What’s up?”

  He dropped beside me on the sofa and rested his forearms on his knees. “I’ve been seeing someone ... for a while now.”

  “Okay.” I turned toward him. “For how long?”

  “Six months, I guess.”

  “So why do you think you fucked up?” I shrugged. “You’re allowed to date, you know.”

  His face paled, and he licked his lips. “Even if he’s my tennis coach?”

  “Fuuuuck.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I love him—and he loves me.”

  I mimicked his posture and tented my hands in front of my face. “Finn...”

  “What?” He pushed to his feet and propped his hands on his hips. “I didn’t plan it, or anything. It just happened.”

  “Fine. Don’t get so defensive.” I held my palms facing him. “So, what happened tonight?”

  “I didn’t meet up with friends. I went to see him.” Finn’s eyes squeezed shut. “He told me that his wife found out about us.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ.” I pressed the heel of my hand to my brow. “This is bad, Finn.”

  He collapsed onto the sofa again. “What am I gonna do? I just want to be with him.”

  “Dude, you know that can’t happen.” I counted the reasons with my fingers. “One, he’s your coach. You’re barely twenty, and he should have known better than to start anything with a student. Two, if his wife decides to go public, he’s fucked. You may be, too. Three, and I hate to even mention it, but what do you think is gonna happen when Mom and Dad find out?”

  “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” he asked, eyes wide.

  “Of course not, but shit like this doesn’t stay quiet for long. Besides, whether we like it or not, Connor Walsh is our father. Do you think that won’t gain traction if this gets out? He’s a fucking county judge.” I paused. “A well-connected county judge. Shit is gonna hit the fan, Finn.”

  Tears filled his eyes, and he dropped his chin. “I screwed it all up. It’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “This wouldn’t happen if I were straight.”

  I draped my arm around his shoulders and pulled him against me. “Stop that. Straight or gay doesn’t matter. Did you make a bad decision? Yes, but that’s the only mistake you’ve made. Ultimately, he’s the adult. The majority of the fault lies with him. He chose to act on feelings he had for a student. Do you get that? You’re just a kid, for God’s sake.”

  His head tilted toward me. “You know that’s not how Dad will see it. As far as he’s concerned, it’ll be my fault because I’m gay. I did this. That’s all he’ll care about.”

  “Let me worry about Dad. You need to play it cool. Maybe his wife will keep her mouth shut.” I squeezed tighter. “But you have to keep your distance. Stay away from him. No calls. No texts. Understand me?”

  He swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Go get some sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning and figure shit out.”

  He nodded again and heaved to his feet. His gait was unsteady, and his shoulders jerked with mute sobs as he stumbled to his room. I didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did, but I didn’t want to sugar coat it either. Shit was about to get real.

  The threat of Coach Johnson’s wife going public hung over us like a dark cloud
. I had decided the best course of action was to live as though nothing had happened. That was my mistake. I should have known better than to believe it would just go away.

  Three days after Finn told me about the affair, it was all over the news. The media painted Coach Johnson as a predator and Finn as the innocent victim. That was true, from a certain point of view, but it didn’t ease Finn’s burden of guilt. Nothing I said changed his mind about the role he played in the relationship. He grew more despondent every day, retreating within himself and rarely leaving his room.

  To make matters worse, the inevitable happened—our father heard about it. The first thing he did was call Finn, demanding an explanation. Then he called me. Ultimately Dad did the same thing he always did—he threw money at the problem and paid Johnson’s wife to shut up. Coach resigned from the college, and things quieted down.

  For a while.

  True to my word, I got a job within a few months of moving. I was waiting tables at a high-end restaurant and making bank in tips. Unfortunately, that meant I couldn’t be home with Finn as much as I would have liked. I wasn’t crazy about leaving him alone, but there was no other choice.

  A few weeks after the scandal broke, I came home one Saturday night several hundred dollars richer in tips. It had been a good night. The first thing I noticed when I walked through the door was how quiet and still the apartment was. Finn’s car had been parked in its usual spot, so I knew he was home. There should have been some sign of life, but it was eerily quiet.

  “Finn?” I called, tossing my keys on the counter. They made a harsh, metallic clang that echoed through the kitchen and living area. I sifted through the short stack of mail and called for him again. “Finn?”

  Still nothing. A sense of dread filled me, and my pulse pounded in my ears. Something was off. I rounded the kitchen and headed toward the bedrooms. Finn had insisted I take the master with a private bathroom, and he took the smaller room that accessed the bath immediately behind the kitchen.

  The door stood open and light spilled into the hallway. I stepped into the light, and time stopped. Finn was in the tub, the water bright red.

  “No. No, no, no, no, no,” I begged, skidding across the floor to his side. “No, Finn,” I panted. “Shit. Why, buddy?” I plunged my hands into the water, hooking them under his arms, and dragged him out of the tub. “Finn...” Tears streamed from my eyes as I settled him on the floor. Blood was still flowing from his wrists, so I grabbed a towel and applied pressure to the wounds to slow the bleeding. “Finn,” I yelled, smacking his face. “Finn ... can you hear me?”

  He didn’t answer, though I wasn’t sure what I expected. I dug my phone out of my back pocket and frantically dialed 9-1-1.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “We need an ambulance. My brother...” I panted. “My brother cut his wrists. We need help.”

  “Can you confirm your address for me, please?”

  “The Noble Park apartments. 17250 Knoll Trail Drive. Number 1189.”

  “I’ve dispatched an ambulance, sir. They should be there in about five minutes.”

  “Jesus ... there’s so much blood.”

  “Sir, is your brother conscious?”

  “No. He won’t respond.”

  “Can you feel a pulse?”

  My fingers probed his neck, and I held my breath.

  One second.

  Two.

  Beat.

  Pause.

  Breathe.

  Beat.

  Pause.

  Breathe.

  Beat.

  “Thank God,” I sighed. “Yes. It’s weak, but he has a pulse.” Before the dispatcher could respond, there was a loud bang on the door. “I think the ambulance is here. Thank you.”

  I sprinted to the door and directed the paramedics to the bathroom. My adrenaline was through the roof as I paced the hallway, hovering, trying to decipher everything they said while they stabilized Finn. The ride to the hospital was brief but excruciating while I answered health questions and watched them turn my brother into a science experiment with IVs, monitors, and an oxygen mask.

  He still hadn’t regained consciousness by the time we arrived, and I knew I had to call Mom. The paramedics rushed Finn into the ER, leaving me with nothing to do but wait. Before I could chicken out, I dialed Mom’s number. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, sweet. Is everything okay?”

  “Mom,” I croaked. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and I broke down. “Finn...”

  “Ian, what’s wrong?”

  Words came out of me in a rush. “You gotta come. We need you. I need you. It’s bad.”

  “Ian, take a breath and tell me what happened.”

  I didn’t know how she could sound so calm when I was going out of my mind. “Finn hurt himself tonight. I found him when I got home from work.”

  “What did he do?” she demanded, panic flooding her voice. “Is he okay?”

  “We’re at the hospital now. I—” I took a deep breath and let it out. “He slit his wrists. He’s still alive, but I don’t know anything else.”

  She released a whimper. “What hospital?”

  “Methodist.”

  “Ian, listen to me. I want you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “I’m going to get on the first available flight, and I will be there as quickly as I can.”

  “Mom...” I paused. “Please hurry.”

  “Stay calm, Ian. I’m on my way.”

  It was just shy of one in the morning when Mom arrived at the hospital. I knew I looked like shit. The sleeves of my white shirt were stained pink from when I hoisted Finn from the tub. Blood was smeared across my chest, and most likely, my face, too. I’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours, so I was sure my eyes were bloodshot as well. Mom didn’t care. She marched into the waiting room and wrapped me in her arms.

  “How’s Finn?”

  I shook my head and folded my arms around her. “He pierced the artery on both wrists, and they had to operate. I’m still waiting to hear something.”

  Mom stroked my back a few times, kissed me on the cheek, and released me before striding to the nurse’s desk. I trailed behind her. “Excuse me.”

  The nurse looked up from her paperwork. “How can I help?”

  “I’m Virginia Walsh. My son, Finn, was brought in earlier. I need to know his condition, please.”

  “His name?”

  “She just told you,” I spat. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “Ian, enough,” Mom scolded, then returned her attention to the nurse. “His name is Finn—Finley—Walsh. He slit his wrists.”

  Nodding, the nurse punched a few keys on her keyboard. “It says here he’s in recovery now.”

  Before she could say more, the automatic door to the patient area swung open and a doctor stepped through the opening, clipboard in hand. “Walsh family?”

  “Yeah. That’s us,” I called, already moving closer to him.

  The man was tall and bulky, like he should have been a bodybuilder rather than a doctor. He was imposing, even wearing scrubs and a dorky surgical hat. He extended his hand when he reached us. “I’m Dr. Ramirez. I’m the surgeon who took care of Finn.”

  Mom was all business. “I’m his mother, Virginia.” She gestured to me. “This is my oldest son, Ian.”

  Dr. Ramirez shook our hands. “Are you the one who found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s sit,” he said, motioning to the nearest grouping of chairs.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “Please...” He sat, and indicated we do the same.

  “I was able to repair the damage to one of his radial arteries but had to ligate—tie off—the other. I couldn’t tell what he used to cut himself, but he did some real damage. He’s extremely lucky you found him when you did. Another ten minutes, and we wouldn’t have been able to save him.”

  The air r
ushed from my lungs, and I slumped in my chair.

  “He’s stable and in recovery now. We’re going to keep him for a few days.” He glanced at his clipboard. “Did you know he had almost eighty milligrams of hydrocodone in his system?”

  Mom and I spoke in unison. “What?”

  “Do you know how he would have access to that?”

  The blood drained from my face. “That was mine.” I pointed to my right arm. “I was in a pretty bad car accident last summer. The doctor prescribed that after the surgery on my arm and shoulder.” I shook my head. “I never finished the bottle.”

  “How long does he have to stay here?” Mom asked.

  “We’ll move him to a room as soon as he wakes up. Once he’s coherent, we’ll do a psychiatric evaluation. Those results will determine if he can go home or if he’ll need to be moved to a psych hospital for further treatment.”

  I leaned forward, my jaw clenched. “My brother doesn’t deserve to be committed,” I growled.

  “I’m sorry—Ian, was it?” I nodded. “His actions say otherwise. I have to consider more than his physical health before I can release him. Do you have any idea why he would want to take his own life?”

  I damn sure wasn’t about to air our dirty laundry in front of a stranger. “He went through a rather painful break up recently. I thought he was dealing with it.” Mom rested her hand on my knee and gave me a gentle pat. “If I had known he’d try this...”

  “That’s why it’s imperative we assess his state of mind. This was more than just a cry for help. Slitting his wrists and the overdose tell me he wanted to die. Fortunately, you intervened before that happened, but I cannot, in good conscience—or ethically speaking—release him from care until we’re confident that he won’t try again.”

  “When can I see my son?” Mom asked, her voice harsh and infused with impatience.

  “I’ll go check on him and have a nurse fetch you once he’s settled in a room.”

  Mom rested an arm around my shoulders as we watched him leave. “Mom, I had no idea. I swear.”