Uncensored Passion (Men of Passion) (21 page)

Trey dropped his carry-on, tossed his laptop to the couch, and left the larger piece of luggage in the middle of the floor of his small living room.

He just stood looking around, comparing his sparse, bare-bones, one-bedroom apartment to Kayla’s spacious and opulent home. His feeling of inadequacy deepened.

Not only was he by himself not enough for her physically, but there was no way he could ever give her the kind of lifestyle she was used to. There was no getting around that truth, and it hit him even harder—they were not just worlds apart, they weren’t even in the same solar system.

He went to the kitchen and poured himself a generous shot of scotch, then wandered back into the living room to plop down on the couch, ignoring the ringing of his cell phone for the tenth time. He felt it was probably Sarah calling to let him know that Johnson was demanding another update on his progress.

Sighing, he retrieved the phone from his pocket and checked the number. It was indeed the office, just as he’d suspected. He bit out an expletive, deciding to send in his report when he felt more up to dealing with the fallout.

He wondered if they somehow knew he was back in town. But how could they?

He was too tired to even think anymore. He downed his drink, put the glass in the sink, and went into his bedroom. Kicking off his shoes, he fell across the bed, hoping for the release of sleep, hoping that when he did wake up, he would be able to think more clearly. He needed his wits about him before he approached Johnson.

* * *

J.J. stood outside his father’s house, staring at it, hating it, hating himself for his sudden faltering courage. And that was how he saw it—his father’s house—never
his
home.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door with the key he still had attached to his key ring and stepped inside.

The designer-decorated interior slammed into his consciousness—the cool, orderly detachment a reminder of how disconnected they all were as a family. Everything was meticulously placed to achieve the desired showplace effect in this picture-perfect house that had never really been a home. It held no genuine warmth.

It doesn’t even look lived in
, J.J. thought as he stood looking around. He stared at the few silver-framed photos on the baby grand piano, knowing they had been placed there strategically, just for show, in case some of the Romeros’ fancy society friends came to one of their fancy parties. Evidence that indeed there were three people living there. The famous noted doctor and surgeon who played at being a father, the dutiful socialite who played at being mother, and the disobedient, wayward son.

J.J. was suddenly struck to his core with the stark truth: that there simply was no loving tie that bound them together here in this sterile atmosphere, certainly not the way he had felt bound with Kayla in true love, and with the guys who had taken him into the heart of their lives.

He felt isolated, alone, and naked at that moment, lost in the solitude and deception of his parents’ opulent showplace.

He knew his father was probably at the hospital and his mother was no doubt at some social function, which was the way she spent most of her days, always trying to impress her husband’s friends or acquaintances. And that would be what they were—acquaintances—because J.J. knew Carlos Romero actually had no real friends.

To have friends, you have to know how to be one, and father doesn’t possess that ability.

As he drank in the stark stillness, J.J. was thankful for this quiet reprieve. It gave him the time he needed to prepare himself to face the only thing left to do, the only choice that had been left him.

But can I do it?

His hand was shaking so badly he had trouble disarming the alarm system. Then he went into the den and searched through his father’s desk, retrieving what he needed, his mind racing backward, reliving all the things that had brought him to this moment in time. He felt as though he was standing in the middle of a vacuum, the only sound being his own labored breathing.

Going slowly upstairs, he entered his own room, the room he had known all his life. Yet everything seemed foreign to him. His bed. His desk. His many school trophies on the shelves. All things he knew, but which now didn’t seem familiar and certainly didn’t seem important. He felt completely disassociated. It was like he was intruding in the room of a stranger.

The only thing J.J. was certain of at that moment was that he no longer belonged here and never would again.

And if I don’t belong here or with Kayla and the guys, where do I belong?

The answer came to him, in silent absolute clarity.

Nowhere. I belong nowhere. I don’t even belong on this earth!

If only he could make his parents understand that he needed to be his own man—find his own path.

But there’s no way I will ever be able to get through to them. And I can’t let them ruin Kayla! She doesn’t deserve that. But how can I stop them? Maybe if I make them concentrate solely on me, that will do it.

J.J. sat down on his bed, dropped his head into his cupped hands, and cried.

Why can’t they let me live my life the way I want to? I’d rather be dead than to have to live the way they want me to.

He didn’t hear the downstairs door opening, didn’t know his mother was home until she came into his room and gasped at seeing him.

“J.J.? When did you get home?”

He lifted stricken eyes to hers, seeing her through a mental fog that shrouded his reasoning. He felt torn apart inside as he struggled to comprehend it all.

“What is it?” Rosanna asked, seeing how upset he was, realizing that he didn’t seem to even recognize her. And then she saw the gun in his hand and gasped, “
Dios
! What are you doing with that, J.J.?”

She walked toward him and he lifted the gun and put it to his temple. Rosanna, with an agility she didn’t know she possessed, leaped at him, snatching his hand down and away, twisting at the same time to wring the gun out of his hand.

As J.J. released his hold on the weapon, he plunged into the void of futility, slumping over on his bed sobbing, lost in his misery.

Crying and shaking uncontrollably, Rosanna sat down beside him on the bed, pulled him up, and hugged him.

“Oh, J.J., my beautiful boy, your father just wants what is best for you, as do I. We never meant to make you feel as though you don’t wish to live!”

J.J. was unresponsive. He didn’t speak and for a minute she just held him, rocking back and forth. When she put him back a little way and looked at him, Rosanna saw the vacant look in his eyes.

“J.J., can you hear me? J.J., speak to me!”

When there was still no response from him, Rosanna carefully positioned him on the bed and stood up. Taking the gun with her, she left him curled into a fetal ball and ran downstairs to phone her husband.

When Carlos answered the call, he could barely understand what Rosanna was saying because she was crying so hard. All he heard was J.J. was home and that he had almost committed suicide, that he should come home immediately because she was afraid J.J. had lost all touch with reality, that he was unresponsive.

* * *

J.J. felt completely disconnected, as though his mind was drifting through space, somewhere just out of reach. But yet he felt a strange inner calm that he had never felt before. He wasn’t sure where he was or why he was there, but he wanted to stay in that protected cocoon of nothingness.

He heard someone calling his name, but it was like a wavering echo in his head and he couldn’t make himself answer. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he recalled being escorted from his father’s house and into an ambulance. He vaguely recalled arriving at the hospital and different men asking him questions. But not answering—not acknowledging anything seemed the safest thing to do, and he preferred the quiet in his mind.

He was tired. He just wanted to sleep and continue to drift in that blessed fog of nothingness. So he slept.

* * *

Carlos pulled his Mercedes into the driveway of the St. Thomas Rehabilitation Facility where J.J. had been committed. He parked in the visitors’ parking area and walked slowly toward the entrance, dreading another confrontation with the son who had withdrawn not only from society, but from life itself. His disappointment lay like a weight in his chest as he pushed through the double doors.

For a moment, he wondered if it might have been better for all concerned if Rosanna had not stopped J.J. from pulling that trigger. Because the empty-eyed man he was about to visit was not the vibrant son he had raised, the one who carried all his hopes on his shoulders.

As he made his way to the visitors’ waiting area, Carlos was wondering,
how could a son of mine, blood of my blood, be such a weak-minded pussy?

He shook his head, recalling what the psychiatrist who had initially evaluated and admitted J.J. had said, that J.J. seemed to be choosing to remain mentally distant, that he was comfortable in that safe and quiet world, void of responsibility or accountability.

Dios! Why is God punishing me? Why must I be saddled with such a weak son? He has brought nothing but dishonor to the Romero name! How can I hold my head up before my colleagues, when they know my son is in the equivalent of a mental institution?

* * *

The pounding on the door wouldn’t stop. As he was coming out of his alcohol-induced sleep fog, Trey thought that it was just the echo of his headache before he realized it was actually someone at the door. He wondered why they hadn’t rung the bell instead of repeating that incessant pounding.

He pushed off the bed, glancing at his watch. It was 8:30 p.m.

“Just a damn minute,” he yelled as he reached the front door.

He jerked it open, prepared to curse somebody out, and was shocked to see Sarah Upton there.

“Sarah? What’s wrong? Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

“I did. Several times over a period of ten minutes. I finally decided it must be out of order.”

“How did you know I was even back in town?”

“Your hotel said you’d checked out. I had a feeling you were back when you didn’t answer your phone or check in with your progress report, plus I saw your car parked in its slot downstairs and I remembered that you had driven it to the airport.”

“You should be a detective, Sarah,” Trey said gruffly. “Come in.”

She looked at his rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes, shaking her head. “I can see I woke you. Guess you were so tired you just fell asleep in your clothes, huh?”

“Yeah, I was exhausted and the scotch helped. But that’s all right,” he declared, raking a hand through his hair. “What’s up?”

“A lot. The proverbial shit has hit the fan, Trey. I wanted to let you know before you walked into the firestorm.”

“I’m really in no mood for riddles, Sarah.”

“Well, first of all you can forget your assignment. That has definitely ended.”

“I know that.”

“But I think you don’t know the real reason why.”

“Because I’m done with it. It was a fluff piece of crap that shouldn’t have been investigated to begin with. J.J. is just a kid who is trying to find himself and he took the job as pool boy while he decided what else to do. But I know Johnson is chomping at the bit to fire me and when I report that I found nothing untoward going on, well, that will be it. I’ve accepted that, too.”

“J.J. Romero tried to commit suicide, Trey.”

“What?” Trey felt the blood drain from his face.

“His mother stopped him, but it seems the boy has lost touch with reality. Don’t know the details, other than he’s under psychiatric care. I heard Gavin Johnson talking about it.”

Trey sank to the couch muttering curses, remembering the look on J.J.’s face when they had first met, feeling the burden of guilt for bringing this down on that kid and Kayla.

Dammit, I suspected J.J. was on the edge. Wonder if Kayla knows? She’ll be devastated. Another reason for her to hate me, stirring all this up.

Sarah had been talking, but Trey hadn’t heard most of it. Just enough to know he’d been fired. He tuned back in as she said, “…on top of that, Johnson’s talking about bringing charges against you so you’ll lose your PI license. I’ve got your things from the office. They’re in a box I left in the hallway. Want me to bring it in?”

Shit.
“No. I’ll get it.”

Trey got the box filled with his name plate, a pen set, his personalized stationery and cards, and a picture of him and his buddies from his early days in the Army, and placed it just inside the door. When he turned to face Sarah, she handed him his paycheck.

“Gavin said to tell you not to dare use those cards or the firm’s stationery. Jerk! But there’s something else I want to give you, Trey.”

“What?”

“This.”

She extracted a folder from her oversized purse and handed it to him.

“What is it?”

“It’s the reason Gavin Johnson hates you, Trey. I did that investigating I told you I was going to do and found what he’d been compiling on you. I copied it all and it’s all there in that folder. I think you’ll be surprised when you read it. It explains why he tracked you down and solicited you to join the firm—and why he’s been so intent on destroying you ever since.”

Trey opened the folder and began to read. He was astonished when he realized that Gavin Johnson was Lieutenant Dorri Haines’s uncle.

Reading Gavin’s scribbled notes, filled with the venom of someone seeking revenge, he finally understood. The man blamed him for her death. He thought he had just sat back like a coward and ordered her to go out and try to talk the terrorist down, that she had lost her life being heroic while he had lived and taken the credit for the completed mission.

Sarah said, “I didn’t believe a word of that, Trey, when I read it, because I know you better than that. And now I know what really happened over there.”