It'll Cost You Your Head

By Kristine Johnson

He just hit rock-bottom, but his ascent back to the light could be fatal…

Jack doesn't do life sober. But when he's robbed and is subsequently charged with his third DUI, the drug-dealing Air Force dropout finds himself staring at mandatory recovery meetings. After his crooked lawyer swindles him out of his entire retainer, the suddenly broke criminal plots to avenge himself by sleeping with the attorney's recovering alcoholic trophy wife.

Meeting the lovely kept-woman at his court-ordered support group, Jack lures her to a café for poetry and romance. But when the jaded underachiever realizes he's fallen in love, he may be in over his head against her abusive and well-connected husband.

Can Jack ride to the rescue of his battered beauty, or is this a deadly tilt against windmills?

It'll Cost You Your Head is a gritty domestic thriller. If you like suspenseful vengeance plots, chances at redemption, and heroes too smart for their own good, then you'll adore Kristine Johnson's gripping page-turner.

Purchase your copy of It'll Cost You Your Head for a wicked good time!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristine Johnson
• Release date: Sep 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201200411

Kristine Johnson

Kristine Johnson is an author living in Las Vegas, Nevada, with her two snow-white Pomeranians. She was a court reporter for over twenty-five years, the majority of that time was spent in Las Vegas in District Court. She came of age working for the Honorable Thomas A. Foley, beginning in 1988, writing the Valley’s murder, mayhem, and its worst civil nightmares. After his passing, Kristine worked for various judges and did civil litigation deposition work until 2007, when she retired. Since then, she has written the book Certified, a court stenographer’s reportage of a domestic violence murder trial. Happy Birthday, Love Mommy is a chilling short story with a happy ending. Both are available on Amazon. It’ll Cost You Your Head is her second novel, a romantic domestic thriller. Her coming work is based in Colorado, where she spent four years doing research for the summers. You can view her writing at www.kristiculation.com, along with photographs, ancestry, and other facts about Kristine.

Book preview

Prologue

Dave Marks, Esquire, came dripping from the shower and stood behind Che, his wife, while she was applying makeup at her antique vanity. They were both preparing for their son’s baptism. She had been going to the gym for four months, and she had her pre-baby body nearly back, two babies now and still not one stretch mark. Good old mineral oil and cocoa butter. Though she had been up at five, first to bathe and then to nurse Jeremy, her breasts still had some milk. She had been giving him rice cereal in the evening so he would sleep through the nights and had supplemented his breakfast so he wouldn’t get cranky during his baptism, Chrismation, and Holy Communion that morning. They were Byzantine Catholics, and their babies received all the mysteries at once. It was to be a long ceremony, exorcism included.

She was only in a panty, nursing bra, and a sky-blue, baby-doll robe. Dave slipped her robe off, unhooked her bra, and removed it. Her dark hair was long and soft. The large curls she had just ironed in were luxurious. They felt like crushed velvet. He could not resist.

He cupped solid triple C’s, approaching D’s, in his hands. He leaned forward and tasted his son’s milk... so sweet. Then Dave wiggled his towel from his hips and pressed his erection into and through her hair, parting it, moaning a little, Come back to bed with me, Mrs. Marks, he said, through his own freestyle hairdressing attempts in the early morning light. Her hair felt like crushed velvet. When the baby stops nursing, what do you say we get double D’s, sweetheart? A little present for me? We’ll be all done with babies. Frankie’s wife had hers done when she was finished having kids.

She also had her nose and her face done. Did you notice? She barely looks human. Che went from feeling aroused to feeling nauseated, and she didn’t want her clean hair to smell like Dave’s genitals to the priest. 

Can you just help me get the kids ready, Dave? Che said, and she stood, shaking him off her, dabbing at her breasts with tissues, then replacing her bra. She put on her baby-doll robe and spritzed Gautier perfume through her hair. 

Won’t you at least think about it, babe?

What, paying one man to take a knife to my breasts to please you and other men? No, I think not. She clipped out of the bedroom.

Dave followed her into the nursery where he almost bumped into the scaffold for the mural being painted of Peter Pan and his Lost Boys in Neverland. Disappearing boys made Dave’s skin crawl. It made Dave shudder every time he saw it. Their son had come home on an apnea monitor and still quit breathing up to twenty to thirty times a day. Che had him and their daughter by Cesarean, because of her tiny pelvis. But the baby’s cord had still been damaged, and hence his uncooperative medulla oblongata. That’s how you get a perfectly healthy baby boy who forgets to breathe ... morbid fucking mural, Dave thought. 

Dave had a gift in his hand he had plucked from his valet after he had put on his own robe. 

By the way, Frankie sent this for the baby. He didn’t want you to open it at the party.

Why not? She reached for the package and was surprised at its weight. What is it, the tomes of St. Augustine bound in what—lead? 

Their daughter Mary Madonna Marks hopped out of her Secret Garden side of the nursery and grabbed her daddy’s hand, Take me potty, Daddy.

Open it carefully, Mommy. He said. 

Che carefully unwrapped the elegant paper with embossed angels. She opened the black and gold box. Inside was a small .22 caliber antique pistol with the Mother of God painted on mother of pearl grips. A matching antique rosary swaddled itself around the small weapon with biwa pearls. Che was horrified. A small card was inside. Printed upon it was the message: To Jeremy Franklin Marks, From your Uncle Frank, on your baptism. Che fumbled the items in her hands and dropped the box on the hardwood floor, and the weapon went off. Che froze. The infant screamed. His father came running. As the gunshot resonated, Che thought, Don’t punish me today, God. Don’t take my son BEFORE his baptism. Don’t You Dare hurt him. Don’t let Dave find out today.

Chapter 1

Three years later, it was the sleepy-purple twilight of dusk in the desert, and a full moon was rising. Jack Bettencort walked out the back door of his plush condo on the way to his garage. Courtney, the hot young woman he’d been sleeping with for several weeks, followed him, when halfway through the walkway leading from the house, he heard a noise and turned. He saw his bedmate lift her hands as if in surrender. The hair rose on the nape of his neck when he noticed a pool of liquid forming around Courtney’s feet. Urine ran down her long-tanned legs. Her shorts with the silky sunflowers were wet.

Walk back here, said a man stepping out from the corner where he had been hidden. Jack did as commanded. You two, give me all your jewelry. The man had a Glock pointed in Courtney’s face. 

Fuck! This asshole sounds like a kid. Jack removed the sparse jewelry he had on and handed it to the male in the ski mask, as did a trembling Courtney. Here we go. I am being robbed. Again. They all entered the condo.

Face down on the ground, the masked man said to Courtney. She obeyed. He knelt on her back with one knee and shakily shoved the gun’s muzzle against her the back of her head. Jack feared he might pull the trigger accidently and rob the girl of her face instead.                                          

Now give me your cash. He looked squarely at Jack.

You’re robbing the wrong person, friend.

The fuck I am. I paid a lot of money for this information, and I haven’t been wrong yet. I want your cash now.

You’re scaring the girl. Point the gun at me. Money’s in the house.

The gunman jabbed the pistol into the girl harder. Don’t move or you’re dead. He said, now pointing the gun at Jack. 

Inside, Jack began to meander toward a gun he had hidden in the couch. 

I know where you play cards Friday nights, ya’ stupid fuck. Give me your money.

Okay. He knows I have what he wants. Now what? 

Stop moving! I said, give me your money now or the girl dies, and you’ll be next.  Where’s the cash?

Jack knew Courtney was scared shitless. Fuck, Jack was unnerved too. Enough is enough. I have four kilos in my safe. I Can recover from this financially. He just needs money. He didn’t come for my life.

The dough’s on the kitchen counter. The masked man shoved Jack into the kitchen, and there it was, all of Jack’s cash—seventeen grand and change. Jack had intended to make an extensive buy of hallucinogens, including mescaline and magic mushrooms that very night.

Who fucked me and opened their mouth about this buy? Probably Rico and his big-mouthed buddies. Shit. I would have had enough for my own Burning Man. 

Take the money. Just take it and get out of my house. This is your exit. Nobody wants to hurt anybody. Hey, listen, this is a nice haul for a short day’s work. Why don’t you let the girl keep her jewelry. By the time you pawn it, it’s not worth much to you. Will you let her keep it?

After collecting the cash, the gunman began backing out of the kitchen, still pointing the Glock. He threw the jewelry on the floor. Count to a hundred before you move. 

The door slammed. 

The moment he was gone Jack grabbed Courtney by the hand and yanked her to her feet. Come on, baby. There’s no time to spare. She ran with him to the upstairs bedroom where he grabbed his .9 millimeter and shoved it into her hand. Point that at the door. He slid the window open and looked for the robber through the sites of the .45 he’d also picked up. He couldn’t find the man anywhere. He exhaled. Well, honey. That’s what it’s like to get robbed. Stay here while I go lock up.

Aren’t you going to call the cops?

Ah, no, baby. That’s the price of doing business. I don’t need the cops in my world. I do wish Fyodor had been home. I’m going to go get him. 

You’re leaving me alone?

I’ll have my phone. Don’t worry. This is the safest house in town for the next seven days. Nobody gets robbed twice in seven days. It’s like being in two plane crashes in a week. You and Fyodor can hang out. Don’t be scared. He spent a half hour calming her down. Now, you wait here. If you’re scared, just keep the pistol nearby. There are hollow points in it. You blow a hole through anyone who isn’t me or Fyodor. Okay? You’ll be fine. The bad man isn’t coming back. After she cleaned up, he tucked her into the bed in a pair of his boxers and one of his T-shirts before he left. As he turned to say goodbye, she was putting pills in her mouth.

What the fuck did you just swallow?

A couple of Xanax. 

She hadn’t used water. Jack returned to the bed sick to his stomach. Okay. Sit up and lean forward. You’ve been drinking a lot of alcohol. Hurry. Get your fingers down your throat, Jack pleaded with her, but she only half-heartedly complied. Finally, he shoved his long fingers down her throat until he found the wet pills and dragged them out of her mouth. I’m sorry if it hurt. She gagged and vomited bile into a T-shirt in his other hand. There, there. You can’t do pills with anything else. Not at my house, sweetheart. Whatever you do, do not drink with pills. Sweet, stupid thing. He kissed the top of her head. You scared the shit out of me. 

***

He returned to drop Fyodor off. 

He’ll keep you company. I need to go see some people. You’ll be fine with him here. Don’t worry. Just don’t fucking OD while I am gone, please, he said as he took off for the party house, an apartment he and several other drug dealers rented in order to buy and sell easily. 

Jack conferred with his associates and did what he could to recover from the robbery both financially and emotionally. A three-day party ensued. He texted Courtney as often as he remembered. 

When the party ended, he was driving his black Trans Am home wasted in a blackout. It was four in the neon morning, and he had an open bottle of Jack Daniels between his legs. His long, dark hair was blowing in his blue eyes. Through foggy eyes, he could see his breath in the cold car. The hard rock band Tool blared full blast from his new speakers, Why can’t we not be sober, he sang to himself just as he blew the red light at Flamingo and Cambridge—doing seventy-one in a thirty-five miles per hour zone—Crash! He T-boned a truck.

***

Two days after the accident, Jack lay with eight stitches in his head, a broken arm, fourteen staples in his leg from the shattered whiskey bottle, and he was minus his spleen. Gillian, his older sister, sat next to him caressing his bruised forehead. She grimaced. The hematoma was ugly. 

Jack, open your eyes. It’s your last chance to see me today. My boys need me, and I have to leave.

Jack moaned and forced his blackened left eye open by raising his eyebrow. His right eye was swollen shut. Who put the fucking jackhammer to my head? He tried to raise both hands to his forehead and found one handcuffed to the bed. Ah shit.

He lives. Will wonders never cease? I called a lawyer for you, his sister said, as she got up to leave. You’re in deep, Jack. This is your third DUI. Don’t talk to anyone about the wreck. Do you hear me? Your lawyer will come by hopefully before they take you in. You can talk to him.

I hear you. What’s the lawyer’s name so I know who to talk to?

Dave Marks. He’s the king of DUI’s, little brother, and you’re going to need him.

Where’d you get the money from? Dr. Jaz wouldn’t give you lawyer money for your brother the dope fiend.

You’re right. I didn’t even bother asking my husband, and it was a lot more than I could muster any other way so don’t get pissed. She leaned in and lowered her voice. I went by your apartment; I used my key and took the coke out of your safe. I found an old friend that sold it bargain basement cheap in North Town. Then I took the twenty grand to the lawyer for his trial retainer.

ALL of it? Hell, I only paid my Cali lawyer five grand for my DUI a few years ago. That’s the going rate.

Yeah, all of it. Gillian shook her head in disgust. Do you not realize this is your third—plus you nearly killed someone, that means, prison, Jack. You are going to have to go to trial and fight this tooth and nail.

I gave you my key and combination in case I croaked or got locked up. Shit. That’s damn near everything I own.

Well, you are locked up. By the way, the guy you hit is going to be all right; although, he was hurt. He was driving a tank and was wearing a seatbelt. By the grace of God you didn’t kill him or anyone else. You ought to think about your life, Jack. You are thirty-four years old, and you’re all screwed up. Again. If you stay out of prison this time, it will be a miracle.

Or with the help of a four-kilo lawyer, Jack retorted, as he cracked a smile. He didn’t know how to tell his sister he couldn’t remember anything about the accident or the twenty-four hours that had preceded it. He hadn’t known he hurt someone, until Gillian told him. Holy f—tell me Fyodor wasn’t in the car with me.

No. I have your dog. I took him when I went by the apartment. I also gave the poor girl that was there a ride home.

Shit. Sorry, Gillian, about all of this.

I’ll be back tomorrow, and remember, don’t open your mouth to anyone.

What was my BA?

Your blood alcohol? How would I know, Jack? Get some rest.

Hey, Gillian, thanks, girl.

See you, his sister said, as she walked out the door.

Jack closed his eyes and felt his stomach flip and the bile rise in his gorge. You’re a complete dick. You almost killed someone. Again. More bile rose as the guilt went down. He reached for the buzzer to call a nurse, but she didn’t get there in time. When she walked in the door, he was already covered in puke.

Mr. Bettencort, there is a Mr. Marks here to see you, she said. Before she saw the vomit, she scrunched up her nose at it.  Maybe we better clean you up first.

It’s vile. I’m sorry. I tried to call you, Jack said, and he held his handcuffed hand out toward her.

That’s all right. Let’s get you cleaned up.

Ma’am, do you know how the guy I hit is doing?

I don’t know anything about that.

As she went into the bathroom to get the basin and towels, the lawyer appeared, filling the doorway. Hello there. I am Dave Marks, your lawyer, Mr. Bettencort. Pleased to—

Fuck, Jack sighed and shook his head. I just got sick. Can you wait a minute? So much for first impressions.

Before leaving the hospital, Dave Marks finessed it so the handcuffs were removed from Jack. He also arranged for Jack, once released from the hospital, to be walked through on the arrest and released on his own recognizance without spending one night in jail.

Definitely a four-kilo lawyer, Jack told his sister on the phone that night.

***

A week later, the lawyer called Jack on his cell phone. You are one lucky bastard. Are you sitting down?

Jack was spending his last days in his fancy condo. He turned the stereo down, wrestled Fyodor, his German Shepard, onto his leather couch and said, Yeah. Are they dropping the case? The dog licked his face.

The lawyer’s voice became sarcastic and a little surly, Yes, Jack. They decided to drop the case, and buy you a Cadillac, and let you live at Caesar’s Palace for free. Now, would you like to hear what I have to say or go back to la-la land?

Jack rolled his eyes, Sorry. Why am I lucky, besides having you for a lawyer? Though Jack was a drunken drug dealer, he knew when an ingratiating remark was due.

Well put, sir. Your blood alcohol was three point one. You tested positive for cocaine, amphetamine, codeine, and marijuana. You should have been in a coma instead of operating a motor vehicle. You ran a red light and T-boned a truck. The person you hit suffered significant injuries and was, in fact, hospitalized for five days. Luckily, your victim was an illegal immigrant, who, ostensibly in fear of deportation, left the hospital and has since disappeared. In addition to all of this, Jack, this is your third DUI within ten years, which means, as I am sure you are well aware, that you are prison bound.

That’s the good news? My karma is completely fucked. The poor guy I creamed is running for his life from ICE when he should be suing me for everything I’m worth, and I am prison-bound? He pushed the dog away.

Very funny, Jack. No. The good news is the DA, besides having no victim to testify, which doesn’t actually matter because they have the hospital records—the D.A. is somehow unaware of your California conviction at this time. That is why you are going to put on a suit, cut off that hair, and go to court in the morning. You will plead straight up to a DUI second, take whatever the judge gives you, and kiss my ass for the rest of your life.

Excellent, Jack laughed out loud, But no haircut, my friend. I’ll tie it up in back.

Well, tuck it into your shirt then. Be at my office at seven a.m. sharp. Court’s at seven forty-five. We’ll go over the plea and go to court together. It’s on the early calendar so don’t be late. Otherwise, we will all run into Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, and we do not want that.

The next morning Jack showed up on time. Gillian dropped him off, since he had no driver’s license and, of course, no car. The black Trans Am—he had won the car in the private poker game that had led to his latest robbery—had been totaled.

Dave Marks was inserting cufflinks into the cuffs of his crisply pressed shirt sleeves when Jack walked in the office.

Come on in. You look good. Hell of a lot better than the first time I met you. and he laughed rudely.

What an asshole, Jack thought but said nothing.

You want some coffee? Mr. Marks asked.

Sure. Thank you.

How do you like it?

With cream and in a cup, please.

Marks walked out of his office to the kitchen across the lobby. While he was gone, Jack studied the furnishings and awards, degrees, certificates, and shooting trophies on the wall. Oh, and there was the grand prize, a large portrait of the lawyer’s wife, mounted on black velvet.

Beautiful, Jack said aloud to himself.

The attorney crossed the threshold with the coffee as Jack spoke. Yes, she is, isn’t she? he said, pausing. It seemed to Jack he deliberately puffed out his chest and arms.

Your wife—I presume.

Marks nodded.

She looks like a young Joan Collins, added Jack.

Marks smiled, missing the inappropriate inflection in the remark, the subtle degree of lust, as he stepped into the room and said, I suppose she does, and she’s as uppity as Joan Collins and then some. That, Jack Bettencort, is the fair and elusive Che, and she is as bitchy as she is beautiful.

Che? Jack said, and that eyebrow of his went up again. He took his coffee.

Yes. Her mother, apparently, was some kind of Pinko Hippy who had a crush on Che Guevara. When Che was born, she had a mop of black hair, so I end up with a wife named after a Cuban revolutionary.

Argentine. Jack corrected.

Jack raised his eyes at the visage again, this time undressing the image as he did. Fascinating, was all he said. The little girl standing next to Che in the portrait must be Dave Marks’ daughter—the golden hair, green eyes, and apricot skin. The baby was also a Marks. It seemed crude to Jack that his lawyer displayed his family the way he would a prized fish.

They went over the plea and then went to court. The judge read Jack the riot act and meted out the maximum sentence for a DUI Second, minus incarceration. Then the judge added onto the sentence five mandatory AA meetings a week, monthly sponsor reports, and random body fluid and hair tests from the Department of Parole and Probation, just to be sure.

Jack went through the sentencing waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe for a bomb to explode. Never in his life had he been so nervous, at least not without a gun to his head, literally. This is my third, three means prison. Hell, a DUI with substantial bodily injury is a prison sentence on its own. I’m so mother-fucking lucky. He was relieved for a minute. He even voiced a little prayer to the universe for his runaway victim. He hoped the man was all right. It wasn’t so bad. He had gone through a DUI Second a few years before in California—oh, but he was indignant about the AA thing.

Now, he had gone to some meetings in Cali to meet the requirements before he figured out how easy it was to forge the report cards. That had not been anything like five meetings a week. Also, he had not been required to submit to random urine tests by P&P, nor had he been required to supply sponsor reports.

As a result, Jack Bettencort grew increasingly annoyed and not as elated as he should have been as they walked out of the courtroom. As they reached the escalator, he was already calculating how he could fake the signed court cards and sponsor reports. The sobriety, he thought, could be a problem. Then he had a revelation. I’ll buy some piss. Hell, in Vegas you can buy anything.

When they got back to the office, Dave Marks was whooping it up. Being a former prosecutor, he truly loved getting one over on the DA. It delighted him to no end. They discussed the particulars of Jack’s sentence.

Marks was stern with his clients. He detested making court appearances with those who were remiss in their duties. He considered it a direct affront to the court, but more so to himself. It gave the appearance he lacked client control. The fact was he was a man who needed control the way other men needed air.

Jack, have you ever been to AA before?

Yeah, Dave, I’ve been. Have you?

I wasn’t just sentenced to five meetings a week, now, was I? Mr. Marks smugly remonstrated, leaning back in his chair. Maybe you should think about sobering up, Jack. No one, and I mean, no one, will be able to save you from prison if there is a next time. I certainly hope you don’t take offense to this, but you are not exactly an intimidating presence.

Jack winced. Jack’s father was a big man, and Gillian took after him, dark-eyed, ash- blonde hair, taller than himself by inches. She was a little thick, yet curvaceous, a knock-out. Jack took after their mother. It was the only thing Gillian never forgave him for. 

Jack was a little over five-nine. He was thin with long well-defined muscles. He had his mother’s high cheekbones and distinctive jaw, with long black lashes and an expressive brow over large, wide-set blue eyes. His dark hair was long, parted down the middle, with a little silver at his temples.

After he left the Air Force, he pierced his ears and put a strange green and pink tattoo on his left breast he designed himself. It was a tat of an open wound below his nipple, dripping green and pink blood down his ribs. He was the bad, brilliant son who never lived up to his potential. He was the daydreaming, drug-dealing dropout, and prison was the only paternal prophesy he had yet to fulfill.

While his lawyer lectured, Jack stared, seemingly attentive into Marks’ face. He heard every word but discarded each sentence—like he would instructions for toothpaste. Jack was far away, remembering his father, Jack Sr.; his favorite hometown–not counting Munich—Bangor, Maine; and high school... Space, the Final Frontier, his friends used to call him. Jack was suddenly aware he wanted a drink, not to get drunk, but to celebrate.

His lawyer rambled on, unaware of Jack’s departure, At Ely, which is the maximum security, or even at Indian Springs Penitentiary, you’ll be punked, no matter how tough, cool, or smart you think you are.

Jack’s mind was now completely on his father, degrading him for his size, accusing his mother of sleeping around before Jack was born, insinuating Jack was a bastard. No matter how many German philosophers or Russian classics Jack read, no matter how many gorgeous women he screwed, still it smarted when his size was pointed out. He was only enduring the lecture to be polite and because his ride hadn’t arrived. He also was waiting to ask how much of a refund he was getting, since they didn’t go to trial.

So, Jack, if I were you, I’d make an effort and do the deal. The alternative is not very attractive. Besides, I’ll tell you something I don’t go around telling folks: Che, my wife, goes to AA. It helps a lot of people. For God’s sake, you act like it’s a death sentence.

Mark’s words captured Jack’s attention, and he looked over at the portrait and wondered. She didn’t look like some uppity, bitchy alcoholic to him, but then you never know with ravishing women. You just never know.

Don’t worry so much, Dave. I’ll go to AA. I’m wondering, though, how much I’m getting back.

From what? Marks shifted in his chair.

From you. Jack answered.

Seriously, are you asking for a refund? I get you the deal of a fucking lifetime, and you want a refund? Is that it? Do you want your ass kicked?

No, I don’t want my ass kicked. My sister gave you twenty thousand dollars. You made one court appearance. I fail to see how I’m being unfair.

The lawyer began to seethe, Well, Jack, I tell you what, I’ll withdraw as counsel from your case. We’ll go back and withdraw the plea, and you can start over because by Monday morning the DA will have your California conviction on scope, and you can go straight to hell from there. How’s that, you ungrateful bastard? This was, of course, all bullshit. Dave Marks would bill it out on his end as a typical DUI—for five grand—and then pocket the fifteen-grand left over. Jack knew it was bullshit, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it, not in his reality. Dave’s statement had the desired effect.

So, basically, I’m fucked.

You’ve been fucking yourself all your life, my friend, Dave said dismissively. A quiet moment followed.

Jack looked at the portrait and pointed, So your wife, she doesn’t drink anymore?

Not a drop.

She doesn’t look like a drunk to me, Jack said, as they both looked at the likeness.

No, she doesn’t, but then that photograph wasn’t taken when she had a bottle of merlot and four shots of Black Sambuca in her. It’s amazing. She’s my little Jekyll and Hyde. The lawyer looked away from his wife and began scribbling on the legal pad in front of him.

Are you sure she’s bitchy and not just frustrated? Jack said, and then he laughed.

Marks looked up from his legal pad and under his eyebrows. Mr. Bettencort, it would serve you well in our relationship not to broach the subject of my wife again. Is that understood?

Yes, sir, Jack said sincerely, but inwardly he chuckled. He had hit the nail on the head, and he knew it.

Henceforth, the money was not mentioned between lawyer and client, and neither was Che, but Jack never forgot about either one.

I’ll get you back one of these days, Jack vowed as he left the office.

Chapter 2

Che breathed in deeply, hanging up the phone. Dave would be late again. After, she wrapped his dinner in foil and left it on the counter. She trotted upstairs to tuck her children into bed.

Che prided herself on their nursery. She certainly was not raised with one because she and her sister did without many things after their father ran off. Like an errant hostage, he had never returned to live with them. She and Summer, her blond sister, had shared bunk beds throughout college. That’s when Che and Summer concluded they looked so much alike that their parents must have been in the same mood when they were conceived. Her and Dave’s children, on the other hand, looked nothing alike.

Che entered the room and dimmed the lights. It’s time for bed, she announced to Mary and Jeremy and began their bedtime routine in their Secret Garden Peter Pan nursery. When she finished reading them a story and their prayers were said, she kissed