Wicked Secret, Page 3

  But I simply can’t accept Sam’s diagnosis.

  “His doctors recommend a stem cell transplant with chemotherapy. His donor must have human leukocyte antigens, which decreases the chance of something called graft vs. host disease. It’s where donor cells sometimes attack the recipient’s cells.”

  “I’m assuming you’re not a match?” August asks.

  Nodding, I confirm his assumption. “My dad isn’t, either, so I broke the rules to find you. I want you to get tested. If you match, I want you to donate your stem cells to Sam.”

  There.

  I can’t be more blunt than that. He asked what I wanted, and what I want is his blood for my child.

  It’s not until now that I have any doubts. The man I knew ten years ago would have given his life for me or a child of our making. But ten years is a long time, and August is obviously a different man.

  He’s full of anger and hurt right now.

  Will he take that out on me by putting Sam in jeopardy? Will he deny something to his child to hurt me?

  “Of course I’ll donate,” he says softly, studying his coffee cup before meeting my gaze. His eyes are filled with fear. “But what if I’m not a match?”

  “He’s on the donor registry.” I try to sound hopeful, but I know I’m failing. “But, truthfully, only about thirty percent of family members will be a match. You’re Sam’s last chance before we’ll have to rely on the registry. Then, we can only pray a match will come up in time.”

  “So how quickly can we move on this?”

  All at once, my entire body deflates with just that one question. It means he’s all in. He’s committed to helping Sam, despite how angry he is with me. The exhaustion from this trip, along with the stress of being found and the fear of August turning me away, permeates every single cell in my body. I want to lay my head down on the table, weep with relief, then curl up and go to sleep.

  But August needs answers, and I’m the only one who can give them.

  “First, you’ll need to take a blood test to determine if you have the antigen to be a match,” I explain. I’ve not only talked to multiple doctors about Sam’s options, but I’ve also done tons of research on my own to make sure August’s donation is our best shot. I had to know before I left the safety of WITSEC. “If you’re a match, it will take about five days to get your blood ready. You’ll have daily injections to increase your white blood cells. At around roughly the same time you start that, Sam will be admitted to the hospital where he’ll get five-to-seven days of chemotherapy. Your stem cells will be harvested straight from your blood, then given to Sam through a transplant catheter.”

  “I thought they took it from bone marrow,” he says, appearing completely overwhelmed by the information.

  “Sometimes, they do. In this instance, though, the transplant catheter is best.”

  “You’re sure?” he presses, stepping into his dad shoes with no hesitation. “Do we need a second opinion?”

  I’m not offended by his line of questioning. It’s August’s right to have these thoughts and doubts. He knows nothing about my parenting ability or Sam’s diagnosis. I’m just so grateful he’s on board that I patiently let him work through his concerns. I answer every question he asks, reassuring him that I’m confident in this procedure. After a full hour, he seems convinced I’ve educated him on every aspect of Sam’s diagnosis and what the treatment can offer.

  But, for some reason, I’m not prepared when he changes the subject. “Does Sam know about me?”

  Again, I want to weep. I want to be able to fall apart without having to defend the choices I’ve made in my life. To not be responsible for anything.

  When I answer with a simple, “Yes,” August seems shocked.

  “He does?” he blurts out.

  I can’t blame him. Given the secretive nature of my family being in WITSEC, it would seem logical that I’d kept August a secret from Sam. But I hadn’t.

  “As a parent, I believe in being transparent and as truthful as possible. I thought it was important for Sam to learn about you. To know it wasn’t your choice not to be with us. That you are a good man who treated me well, and you would have been a great father if you’d been given the opportunity. Sam is well aware of how unfair it is. He’s a good kid, August. Sadly, due to the circumstances, he’s also wise beyond his years.”

  I can see the turmoil in August’s eyes. He wants to hate me for keeping him away from Sam for all these years, but warring with that emotion is gratitude that Sam was at least given a piece of his father to keep.

  “I didn’t tell Sam I was coming here, though,” I continue. August whips his head my way, one eyebrow arched. “I didn’t want to get his hopes up in case you weren’t a match.”

  August nods in understanding, but his expression is grim. “And just where is all this supposed to happen? Where is my son?”

  “Well… we live in Denver. In the suburbs. His doctor is there—”

  “You’ll have to bring him here,” August cuts in.

  “But his doctor—”

  “Vegas has one of the best children’s hospitals in the nation. And I’m here.”

  “But he’s in WITSEC,” I stutter, completely thrown off by this demand. “He’s safe with my dad there. They’re still under protection.”

  “But you’re not,” August surmises.

  I shake my head. “I lost my rights when I left. I was warned I would lose their protection if I did.”

  “That didn’t stop you,” he points out.

  “No,” I agree. “I’d put my life at risk over and over again to save Sam. My safety didn’t factor into my decision. It’s not important at all, not as long as I have some chance of helping Sam.”

  It shouldn’t hurt when August doesn’t disagree with my last statement, but it does. “You don’t know what I do for a living, Leighton, but I have the ability to protect Sam better than any U.S. Marshal. And I happen to know something about your so-called protection. You have a handler you periodically check in with, but that’s it. It’s not like someone is actively watching over you and your family.”

  “We have the backing of the government,” I protest. “They monitor the chatter within the family—”

  “Mob, right?”

  I snap my mouth shut, years of training to hold my tongue and never divulge a thing kicking in.

  “One thing you need to understand about me is that I have much better sources than the U.S. Marshals. I can find out information they never dreamed of about the people your dad snitched on. Sam will come here. I refuse to argue about it.”

  “But he’ll lose the protection—”

  “And I’m telling you that I’ll protect him better.” August thumps his fist into the tabletop, voice raising. “I’m not just talking about for treatment, either… I mean permanently.”

  “Is that an ultimatum?” I ask incredulously. “If we don’t move here, you won’t be a donor?”

  August rolls his eyes, a scowl marring his handsome face. “Don’t be daft, Leighton. But if you insist on him staying in Denver, I will swoop in and fight you for custody. I’ll still be the donor and you might win that battle, but you’ll never win the war. I can promise you that.”

  “And what about my dad?” I murmur, suddenly feeling like my entire world just got upended. “He can’t leave. We’d have to sever connections—”

  “Not my problem. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. Your dad created this mess… yet I’m the one who suffered for years by not knowing if you were dead or alive, and now to realize I was kept away from my son, too? That’s also on you, but I’m going to overlook that for now so we can do what’s best for Sam.”

  Before I left, my dad had tried to warn me that I could end up creating a much bigger mess than I’d envisioned. He’d urged me to give the donor registry time to come up with a match. As a mother, though, I couldn’t pass up the chance of there being a treatment option available before Sam became sicker. While I may not have been able to see
that the outcome had the potential to upend our quiet little life in more ways than just losing the government’s protection for myself, I had known nothing was going to stop me from seeing if August could be a donor.

  Although I have no intention of committing to a permanent move here, I nod anyway. In my heart, I’m only agreeing to Sam coming here for treatment. I’ll deal with the fallout over our futures when I’m feeling a bit stronger.

  Right now… all I want to do is go to sleep and hope tomorrow will be a better day.

  CHAPTER 5

  August

  I step off the elevator into the welcoming lobby of The Wicked Horse. The hostess at the podium greets me by name. “Welcome, Mr. Greenfield.”

  I nod, searching the Social Room for a familiar face. A quick hook-up that won’t require more than a few moments of flirting and well-intentioned compliments. Not seeing anyone, I move through the club. I consider the Waterfall Room, but it’s my least favorite. While it’s beautiful—a large waterfall coming out of the ceiling onto a raised dais that people can fuck under—it’s just not practical. The Orgy Room is too dark for how I’m feeling tonight. When I stick my head in to take a peek around The Silo, I find it wall-to-wall packed.

  That leaves The Deck, an outdoor area off the south side of the building accessible by a private hallway or The Waterfall room. It’s a wonderful place to either relax with a drink or engage in some adventurous fucking. The entire deck is made from a thick, transparent acrylic, which allows patrons to see forty floors below to the lighted streets of Vegas. It’s not for the faint of heart or anyone with a height phobia.

  When I step into the cool evening air, I immediately spot Declan Blackwood at the outdoor bar. He sits alone, talking to the bartender and nursing a drink.

  A man like Declan is rarely ever without company in here. I figure he just arrived or he’s already finished with someone. Maybe he’s simply enjoying his drink.

  Regardless, I could use a drink as well, so I head that way.

  After shaking hands, we exchange pleasantries. As soon as I’m handed my bourbon, we tap glasses in salute.

  “How are things going?” Declan asks, politely making the prerequisite small talk.

  For a moment, I consider giving the standard and expected response of “Good,” after which we’d bid each other farewell or perhaps find a woman to share.

  Instead, I say, “Just found out the girlfriend I thought had died ten years ago is very much alive. And she had my kid and never told me about him. Oh… and then I learned he has leukemia, too, on top of all the rest.”

  Declan’s chin jerks inward, eyebrows raised. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Not shitting you,” I mutter. Taking a healthy sip of my bourbon, I try to enjoy the taste and burn as it slides down my throat.

  “Okay…” he draws out, leaning an arm on the bar. “I need more than that.”

  I consider this. I’ve known Declan for months, think he’s a good dude, and, well… I’ve shared moments with him in this club that are more intimate than most people could ever imagine happening. He’s a dirty, kinky fuck… just like me.

  He’s also a friend, I realize.

  Starting at the beginning, I explain what happened in the early morning hours when Leighton showed up at my doorstep. About how stunned I was to see her, clearly recognizable to me, yet a completely different woman. And about her dad and his mob connections. Finishing with Sam—my son—who knew he had a dad, but understood he could never get to know his father without losing the protection of the program his family was in.

  “Have you taken the test to see if you’re a match?” Declan asks, seeming thunderstruck by the volley of soap-opera-like drama.

  Just then, a beautiful, voluptuous blonde approaches us. She only has eyes for Declan, though. He’s about as close to a celebrity as people can get around here. Hand on his shoulder, she presses her barely contained breasts against his arm while whispering into his ear.

  Declan listens before considering me. Gesturing between the three of us, he asks, “Interested? She’ll take us both.”

  She’s stunning. Sexy as hell. My dick should be twitching its head right now at the prospect. When it remains mysteriously still, I know my heart isn’t into it.

  “Nah,” I say with a wave of my hand. “You go ahead. Enjoy.”

  To my surprise, Declan lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss there. “Maybe another time, darlin’. Right now, I’m just going to enjoy a drink with my buddy.”

  We watch her strut off, admiring the swing of her hips as she leaves. Declan turns, prompting me to return to our conversation. “So… you been tested yet?”

  “This morning. Should be getting the results any time now. They come electronically these days.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and set it on the bar, flipping the side button to turn the ringer from vibrate to on.

  “What happens if you’re a match?” Declan asks.

  I regale him with more than he could possibly want to know about stem cell transplants. To his credit, he listens attentively as I tell him that I’ve already talked to a pediatric oncologist at the children’s hospital—a recommendation from Jerico Jameson—and smiles encouragingly at the news the doctor is willing to take Sam on as a patient.

  I’d spent a good chunk of this morning in Jerico’s office. He’s the owner of The Wicked Horse Vegas, but our ties go way beyond that since he used to own the company I work for. In order to concentrate on just one business, Jerico sold Jameson Force Security to my current boss, Kynan McGrath. We had patched Kynan in on the phone call, so I could fill them in on everything at the same time.

  And the people at Jameson immediately got busy doing what they do best, which is figuring shit out.

  Kynan put Bebe Grimshaw on the case. Within hours, she’d gotten the information I wanted that Leighton had yet to provide. While Jameson has some pretty high-level security clearance, my best bet is Bebe decided to hack the WITSEC program to get what she wanted. She’s that good.

  “I’m insisting Sam come here for treatment,” I inform Declan. “And I want him to stay here afterward, too.”

  Clearly concerned, Declan asks, “Can they do that? Once you’re in WITSEC, aren’t you in it for life? Or is that only on TV?”

  Chuckling, I swirl the last bit of bourbon in my glass before drinking it. I push my glass to the edge, indicating for the bartender to refill our glasses.

  “Technically, they can stay in the program for life. The government relocated them and gave them new identities, and they were assigned a handler to report to. That handler communicates with all types of sources, including confidential informants, and continually assesses if there’s a continuing threat to the safety of those in the program.”

  Fully intrigued, Declan ignores his bourbon and leans in a bit closer. “And is there?”

  This is where working for Jameson becomes beneficial. Bebe and Kynan found tons of information—Bebe through illicit hacking, I’m sure, while Kynan sourced his through legit contacts. He even commands the ear of the President of the United States, so there’s not much that is off limits to him.

  “The mob family Leighton’s father testified against is extensive—with far-reaching branches. His testimony didn’t take down the kingpin, but did knock out a major player. That was ten years ago. According to my sources, though, there’s still an active hit out on her dad.”

  “Jesus,” Declan says on a low whistle. “That’s some scary shit.”

  I wonder if Leighton knew how much danger they could potentially be in due to her decision to leave the protection she had in Denver to seek me out. My guess is she very well knew what the risks were and didn’t let it factor in.

  Of course, she’s terrified for Sam to leave that cocoon, but I meant what I’d told her… I can protect them better. Besides, I have access to the same information her handler did… and more.

  I tell Declan as much, adding, “As soon as I get the test results, I’ll st
art planning how to get Sam here. I’ll have to figure out the logistics.”

  “My plane,” Declan offers, finally picking up his bourbon.

  My brows knit together. “Your plane what?”

  “Use my plane to go get him,” Declan says with a shrug. “I have no clue how this witness protection shit works, but I’m sure it’s safer to fly privately. Let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot faster than driving, too.”

  “You have a plane?” I ask dumbly.

  “Have three actually,” he replies with a wink.

  Of course he does. He is a billionaire.

  “Just need a few hours’ notice.” Declan swigs his drink in three powerful swallows. “Shoot me a text when you figure out when you’ll need it.”

  I blink in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as a heart attack,” he replies, clapping me on the back. “We’re friends, right?”

  “Yeah, we are,” I admit softly. “But I could never repay something like that.”

  “Wouldn’t ask you to.” Waving my gratitude off, he points across the deck to the blonde who approached him earlier. “Now… want to go tap that?”

  My dick stays suspiciously still. Before I can commit one way or the other, my phone chimes with an email alert.

  I snatch it from the bar, type in the passcode, and then skim the email that just came in from the lab that performed the HLA test. There’s a blue button to click that’ll show me the results.

  “The results are in,” I breathe.

  Declan sidles closer to peer at the screen, and I tap on the icon. I’d already set up an online account earlier today so I could have immediate access.

  It takes a few seconds before the page loads.

  The rush of relief is immense—way better than any orgasm I could get here. I grin at Declan, feeling almost dizzy at the myriad of emotions hitting me.