I need to say something, but whatever I say, it’s going to be wrong.

It’s been that way for weeks now. Ever since Ben started high school a couple of months ago.

School changes are always tough and this one hasn’t gone smooth since day one. The district lines changed over the summer, so none of his friends from middle school transferred over. He’s had a hard time with that, and I’ve tried to compensate, to understand, but I still don’t get it.

It’s school.

Do your work. Come home. It’s not that hard.

What’s hard is this parenting thing. I thought it'd get easier watching my boy grow up. It hasn’t.

Potty training was a breeze compared to this. Then again, I had a nanny.

Maybe that’s what I need again.

Too fucking bad that didn’t work out so great. The last one had a whole different take on being a nanny. I cringe, recalling coming home and finding her in my bed. Naked. Waiting.

Others were more subtle while hinting their availability. She’d put it on a silver platter.

One I hadn’t touched with a ten-foot pole.

Sloan had hired her. He’d hired most of them back in those days, and of course he'd really let his dick override his brains with that one.

That happens with Sloan. He’s been there for me, though, through thick and thin. The only thing I've got left on this Earth I can still call a brother. And time has taught me damn well how precious that can be.

“So,” I say, pulling the Yukon into the garage. “Where’d you go after school?”

Ben shrugs. “Nowhere. Just took a different route home, really.”

Really? My jaw tightens, and I can feel my own eyes going dark.

I hate when he lies to me, when he shuts down, but I try to remember what moody, simmering piles of secrets teenage boys can be. I just have to hope Ben hasn't gotten himself into any that'll royally fuck him over.

I slide the shifter into park with a repressed sigh, reminding myself to talk with him, not at him. Try not to get mad.

“You were over an hour late. That’s why I went looking for you. Your Uncle Sloan said that new kid – Tommy or whoever – told him you were still hitting the sidewalks on your boards over on Grand.”

He opens his door, frustration hardening his lanky limbs. “Yeah, whatever. We were riding our boards, Dad. Jeez. What's the –”

“We? New friends?”

He shrugs.

I know that’s all I’m going to get today, and I feel like I've been through a meat grinder. “Listen, this isn't a lecture because you should already know. Isn’t the rule that you’ll call when you’re going to be late? And Grand Avenue isn't just a dangerous place to be skateboarding around with the streets icing over. The cops like to bust kids there all the time.”

I should know. As one of the more affluent, historic neighborhoods, I've held my share of fundraisers and corporate events there. I know what the people are like. Buttoned up tight asses who'd have gotten me into the same kind of trouble at his age I'm trying to save Ben from.

“Yeah. Okay. I'll keep that in mind.”

He hasn’t looked me in the eye. Maybe I should just let this one go.

Pick my battles. It’s hard.

Marine training is embedded in my DNA. It’s hard not to fall back on it. “Well, don’t let this happen again.”

He doesn’t answer with more than a slight nod. Just climbs out, shuts the door, and walks toward the door to the house.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Don't be pissed at him.

But I am.

My gut churns, folds fire over on itself at the idea that he could've wound up in the fucking hospital. Or worse.

He’s fine, though. Unhurt.

That’s the important thing. Ben’s infinitely more important than the first billion I ever made, and I have to make sure he turns out right. I have to protect him like I promised. I have to see this through, dammit.

For Cory and Juno.

That’s what they’d have wanted, and I’ll damn sure make it happen.

Have to, for them. No matter how much attitude I have to put up with for a few more years until he hopefully shapes up into the young man I know they always wanted.

I lean back in my seat, letting the cold creep into my bones in the garage.

Can’t help but smile, remembering that little spitfire who’d almost hit him. It's a miracle I didn't want to tear her head off for running my son down, even if it was his own mistake.

There was something about those big brown eyes. And maybe that wispy, blonde ponytail sticking out of her stocking cap, too.

Definitely something about her sweet ass, which I'm guilty as hell of drinking in for a good long look while she'd stepped outside her car. She had the kind that makes my palms ignite with devious urges, a throbbing ache in my skin to cup them hard and pull her into me like some greedy modern Blackbeard.

Her attitude? Fuck. Mercy.

That woman gave as good as she got. Not many who can hold their own against me. Not when they're lost in these eyes. The very same I used to get joy from using to mesmerize my next conquest.

She must be one hell of a baker, too. Mary said their cakes couldn't even compare to hers. That says a lot coming from the head of Top Notch.

I’d just been trying to make it right by the little hothead, but she’d made everything go wrong.

The right kind of wrong.

Something I can't remember ever happening for years. Sure, I probably should've told her exactly what Mary said.

The endorsement surprised me. She’s owned Top Notch for over a decade, won awards across the country for their food just as long.

And she’d laid it on the line. Said that if someone ordered one of Wendy’s cakes, and ended up with one from Top Notch, they’d be sadly disappointed.

Wendy. Don’t think I’ve ever known a Wendy. The name fits her.

All sugary innocence, with just enough smart-mouthed spice to make her interesting.

Not that I've got time to be really, truly interested beyond fantasies that leave me sporting a hard-on in my goddamn truck.

Raising Ben is a full-time job. That leaves little time for leisure, or much else. I’ve had my share of women and know how time consuming keeping them happy can be. Hell, happy isn’t even the word.

I open the door and climb out, my mood souring again by the second.

What the fuck do I know about happy? Not much. Not recently.

Dedicating years to raising Ben is the least I can do. I spent too many building my company and trying to find out what really happened that horrific night both our lives changed forever.

I couldn't have gotten this far without Sloan's help. Three years ago, when I’d had enough nanny issues, and Ben was getting too old for one, I retired in slow-motion. Turned a large portion of running Landmark Defense over to Sloan so I could focus on Ben growing up.

We’d moved to Saint Paul after Cory died, figuring it'd be best for everyone. It was what he'd wanted, too, as the new secondary location for the company.

It was a chance to start over. Put down roots. Figure shit out.

Except life got in the way. Business and bad memories and getting so wrapped up in running a world class company and trying to raise a son right.

That’s why I bought this place and had it refurbished. A huge house built in the early twentieth century and fully restored to it’s original grandeur, the complete opposite of the sleek, soulless modern homes we'd lived in out in California a small lifetime ago.

I enter the house, walking past what used to be the maid quarters and into the fully modernized, yet charmingly old kitchen.

The silence is deafening.

All ten-thousand square feet of it, making me wonder if I should've gone smaller.

I’d wanted this for Ben, though. Something with history since his own roots are so damn complicated.

I pause near the arched alcove that holds the stove hosting two sets of four burners on each of the open grills and three ovens. Wendy comes to mind again.

Sugar and spice. Everything I don't need on my mind, but can't shrug off.

I might have to try one of her cakes someday. Find a good reason to. Never had much of a sweet tooth, but a man can learn.

I’ve used these ovens often enough on my own, learning to cook for Ben’s sake. A full-time chef is one thing I never hired out for, even though it'd barely put a dust dent in my bank account.

Dinner, breakfast, even the occasional lunch...it's too important to family. My son deserves better, a hearty meal made by a father with enough time to put it together with his bare hands.

Before Ben, my specialty was frozen pizza.

Maybe ordering in tonight wouldn't be so bad after the kind of day we've had.

With that on my mind – a fat, gooey Chicago style pizza – I take the back stairway off the kitchen to the third floor. Ben’s floor.

Every room is his up there, right down to a fully stocked kitchenette. A hard knot forms in my stomach.

It’s her again, gnawing at my brain like some strange madness, Sugar and Spice.

The insults she’d thrown out about money hadn’t affected me, but now I'm wondering if they’d been insults at all.

There's some truth in what she’d said. I’ve given Ben everything I can imagine him needing, but hell...is that teaching him anything?

“Ben!” I yell, walking past open door after open door. His game room, music room, theater room, all empty. Arriving at his bedroom door, the only one that’s closed, I knock. “Ben? You up?”

I listen for movement. A second later, he opens the door slowly but doesn’t say anything, just walks back toward his bed, leaving it hanging open.

I stay in the doorway. “I’m ordering pizza for supper. Chicago style. What kind sounds good?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry? You?” That’s like saying a shark hates the waves. “What's wrong?”

He drops onto his bed and picks up a set of headphones. “I’m just not hungry, Dad. Do I need a reason for everything?”

“Because of what happened today?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes and sits up, his shoulders going straight. “Look, yeah. I know I fucked up, all right? Do you have to hound me?”

I shoot him a glare that says language, son.

And hound him? This kid doesn’t know what hounding is. I clamp my back teeth together to keep from pointing that out.

“You've made your point. I read you loud and clear. What happened today...the skateboarding...it won’t happen again,” he says, pulling on his headphones. “Can we just forget this now?”

Fuck if I know. Can we?

I want to march over and tug the damn things off his head.

And then what? Ground him? I’ve rarely ever had to do anything like that to him.

He’s been a good kid at heart. Still is.

I need to keep this in perspective. Maybe some time alone to think about what happened is exactly what he needs. Let him process. Hell, let me.

No one was hurt, but they could've been. He needs to chew on that, and I’ll let him.

I’ll process, too. He caused damage, all right, and we'll still have to make that right.

That’s what Sugar and Spice was hinting – throwing money around doesn’t always make everything right.

A bruised ego and teenage angst are impossible to fix with a few payments, unlike a twisted street sign and a busted up delivery van.

Fine. Leave him be.

He's got food in his kitchenette down the hall if he gets hungry later, so leaving the door open, I exit, heading downstairs to the main floor.

Jingles is in my office, sleeping in his usual spot, the windowsill of a massive stained-glass window. We'd gotten the British Blue cat years ago on a trip to California, one from a litter originally brought up by my old buddy Landon's great aunt. Ironically, his aunt passed away later, and he ended up inheriting a few of the rascals himself.

Jingles lifts his head as I cross the room, and then slowly rises to his feet and stretches before jumping off the sill and onto the back of the sofa.

“I suppose you’re hungry,” I say to the cat, wishing it was so simple with Ben.

Sleek and slate gray, his fur shines in the fading sunlight as he walks along the back of the black leather sofa and then jumps onto the arm, where he sits down and starts washing his face.

Just my luck to get the cold shoulder from everybody today.

“Well, tell me when you're ready for your grub.” I sit down at my desk and log on to the computer, pulling up the spreadsheets I’d been reviewing before going to look for Ben.

His school’s only a few blocks away, so I figured I’d find him. I could've just called him, but I'd been hoping I’d see him throwing snowballs or something with new friends.

That’s what he needs.

He's made a few new bonds this year, sure, but they're not the best crowd. Too many kids who spend their days chugging Mountain Dew and spending every last waking second on the latest shooter game. Too many kids who don't make good grades, and wind up swiping pot or smokes off their older brothers.

I know them too well. Because I used to hang with those kids, and if I hadn't gotten a few big wake-up calls in life, they easily could've led me down a path to nowhere.

Maybe I should tell him to call his friends from last year, ask them to come over, again. I’ve told him that several times, but he’s declined. Saying there’s no reason since they can’t see each other at school anymore with the district carving out arbitrary boundaries.

Damn if parenting isn't hard.

Slowly, I glance at the built-in filing cabinets, especially one specific bottom drawer that's always locked. My own personal fucking elephant sealed inside.

Everything about where it all began is there.

Everything about the fire.

Everything about Cory and Juno. And about Ben. His birth certificate and baptismal papers that list his godparents.

Pushing away from the desk, I cross to the other side of the room and pour myself a drink. Whiskey, nothing fancy, a habit I've kept from my days overseas.

I toss back the amber liquid against the back of my throat, swallowing without tasting. It’s smooth, so there’s minimal burning, but it hits my guts like an avalanche.

“I’m trying, Cory,” I whisper, damn near choking on my own words. “I’m trying, but I’m not you.”

I also know this will get me nowhere. So I walk back over to the desk and sit, staring at the screen for several minutes.

Empty-ass minutes where I have no idea what I’m looking at.

Or, rather, no interest in what I’m seeing.

Once, Landmark Defense Systems was my life. I built it from the ground up with Cory and Sloan, and it's the whole reason I can give myself and Ben a good life. It's a smooth ship; there haven’t been any critical issues for years.

Progress, yes. Growth. Eight more figures added year over year to my personal net worth.

Our latest innovations in combined arms weaponry are being very well received.

Sloan's done one hell of a job working the sales teams that land us our contracts with the Pentagon.

I’m still active in the company, checking over the executive reports, making the occasional appearance. I moved the headquarters here when we relocated to Minnesota, but Sloan oversees most of the day to day operations, letting me know when and where I'm needed.

I minimize the spreadsheets and click over to Google the name of the bakery from Sugar and Spice’s van.

Midnight Morning.

I recognize the street name with the address but can’t say I’ve ever noticed the building that's pictured on its web entry.

The reviews are good. Hundreds of them.

All praise for Wendy’s cakes, taking precedence over all of their other products.

Then I check the hours. Open daily from six a.m. to three p.m. Six or seven days a week. Closed on select Sundays.

I click through the other pages of the website. The menu, the catering options, the prices. No meals, just good old fashioned coffee shop pastries. Their photos are good, at least, because the pictures are making my stomach growl like a wolf.

“Come on, Cat,” I say, standing up. “You and I might as well eat together.”

Jingles follows me into the kitchen, licking his chops. I open a can of cat food, dump it in his dish, and then fill his water bowl before going to the fridge.

Looks like left over stir fry and homemade eggrolls are what I'm having tonight. I had to stay on Ben to clear his plate yesterday, and now I've got more chicken chow mein than I can ever finish.

Maybe I should hire a part-time cook after all. Only, that would mean someone being in this house too much. Someone new. One more variable I can't keep up with.

One more drama bomb waiting to happen, maybe, just like the nannies.

I don’t need anyone getting too close to Ben or me in our own home.

More than a couple nannies, besides the bedroom surprise, had gotten too curious for comfort, and I’d let them go. So far, I’ve been lucky with the cleaning lady. She comes in, does her job, and leaves. She respects boundaries.

Besides, I enjoy cooking too much for more hired help. And I'll never shake the belief that our family dinners give us some connection, even if they're like pulling teeth lately.

I nuke the leftovers and shovel the food into my mouth without even taking a seat.

Maybe it's not just melancholy that's got me thinking of cooks I don't need. It's Sugar and Spice.

The comments she made about a job. Ben’s only fourteen, but I had a job at his age.

Mowing lawns. Fast food. Bike shop. So did Cory.

I rinse off my plate and fork, put them in the dishwasher, and head back to my office with time on my hands. Some nights, I'm still able to pull Ben into watching a movie or playing a game or just shooting the breeze. Usually when Sloan's around.

Tonight, I'm not so lucky. I consider going up to his room again, but the idea fades as I sit down.

The Midnight Morning website appears the second I wake up the computer, and then I click on the only tab I hadn’t. What’s New?

The instant I see the next two words, written in big cartoony letters with purple frosting outlining them, I smile.

We’re Hiring!

I lean back, absently tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair.

Ben doesn’t get out of school until two thirty, but he's free on Saturdays. It's almost too easy. Too enticing.

This is a chance for him to pay off the damage to her van and teach him a valuable lesson or two. He doesn’t have any work experience, though, so I might have to see if I can pull a few strings.

Then there's the thought of seeing her again.

Sugar and Spice, in all her sexy, ragey, steam-shooting-out-her-ears glory.

Enticing doesn't begin to describe that. Neither does easy, and for some fucked up, indescribable, wonderful reason, I love it.