Jackson
FUCK, FUCK, FUCKITY, fuck, fuck, FUUUCK! I cannot believe that I told Claire that I love her. Way to drop the ball, Jack. Good thing defense is my side of the ball. If this were just X’s and O’s on a white board it would be a piece of cake for me. I’d have my boys rush the quarterback, the secondary coming around from the blind side, and force a fumble. Hell, if this was a game of chess I’d have no problem. I didn’t graduate Suma Cum Laude with a Computer Science degree from the University of Kentucky for nothing. But frankly Claire isn’t a game. She is the moon and stars. And I only hope that one day soon she is my ecstasy.
Pacing the living room of my little cottage, I realize that I have to figure out a way to make sure that that fucker Brad doesn’t come into contact with either one of my girls. Yes, that is what I consider Claire and Sasha—my girls. Claire wants to retreat. Fuck that! I allowed that twenty-three years ago and I’ll be damned if she’ll do it again.
Slamming my way out of the kitchen door, I continue to pace the back deck. I think better outside. If I was back home in Kentucky, I’d be down at the barn cleaning stalls. It’s a shit job, one that needs to be done, but it helps. The manual labor helps clear my mind and keeps my eye on the ball.
I’ve been thinking about putting in an herb garden just off of the deck, on the left. But I just don’t have the time to maintain it right now. As it is, the seasonal flowers I planted over the spring are slowly dying off. Frustrated and unable to look at the rot that is occurring, I slam back into the house. I walk over to the refrigerator and yank it open and grab a bottle of water.
The fresh air did my mood little good. Which pisses me off because it usually does the trick. I’m frustrated—emotionally and sexually—and there is no immediate light at the end of that proverbial tunnel. I know that I have to take things relatively slow with Claire. I can’t push too hard.
Doing what I do best, I pull the chair away from my desk and plan out the best way to begin my investigation on one Bradford Callahan III. I’m good at hacking, even better than Suzie. If Suzie knew just how good I was she’d want to join forces. I like her, I do, but the woman is relentless. I’ve had to cover my own tracks so that she doesn’t get too much information on my whereabouts in the mid-nineties and early two thousands. Susie is good—I’m better—but she has kept me on my toes. I even had to hack Mac’s email to keep some of my secrets.
Sitting down at my desk, I wake up my desktop. The collage of photos that I have of Claire pops up, and damn the woman amazes me. Looking back over the years of photos I have collected from Myspace and Facebook, I know that she has done her job. Sasha is fucking amazing. That kid is a combination of spit and vinegar like her aunt, but I’ll be damned if she isn’t regal and stand-offish just like her mom.
When you look at Sasha you can just see her brain working overtime. It fucking kills me that her learning disability has held her back in school. ADHD and a depth perception problem has hindered her since kindergarten, but neither has stopped her from pushing forward. I pulled the school records and found Claire fought tooth and nail to get Sasha classified. ADHD is typically not a disorder that plagues girls, but Claire was a pit bull that wouldn’t let loose. It did not make her popular with the school district. But it was her tenacity and the McEvoy last name that finally had the school caving and testing Sasha for a learning disorder.
Sasha is funny, kind, and witty as all get out. And if she feels comfortable enough around you, she lets loose of her quirky personality and genius brain. Just like her mom. Jesus the two together is a sight to behold. The love that they have for one another is amazing. It won’t surprise me in the least if Sasha rushes home tonight. Some kind of six sense the two have.
Maybe it’s because in a way they grew up together, or maybe it’s just because Claire commands that kind of love and loyalty from those around her. It isn’t a one-way street though. Claire gives as good as she gets. Quietly helping the single moms that work for the team, as well as the vendors for the stadium. Creating scholarships to help them go to college to better themselves. I’ve seen her bank statements. She has even paid for childcare and extracurricular activities.
Every penny that Claire has received from her grandparents and her parents has gone to either Zoey, Sasha, or a single parent struggling to support their child. What she has—the house, the car—she has paid for out of her own money. Money she has earned. Not the “family” money. In fact, with the exception of the car, apartment, and a trip to California when she was seventeen years old, Claire has not touched her inheritance except to help someone else.
I minimize the screen of the financial background check I’m currently doing on Brad because, with this man, everything has to do with money and I want to know where he stands financially. Pulling up the cameras at the training facility, I refocus on the issue at hand. Bradford Callahan. The bastard is walking out of his office and down the hall toward the gym and coaches’ offices.
“What are you up to, you bastard?”
Passing my office, the OC’s office, and all the others, Brad stops at Coach Smith’s door. Looking first left and then right, he pulls out something that I can’t make out. I make a mental note to go back and enhance the image. Brad fiddles with the door for exactly four and a half seconds and then turns the doorknob and pushes into the office. The entire time my gut is screaming at me, This isn’t happening! Please, God, this isn’t happening!
The team has cameras everywhere within the facility. Everywhere except inside the offices. Which means I can’t follow Brad inside Coach Smith’s office.
And the only thing I keep thinking is why would Brad be going into Coach Smith’s office?
Whatever it is…it can’t be to better the team.