Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3) (9 page)

O
wen
and I have just walked into
Aladdin’s Lamp
when my cellphone rings. I glance down at the display, but the caller id is blocked. Shrugging, I pick up. “This is Wyatt Lawless,” I say, as Owen heads to the back to look for Piper.

“Hello, son.”

I haven’t heard my father’s voice in twenty years.

Everything stops. I can’t hear the honks of the cabs, or the rumbling from the subway under my feet. The bustle of Manhattan recedes into the background.

My palms are damp and my fingers white where I grip the phone. My pulse races. One thought dominates.
I can’t have this conversation here. I can’t be overheard.

Pushing the door open, I go outside. Leaning against the brick wall, shaded by the newly installed blue and white awning, I take a deep breath. “What do you want?”

He responds to my question with one of his own. “Why don’t you want to meet me, Wyatt?”

Why don’t I want to meet him?
Is he fucking kidding me with this shit?
“Why would I want to meet you?” My voice is hard as steel, but my hands are shaking. “It’s been twenty years. You think you can just waltz back into my life and pretend everything’s fine?”

“I’m your father. You’re my son.”

“You forfeited the right to call me that when you walked out on mom and me.”

“When was the last time you stepped foot into that house, Wyatt?” At my silence, he laughs grimly. “Can you really blame me for leaving? Your mother would rummage through the trash and take out every empty can I discarded. She wouldn’t let me throw away anything. You remember the stacks of old newspapers in the living room, Wyatt? You remember the milk crates of old tin cans that lived on the couch? There was nowhere to cook a meal. No space to sit and drink a pint.” His voice is heavy with self-pity. “One day, I reached breaking point. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

I want to hang up, but I can’t. My fingers refuse to press the disconnect button. I keep listening, the words hammering into my brain, bringing back images of a past I’ve done my best to forget. Finally, when he stops talking to draw breath, I interrupt. “You abandoned a thirteen year old child when you left.” The sun’s beating down, but I’m chilled to the bone. “There’s nothing you can say that will excuse that. I have nothing to say to you.”

I end the call. For a very long time, I stare into the street, seeing but not registering the cars, the pedestrians, the rhythm of the city.

Finally, I rouse myself out of my stupor. My father is meaningless. I have a restaurant to fix.

But when I walk into the restaurant, I see Owen sitting at a table, gazing helplessly at the tears streaming down Piper’s cheeks.

M
y heart twists
painfully in my chest when I see Piper crying. I cross the room in long strides and pull up a chair next to her. “What’s the matter, honey?”

Her shoulders shake with her sobs, but she doesn’t reply.
What happened,
I mouth to Owen, who shakes his head. He doesn’t know either.

It kills me to see her so upset. A wave of wrath for whoever caused this surges over me. I put my arms around her and pat her on her back, while Owen laces his fingers in hers. “Piper,” I repeat. “Tell us what the problem is, and we’ll fix it.”

She feels so soft in my arms. Her hair smells like lavender and oranges, and it takes all the willpower I possess to keep from touching it, touching her. I’m bewildered by my emotions — I want to protect her and take care of her. I never want to see a tear in her eyes again.

She takes a deep breath, and shifts in my grip. I release her, jolted by the sense of loss I feel. “What happened?” I ask for the third time.

Owen wipes the tears away from her cheeks with his fingertips. “Please tell us, Piper.” His expression reflects the helplessness I’m feeling. “We’re here for you.”

She attempts a watery smile and holds out an envelope. “This happened,” she says, her voice catching in a hitch. “My parents have been at work.”

I scan the letter quickly, and my lips tighten. Owen reads it when I’m done, and his face turns grim. “We can handle this,” I soothe her. “We’re not trying to hide anything.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “They’re just looking for an excuse to control me.”

She sounds as if she’s given up. She’s been strong for so long, fighting to forge her own destiny. Her parents don’t want her to be happy — they just want to run her life.

“Parents should love and support their children,” I say quietly, placing my hand over hers. “But sometimes they don’t. I should know. My mother is a hoarder.”

Owen looks up, startled. I never talk about my childhood.

Only a few minutes ago, I walked outside so Piper and Owen wouldn’t overhear my conversation with my father, but it feels strangely liberating to reveal the truth. I’ve been living under the crushing weight of a secret for a very long time.

“My father left us when I was thirteen,” I continue. “When I was growing up, I learned quickly that my house wasn’t like the homes of my schoolmates, but I couldn’t risk asking anyone for help.”

“Wyatt.” She squeezes my hand tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not looking for your pity.”

She flinches, and I’m filled with shame. That came out harsher than I intended. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” My lips turn up in a small smile. “You feel betrayed by your parents. I can understand that feeling.”

Owen rests his hand on her thigh. “Don’t worry about your books. We’ll handle your accountant. You just worry about cooking.”

She draws a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“For leaning on your friends?” I brush a strand of hair back from her face. “You should never be sorry about that.”

She gives us a tremulous smile. “I have to stop letting my parents get to me,” she admits. “What about you, Owen? What are your parents like?”

What are your parents like, Owen?

How do I even begin to answer that question? Wyatt has bad memories of his childhood; I have only happy memories of mine. My mother laughed a lot. My father bought my mother flowers every Sunday because he loved her and wanted to make sure he always showed it.

“They’re dead.”

Piper draws a deep breath, probably to say something like
‘I’m so sorry’
. Before she does, I continue, almost blurting out the words. “They were killed.”

Her expression turns shocked. It’s Wyatt’s turn to look at me strangely.

“What happened?” she asks, then she flushes. “I’m sorry. That was nosy of me. If you’d rather not talk about it, I understand.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. It was seventeen years ago.”

I can feel the calluses on Piper’s hand, the cuts and burns that a chef earns, almost a badge of honor in the profession. The rest of her is soft. There’s a gentleness about Piper and a kindness that is so much a part of who she is. Sitting here, holding her hand, with Wyatt on the other side is almost enough to fill the void that was left when my parents and sister were killed.
Almost.

“My parents ran a restaurant in Dublin. In those days, the gangs were a lot more powerful than they are today. The Westies decided they wanted to use our restaurant as a base for their various dealings.”

I pause to draw a breath. When I first came to America, Mendez had arranged therapists for me, but my grief had been too close to the surface, and I hadn’t been ready to heal. I hadn’t wanted to find peace when my entire family lay dead. My happiness would have been a betrayal.

“My da didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice.” They’d distributed heroin from the back and they ran an illegal gambling ring after hours. That was why I knew exactly what to look for in Piper’s back yard. “One day, someone got shot outside our restaurant. My father saw it happen, and he agreed to testify in court.”

“My ma was afraid of the mob. Her father and brother were low-level members; she’d seen the brutality up close. But my father wanted to do the right thing.” I swallow. “The night before he was to take the stand, a gunman walked into the hotel where the police had hidden them, and he shot them. My mother, my father, and my baby sister.”

“Owen,” she whispers. She pulls me into a hug and envelops me in her warmth. “I’m so sorry.” In her embrace, the pain lifts, and I feel something I haven’t felt in seventeen years. Peace.

I could stay there forever. It is such a tempting vision. I could tell Mendez to fuck off. I could help Piper win the contest. I could…

Yeah, Lamb, what? You think Piper wants to get involved with Wyatt and you? You think she’s interested in your kinky shit?

Her breasts press against my chest. I fight the urge to run my hand along her curves, to cup those firm globes, to bend my mouth against her lips. “We should get moving,” I mutter. “We need to open for lunch in thirty minutes.”

Wyatt makes a strained sound of assent. Piper’s hand is still laced in his, and he’s made no move to free himself.

This is a very bad idea.

This is a worst idea in the world.

My fingers move of their own volition. I cup her chin in my hands and I lean in, so close to her face. I brush my lips against hers in a soft, fleeting kiss.

Her eyes meet mine. There’s confusion in her expression, but there’s also desire, and it’s that desire that has my heart hammering in my chest. I move my hand over the back of her neck and draw her in again, and this time, when I kiss her, she kisses me back with a passion that takes my breath away.

She tugs at Wyatt’s hand, drawing him closer. Wyatt makes an indistinct sound of need, before leaning in. He presses a kiss against her cheek, and she turns toward him, her expression tentative. “Piper,” he mutters. “You are like a drug in my veins.”

Their lips meet in a slow, soft kiss. I watch, my dick hardening. I want to drag her out of here, take her to the nearest horizontal surface, pull off her pants and dive into her.

Wyatt’s eyes are glazed with heat. His hands move up to cup her breasts over her shirt.

Just then, the front door opens with a squeak. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Josef says loudly as he walks in. “The stupid train was so fucking slow.”

The three of us pull apart. Piper jumps to her feet and rushes to the kitchen. Her face is flushed and her lips are swollen. Josef looks at Wyatt and me with curiosity. “How’s it going?” he asks, his voice belligerent.

Wyatt nods curtly. “You’re late.”

That shuts him up. “I’ll go help Chef Jackson,” he says, slipping away.

Wyatt exchanges a look with me. “What just happened?” he asks, his voice dazed.

I don’t know.
I have absolutely no idea.