Fulcrum (Dark Tide Book 4)

by Max Henry

  “She left him at his lowest.” I get a pointed stare from both the females in the room. “What?”

  “She did it for a reason,” Cassie explains.

  “He needs to be self-reliant, and I suppose that was the only way she knew how to force him to be.” Mom shrugs. “We don’t know the best way to handle him at times, and we’ve been doing this his whole life.”

  “Are we talking about Rey again?” Dad grumbles, joining the family unit.

  “We are.” Cassie glares at our father. “Talking about his faults.”

  “You make it sound as though he’s malfunctioning,” I gripe.

  “I think even Rey would agree that he kind of is.” Cassie twists her upper lip. “Anyway.” She slaps both hands on her leg. “I have some news I want to share.”

  “You’ve broken up with Jake again?” I ask.

  “You’re getting married?” Mom searches my sister’s hand for any sign of a ring.

  Dad glowers, arms folded where he sits in the chair beside Mom’s.

  “Uh, no.” She flicks her gaze between us. “I wanted to do this with Rey here, but since he decided to skip out, he can get the news secondhand.”

  “You’ve got a promotion,” Dad tries hopefully.

  Cassie groans, head thrown back. “I’m pregnant.”

  Mom squeals. Dad leans forward, hands braced on his knees. I just blink. I mean, her other half, Jake, is a great guy, but they’re on and off again more than my fucking coffee maker.

  “Was it planned?” Dad asks.

  “Clint,” Mom scolds. “That’s fantastic news, baby.” She rushes over to give my sister an awkward one-seated-one-standing hug. “My first grandbaby.”

  “That you know of,” Dad quips, giving me the side-eye.

  “It wouldn’t be mine.” I lift both hands. “I’m not that reckless.”

  “Um, hello.” Cassie frowns. “My news? My spotlight?”

  I point to Dad. “Blame him. I didn’t bring it up.”

  “All of you.” Mum sighs. “How far along, honey?”

  Cassie chews her bottom lip. “Sixteen weeks.”

  I do the math. “You and Jake weren’t together then.”

  “Is it even his?” Dad cries.

  “Jesus!” My sister flies out of her chair. “Yes. It’s Jake’s. We weren’t together, as such, but we were… working things through.”

  “He was working something.” I snicker.

  A cushion smacks the side of my head.

  “Kids!” Mum covers her face.

  “Oh well.” Dad rises from his seat. “Celebratory whiskey for everyone except the expecting mother, huh?”

  “Tease.” Cassie grins.

  And as always, our haphazard family is back to playing nice. Dad leaves the room to raid the liquor cabinet, and Mom flies out the hallway door muttering something about keepsakes. I sit in silence with my baby sis and hold her steady gaze.

  “Rug rat, huh?”

  She throws one shoulder up. “Yep.”

  “Planned?”

  Her eyes narrow, jaw firm, but then she softens with a sigh. “Clearly not.” Her irises flick to the doorway, voice lowering to a whisper. “But they don’t need to know that.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Honestly?”

  I nod. Honesty is always what I want.

  “Terrified.” She chuckles, high and stunted. “What if I screw it up?”

  “Being a mom? I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

  “Not being a mom. The kid.” Cassie draws a deep breath. “I see how Mom worries over Rey, and I don’t want to be the same way.”

  “You want to know a secret?” I lean forward, and she nods. “All moms worry.”

  “You’re no bloody help.” She flops her head on the back of the seat. “I’m scared, but I’m also excited.” She pins me with her crisp gaze. “It’s the next stage of my life. It’s an adventure of a different kind.”

  “Better way to look at it.” I pull my phone out and check the screen.

  “Expecting something.” She curls up on the seat again. “That’s the fifth time you’ve checked it since you got here this morning.”

  “Waiting on a reply.”

  “They can’t be worth your time if they leave you hanging. Rick?”

  I huff at her assumption. “Not this time.”

  She watches me without speaking another word, but I know what she expects: details.

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on. I just told you I have unplanned spawn, and you can’t tell me what has you so fidgety.” She lifts one eyebrow. “You’re never fidgety, big bro.”

  “Remember that journo who bought my details?”

  “Mmm.” Cassie’s lips flatten. “What’s she done now?”

  “What hasn’t she done.” I turn and check Mom isn’t in earshot. “I invited her to my place last weekend.”

  “You had a fucking sleepover with the woman?” Cassie’s eyes grow wide.

  “She didn’t stay the night,” I hiss. “Lower your voice.”

  “This is ridiculous.” She laughs, flicking her hair out with one hand before resting the side of her head on it. “We’re in our mid-twenties, and we’re still afraid of what our parents think.”

  “I’m not afraid.” I frown. “I don’t want everyone’s opinion on this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s complicated.” The same fucking word Jeanie used with me.

  “How.” Cassie folds her arms as Dad walks back in.

  I track his movement. “There’s an obvious conflict of interest.”

  “Conflict with what?” Dad passes me a whiskey.

  I take it and open my mouth before pausing to rethink what to say next.

  “With helping me choose a name for my offspring,” Cassie interjects. “He’d be biased.”

  “Why the hell would Toby help you choose?” Dad looks genuinely perplexed. “Isn’t that Jake’s job?”

  “That’s what I said.” I take a healthy swig of the liquor.

  “Here it is.” Mom strides into the room, a ratty old box clutched in her hands. “Let’s see what I kept in here and what you can use for your little one, Cassie.”

  “What is it?” My sister leans forward, curious as Mom opens the top. “Oh, my God. Is that our—”

  “Baby stuff.” I finish.

  “Look!” Mom tugs the first thing out, holding it in front of her. A tiny onesie. “This was what you came home in, Toby.”

  “Jesus,” my sister mutters. “You were enormous back then, too.”

  I flick her my middle finger.

  Mom doesn’t just trip down memory lane, she fucking sprints, tearing things out and arranging them over the floor and furniture in a twisted display of our infant years. Dad nurses his whiskey, faraway look in his eye while he lets her have the moment. I watch as Cassie slowly grows more excited, the idea taking roots now that she has us to share in the joy.

  My phone remains silent. My mood somber. I finish my drink and shift from the seat to take the empty glass to the kitchen. Cassie catches my hand as I pass by.

  “Let go of expectation,” she whispers. “What’s meant to be will be.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jeanie

  “Muthafucka” – Beware of Darkness

  It wasn’t until I toyed with the idea of moving away from this city that I started to appreciate what it has to offer. I’ve walked this exact path for years, every morning and afternoon, on my way to and from work. But today, I take the time to notice all the things I take for granted: the smooth pavement, at least four good cafes and coffee shops on my journey if I’m late for breakfast, plenty of streetlights for safety at night, the giant trees dotted every forty yards that provide shade from the sun and shelter from the rain. Fuck it—even their changing leaves through the season give the area a much-needed spot of natural beauty. A point of softness in an otherwise straight-angled and rigid environment.

  I don’t want t
o move from here. I want to stay. This is where I settled when I left college, and I’ve made plenty of good memories. Sure, my dream job would entail following the biggest names in music around the world, but if I had to come back to somewhere that made me feel comfortable so I could recharge, this would be it.

  Damn it—I know the guy at the game store two blocks over so well he texts me when a new title comes in before it hits the shelves.

  I like it in my neighborhood. Why do I get so angry at being left out of the transition? I hate Devon, I go nowhere at Better Beats, but the thought of being left behind makes me feel like the kid that didn’t get picked for the sports team.

  “Have I been talking to myself this whole time?”

  I snap out of my daze and cross the road with the others; my phone pressed to my ear. “Not the whole time.”

  Kelly huffs. “Where did I lose you. No. Actually, tell me why I lost you. What the hell is so exciting on the way to work?”

  “Nothing really. I just got sidetracked looking at the way the morning sun lights up the trees.”

  She pauses and then snorts. “Pardon? The trees?”

  “What? It’s not so weird.”

  “I think this is the first time you’ve said anything about trees to me.”

  “They look pretty, all orangey and stuff.”

  “Aaand that’s why you haven’t said anything before,” she teases. “Orangey? What sort of descriptor is that?”

  “One that requires fuck all effort,” I sass. “Anyway. Did you fix my problem or not?”

  “If you’d been listening,” she stresses. “You’d know that it has to be your choice. It doesn’t make jack shit what anyone else thinks, sis.”

  “You’re no bloody help.”

  “I’m not the one crushing on the subject of my work.”

  “He’s not the subject of my work anymore. That was the point. Remember?” I pull a few bills from my jacket pocket and stuff back the ones I don’t need. “Every time I think I’ve made a decision, I flip the other way.” I pause outside the four-foot-wide stall and switch my cash with the ready-made Americano my buddy Seely has waiting on the wooden server. He gives me a wave, and I blow him a kiss in return.

  The guy is pushing sixty and married with five kids; it’s purely platonic.

  “You’ve done a pros and cons list?”

  “Jesus, Kelly. He’s not a car loan.”

  She sighs. “You want me to convince you to say yes, don’t you?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Then why the fuck did you ring me?” she hollers.

  “Because I need you to tell me my reasons for saying no are valid as well.”

  “What are they again?”

  “I tried to blackmail him.”

  “Boring.”

  “He’s my literal arch-nemesis.”

  “Lies.”

  “We want the opposite thing.”

  “How?” she demands.

  “I want to make everything public. To weave a tale and share a story. He wants to hide out like a hermit when he’s not on stage.”

  “It’s not as though you’d always write about him, is it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Look.” I catch the ding of her work lift in the background. “All your excuses sound like exactly that to me—excuses. You’re looking for problems where there aren’t any yet.”

  “I tried to blackmail him,” I repeat slower.

  “You did blackmail him,” she corrects. “And it failed, fantastically. You said he doesn’t care about that anymore.”

  “Or so he says.”

  “Why the hell can’t you trust anyone? What the heck did we do to you as a kid?” I can tell she wants to swear—badly—but has to tone it down now she’s in the office building. “Worst case scenario, it doesn’t work out, and you had a one-time thing with that guy. Best case scenario I can buy your twin babies little studded belts.”

  I snort, coffee rocketing to the back of my nose. “Twins?” I cough my sinuses clear, wiping any possible dribbles from under my nostrils with the back of my wrist.

  “Okay. Maybe triplets.”

  “Settle down!”

  “Come on. You’d be going at it like rabbits, two hot pieces of ass like you guys; you’re bound to get multiples from all that passion.”

  “Are you not in the clinic yet?”

  “Lift all to myself.” She snickers. “Can you tell?”

  “Only a lot.” I stare at the frosted door into my office. “I’m at work now, anyway. Thanks, sis. Love you.”

  “Date the fucker,” she finishes. “Love you too.”

  I pocket my phone and take a sip of the coffee, head tilted back, and gaze roving over the windows of our second-floor space. I’d love to do what Toby said and walk away from Devon and his toxic nature. But I need a plan before I do that. Sensibility means knowing how to survive after acting on impulse, not sating the need for payback before thinking through the consequence.

  I push the door open and start the ascent, my stomach heavier the higher I climb. The hippie circle is in their usual morning position, and, curiously, Toby was right: Charles sits to Devon’s left. What the fuck?

  I bypass their power play and make a line for my desk, skimming in from the opposite side to avoid detection. I have to blink twice to believe what I see. A goddamn file box sits on my desk, the surface void of anything not fixed. My fingers fumble with the folded sides of the lid before I rip it off to find all my personal effects plus a couple of essential stationery items shoved inside. Even my fucking candies have been bagged separate and shoved into a cracked coffee cup.

  Manners took a trip with respect and skipped town on a fucking train called apathy.

  I storm across the office and lean down beside Devon, tapping him on the shoulder. He cracks one eye, peering at me in his periphery. “Can it wait?”

  “Nope.”

  His lid slides shut, and he expels a long breath. I take a step back to give him room to stand, arms folded while I wait on the poser to do a couple of yoga stretches. He doesn’t believe in this stuff. He only started doing it when he heard one of the Silicon Valley giants incorporated it into their daily routine.

  I follow Devon to his office, forgoing the door and leaving it open. Everyone around here is aware of my bullshit now; I’ve got nothing left to hide.

  “A copy box?” I start when he takes his seat and opts to look at me expectantly. “Subtle.”

  “I figured I’d save you the embarrassment of packing your things in front of everyone in the office.”

  “You packed my desk?” I scoff. “Unbelievable.”

  “Something you wanted to hide?”

  I narrow my gaze on the jerk. “Obviously, you would have found it if there was.” I’m not stupid enough to leave secrets lying around in a public space. Fuck me—how dumb does he think I am? “So, this is it, huh?” I throw my arms out to the side. “Downsizing.”

  He reclines in his seat, kicking both feet onto the desk and crossing them at the ankle. “Not at all.”

  “But you’ve laid me off.”

  “I fired you. Yes.”

  If he wants me to chip the answers from him with an ice pick, all he has to do is say—I’m down for that with my current mood. “Do I get an official explanation? Or just a forty-cent box and a have a nice day?”

  He chuckles. “You don’t deserve that much. I think the forty-cent box is sufficient.”

  “I can’t believe I ever valued your opinion.”

  “I can’t believe you were naïve enough to think I gave a shit.” He lifts one eyebrow.

  I get the urge to shave it off his fucking face. “When does it go live, then?”

  “Ask your friend. He already knows.”

  I shake. There isn’t a single inch of me willing to show him weakness, yet one mention of Toby and I turn to jelly. “You don’t mean Charles, do you?” He’s made his loyalty known.

  “Smart girl.” Devon leans forward and re
aches for a short stack of papers on his desk. He slides the top sheet free and sets it before him. “You’ll be paid until the end of this cycle, any holiday days owing included.” He scratches his signature on the bottom of the page and then holds it out for me. “I’ve given you a reference as a gesture of goodwill.”

  “You’re for real?” I snatch it out of his hand. The words are vague, rotary, and open to interpretation in many ways. “Thanks.” I fold it in half. “But I don’t need this to get where I want to go.” I shred it in half, half again, and then proceed to tear off segments to litter his floor.

  “Mature,” he quips. “You wonder why you’ve stagnated, Jeanie? Take a look at yourself. You have a hissy fit when you don’t get your way like a damn child.”

  “You plagiarized my work,” I holler.

  “And you violated your contract when you breached office confidentiality.”

  And there it is. The reason for the copy box on my desk. “When?”

  “Subjects of this publication are confidential until they go live on the site.” He hammers the end of his pointer into the desk as he speaks. “You know that. How else are we to keep ahead of the competition?”

  “I didn’t tell the competition anything!”

  “You told Toby fucking Thomas that we intended to go against our word and publish the opinion piece!”

  “Your word,” I shout, my anger reverberating off his glossy office walls. “That promise had nothing to do with me. You lied to him, and you broke it.”

  “You think I care?” He laughs. “I don’t give a fuck about some entitled prick in black denim with a megalomaniac complex. I give a fuck that one of my employees fucked us over by telling the prick before the story went live.”

  “What’s he done?” I fold my arms and narrow my glare. “He had to have done something to make you this pissy, right?”

  “His lawyer has served an injunction to try and stop the story from going live until they can get a gag order on it.”

  “And you’re worried they’ll win.”

  He barks a laugh and rises from his seat, rounding the desk while he talks. “Of course not. It’s pithy at best, not enough to warrant one being served. What makes me angry about it” —he leans in close— “is that it gives our opponents a heads up when the notes hit the court pages.”