For months, she’d been sniffing out Cash’s crotch for a scrap of hope at getting laid, but he avoided her like a bad case of syphilis. In turn, she’d decided to make my life miserable. Total fairness.
I wanted to take a twenty out of my purse, slap it on the counter, and tell Gloria to put it toward a vibrator so she could clear the cobwebs out of her stench trench. Instead, I proudly took the high road. I bit back my retort and balled my fists, elbowing her out of the way as I walked down the hall to my office. Home away from home…or more like hideout from Gloria Peterson.
I tossed my purse on the cheap, metal desk and flopped into the uneven chair. One wheel was permanently an inch off the floor, a stock feature which drove me bat shit crazy. Twin spreadsheets loomed on the flickering screen from the night prior. It was part of a tedious project set forth by Price Jensen himself. Three days later with a condescending tone, he’d likely tell me he wanted the information rearranged, written in hieroglyphics, or presented on a platter with a gold-plated garnish. He had the ability to shat on me too. It was standard Price and a Jensen specialty. Any way I looked at it, I could never win with the roadblocks he built.
My purse buzzed. I need to think about changing my number again. I had a weak moment and gave Daveigh my new digits after I’d moved to Sacramento. At that moment, I regretted it.
Looking between the monitor and my purse, I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of the two evils. “Ugh. She’s not going to give up.” I threw my arms in the air. “Fine. You win!”
Reading the most recent text message, it was Daveigh’s style—vague and dramatic.
‘Veigh
BLUE ANN BRENNAN! CALL ME ASAP. 911. PRONTO. NOW. URGENT. I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE FUCKING YOUR CELEBRITY CRUSH, WHETHER YOU’RE ON THE POT, OR IF YOU’RE HAVING A BEER WITH THE PRESIDENT.
Pursing my lips, I held the phone in my hand, the weight of the impending conversation heavy. All caps with Daveigh wasn’t a good situation. It was too late though. My mistake was opening the text message, so a time stamp proved I’d read more than the preview. Pandora’s Box was about to open if I gave in. Tapping my index finger on the keyboard, I contemplated my options one last time before dialing my sister’s number. If I didn’t get it over with, she wouldn’t stop, and I’d end up in a straitjacket by dinnertime.
One ring.
Daveigh’s definition of “urgent” was likely a shoe crisis, details on her latest male conquest, or whether or not a dress made her ass look fat. Most of the time, I was a pro at evading her, but I’m not sure what made me buckle so quickly. Maybe I was getting soft. Nah.
After two more rings, much to my dismay, the line opened.
“Blue! It’s about fucking time. Where the hell have you been?” a female voice reprimanded. “I’ve texted you a hundred times now. For hours.”
I glanced at the three text messages on my phone and rolled my eyes. It was an exaggeration, but I remained calm. “Nice to hear from you too, Daveigh. It’s been what? Six months? Maybe seven since we last spoke?”
She ignored my question and sighed. “You never answer. Ever. Let’s not do this. Not today.”
“Let’s not do what?” I asked. “Our usual avoid-each-other dance? But we’re so good at it, even though I’m not sure who leads and who follows anymore.”
“Please don’t pick a fight. This is important.”
“Obviously. I can tell by your parental tone and use of capital letters in text, little sister.” I paused. “Well? What is it? I stopped fucking my favorite movie star while on the porcelain throne. You should’ve been there. It was pretty impressive since the president and I were about to toast with our beers, and—”
“Stop,” Daveigh demanded.
“What is so damn important?” I snapped. “Do you need me to tell you which pair of shoes matches your outfit better? Did the bikini barista stand fire you again for hooking up with that rent-a-cop? Did Steele Falls go up in flames? What? What is it?”
“His name is Gene, and he’s a private security guard. We broke up a long time ago.”
“Whatever.” I huffed. “There’s no doubt in my mind a new man in uniform took his place.”
“This really isn’t the time for your specialty brand of snark.” There was a hitch in her voice, and I knew from experience tears were on the horizon. “You and I have had our share of issues, but…”
I leaned back into the chair and closed my eyes. It wasn’t like Daveigh to get worked up on the phone. Evening my tone, I brought my voice down an octave. “What’s going on?”
Her words were a mix of garbled sobs, but I could still understand her without a doubt. “It’s Daddy. He’s dead.”
I spoke a string of words with my mouth gaping open and the wind knocked out of my lungs. Well, at least I thought I said something intelligent. My brain refused to reply again and again—like a stalled car. The engine wouldn’t turn over. Outside of the cheap wall clock’s tick, it was quiet. Even it didn’t function with a broken second hand that constantly quivered at 39 seconds, never quite able to make it to 40. I often wondered if it were purposely placed in my office by Price as a joke. It was The Little Engine That Couldn’t.
“Are you still there?” Daveigh asked.
“I…I think so.” Fortunately, I was seated. Numbness coursed through my arms and legs.
A flurry of emotions swilled and sloshed through my stomach like the morning after too many frozen margaritas at a sorority party. Nausea. Sadness. Regret. Pain. Confusion. All of those feelings should’ve been present, but they faded within seconds of crossing my mind. They were the reasonable and expected reactions to have when someone died. One sentiment took hold within me above all others though. As much as I didn’t want to admit it aloud because it’d make me sound like a cruel bitch, I was mostly relieved.
Silence.
“Say something,” Daveigh said. “He had a massive stroke, and Mommy found him in the garage by the deep freezer, next to that nudie poster on the wall.”
“Give me a second here to process. You dropped a bomb on me.”
“There isn’t time to assess your feelings. You have to come here and—”
“Whoa! Back your fantasy train up for a sec, ‘Veigh. I’m not coming to Steele Falls,” I said. “Huh uh. No way.”
“But there’ll be a funeral. You’ll be the only sibling who won’t—”
“And there’ll still be a funeral without me. Look, I’ve spent too long moving on from everything that happened there, and I’m not about to relive all of it by coming back to attend that man’s burial.”
“That man was your dad, Blue. You have to come,” Daveigh said. “It’s all written into the will. If you aren’t here when the lawyer meets with Mommy on Wednesday, you won’t get anything.”
“Step.”
“What?” she over-enunciated the ‘t’.
“Step-father. He wasn’t my dad, and I’ll never refer to him as that.”
“Whatever. He raised you since you were a toddler.”
“Raised is a stretch. If you call teaching me how to cheat at blackjack or how to cure a hangover after a Friday night bender or how to swing punches ‘raised’, sure. He raised me. I don’t want anything of his,” I said matter-of-factly, leaning back in the chair with my arms folded. “Not a damn thing.”
“You don’t get it. Quit sitting there with your arms crossed, being stubborn. No one will get anything if one of us isn’t there. Not Mommy. Not me. Not Finn. No one. This thing’s wrapped with enough shiny, red tape to make Santa jealous.”
I pursed my lips and unfolded my arms, annoyed Daveigh could peg how I was positioned from miles away. “This ‘thing’? What are you talking about? Washington’s a community property state. Mom gets everything. Game over.”
More silence. It was becoming an unwanted theme.
I felt my tone souring further. “Hello?”
“Look. I really didn’t want to tell you this over the phone, but I don’t think you’ll believe me or come home unless I tell you the truth.”
“What truth?” I sat up in my chair and fiddled with the desk calendar, my heart racing in my chest. Could she possibly know? “What on earth could make me drop everything to come back?”
“Mommy and Daddy weren’t ever married. Daddy kept most of his money separated from her, and—”
“What do you mean they were never married?” I asked, tension releasing from my shoulders. It wasn’t the disaster I expected her to uncover. In other news, my sister was delusional with her psychobabble.
“I mean, a wedding didn’t happen. Have you ever seen a picture of a white dress? First dance? Smashing cake in each other’s faces? Giant after party?”
“Well, no, but the rings…”
“Think about it. Anyone can wear a piece of jewelry on their finger and get their name changed. Hell, I could go buy a cheap hunk of metal, change my name, and preach to the world I’m married to you today. No one would know the truth.”
“Please don’t. That’s weird.”
“I’m not going to actually do it, but I’m trying to make a point,” she replied.
“Well, it’s still community property, and after seven years—”
“Washington isn’t common law. The majority of his assets are all out of state. They’re in another woman’s name, and everything has to go through her. Plus, Mommy’s married. There are so many fucking complications with this situation that—”
“Hold on. We’ve moved from the fantasy train over to the merry-go-round. Stop the carousel. I’m dizzy and need to get off. You said they weren’t married. Now, they are?”
“Exactly. ‘They’ weren’t. But she was married to that other wackadoo when she was eighteen.”
“You mean my birth father?” I asked with a monotone voice.
“Yeah, him. And you know how he took off with that bimbo door-to-door makeup saleswoman from Idaho? Well, Mommy never bothered to pursue a divorce.”
“Why wouldn’t she? She hates Shane as much as I do,” I said.
“Um. You do know Mommy, right? Pretty sure that’s not a topic that’d ever come up in any conversation. Like ever.”
As crazy as the whole scenario sounded, she was correct about that part. My mother would never admit any wrongdoing to her children. It wasn’t her style. Anything shady and questionable was skirted around with explosions of festive glitter and vibrant rainbows shooting out of her ass. All in the name of maintaining her gleaming image.
My mouth went dry as I thought of the arguments with my step-father, temporarily allowing the news from Daveigh to fall by the wayside. The screaming fits. The throwing. The drinking. The gambling. All of it. The numerous times my mom threw herself pity parties when she thought she was alone, saying she’d wanted to leave, but couldn’t because she’d lose everything. Lies. When you’ve got nothing to lose, nothing from nothing is still…nothing. I could finally see through that ridiculous façade of glitter and rainbows. She couldn’t handle being alone or risk having her notch on the political ladder get knocked down a peg or two.
Suddenly, I remembered I was still at work when Gloria’s laugh tittered down the hall, breaking the silence like a shrieking banshee. The room felt too hot. Too small. Too constricting. “Daveigh, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Are you coming? I want to tell Mommy whether—”
“I said I have to go.” I ended the call with the press of a button.
Shock took hold of me by the throat with spindly fingers and razor-sharp nails, gripping tighter and tighter with each attempted breath I took. All of it was so unexpected. I’d spent plenty of time forgetting the past and shoving it away, but all it took was a few words from my baby sister to bring everything to the surface again. Part of me was tired, so exhausted from enduring the fight. And at that moment, I’d officially had enough. I cracked. Broken.
With shaky hands, I turned off my computer monitor, picked up my purse, and forced myself to walk down the hall to Cash’s office. He was on the tail end of a phone conversation, using his signature, fake laugh as he admired himself in a full-length mirror. His gaze flicked to me in the reflection for a brief moment.
I waited at the doorway and cleared my throat when I saw him wink at himself and alternate flexing his biceps. Seriously?
Cash waved me in with a grandiose arm gesture as he set the phone back on its cradle. “Ms. Brennan, what do I owe the pleasure?” He paused as he looked at my wet clothing. “Did you have an accident?”
“No.” I sighed. “Don’t ask.” I partially closed the door behind me, leaving it open three inches so Cash wouldn’t get any ideas about a morning quickie. And I mean quickie. “It’s just…I need some time off.”
“Time off? Everything okay?” Cash furrowed his brow, concern spanning his face.
“Fine. I need to go home for a few days. Maybe a week.” Family wasn’t a topic I’d discussed with Cash in our arrangement, and he’d never asked because his tongue was too busy burying itself in my throat. The pronunciation of my sister’s name was as deep as it’d gone after he’d thought I was involved with a dude named Davy.
“If this is about the apartment crack I made this morning—”
“No, not my apartment ‘home’. My hometown. Steele Falls. Back in Washington.” Calling it my hometown made me grimace, as if I’d swallowed a dose of bitter medicine. That was how much I despised my roots. Part of me felt badly about lying to Cash. I had zero intention of hopping on a plane and flying to the little Podunk city, but I knew I needed a break. From reality. From work. From Cash and Price Jensen. From everything. Even if it meant hiding out under the covers in my Sacramento apartment for a few days with my two boyfriends, Ben and Jerry, and a case or three of boxed wine. I needed to find a way to reset myself. Being drunk and on a sugar-high for a week sounded like a legit way to medicate.
Cash tried to read me as he stroked his clean-shaven chin.
“It’s no big deal. Really. Family matter. I should be back by next Friday. Monday at the latest.”
“N…next Friday?” Cash sounded surprised as he stumbled over the words.
“Yeah,” I replied. “You know, it’s that day of the week that comes after Thursday. Do we need to review a calendar again?”
“Blue, we should talk.” He leaned back against his desk and let a deep breath out through his nose as he slid his hands into the pockets of his designer slacks. “It’s not a good time because—”
“Look, I’ve never missed a day, I’ve bent over backward for this company, and I haven’t taken any vacation time since I started working here. There’s more than a month of leave racked up in my account. All I’m asking for is a few days and some understanding. Please?”
A pregnant pause loomed. “You’ve made some valid points.” Then, the conversation curved like a fucking boomerang. “But what’s Mini Cash going to do without you?” He gestured toward his dick for the second time that day. Well, it was the second instance I’d taken note of. After a while, I’d become immune to a lot of his innuendoes.
“You make it sound like I’m leaving permanently.” I narrowed my eyes. “I’m sure you and your right hand are well-acquainted and can make magic happen.”
“It doesn’t set the same mood when you’re not there.” He pouted.
“Light some candles. Play some Marvin Gaye. Watch some lesbian porn,” I said. “Figure it out.”
“Okay. You win.” He chuckled and held his hands up, palms out in a gesture of defeat. “Do me a favor though? Make sure you check in with Price on your way. He’s got a nine o’clock, but you can still catch him in his office. I’m stepping out for an early lunch.”
“It’s eight forty-five in the morning.” I scrutinized his face. “Did your appetite suddenly move to Florida where it’s three hours later?”
“The stomach wants what it wants. Today, it’s begging for a pastrami on rye from twenty miles away.” Cash smiled. “Now, kiss me goodbye like you mean it.”
“Not a wise idea with Price down the hall and the door open.” I reached out to shake his hand.
Cash turned down my request and crossed his arms. I knew it was another instance of him not taking “no” for an answer.
With as much emotion as I could muster, I replied, “Fine. We can go to that dumb sushi restaurant when I get back.”
“Atta girl.” Cash licked his lips. “Then, we’ll hit up my place for some muffin stuffin’.”
“Uh huh. Can’t wait.” Paranoid Gloria was in earshot, I was cautious of my words as I told Cash a rushed and platonic goodbye, making my way down to Price’s office.
As usual, the entryway was cold, both in temperature and in mood. Price’s office had always been the most sterile in the building, even more so than the surgery suites. White walls. White furniture. White floor. Not a drop of color existed in the room outside of the man himself. Like he wanted to be under the spotlight, the main focal point. I cleared my throat. “Mr. Jensen?”
A man looked up at me from his desk as I knocked on the open door. He looked like Cash, but a lot older and with a lot less hair. Same icy blue eyes. Same suntanned skin. Same muscular physique. But the receding hairline and valleys of wrinkles spreading near his eyes? They were the dead giveaways, swapping his youth for sophistication and power. Cash was only two years younger than Price, but that one extra percent of the company’s ownership aged him physically by more than a decade.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
Blue Page 3
