Marcus crosses the room to me, his tie slightly askew as he wraps his arms around me, my fidgeting betraying my nerves. He lowers his face to mine and gives me a soft kiss, pulling back sooner than I’m ready for.
When I wrap my fingers behind his neck and try to kiss him again, he gives me a little shake of his head and a tiny smile. “I don’t want to muss you when we have to leave in a few minutes. But you obviously need to be calmed down.”
“I can fix my lipstick. Kissing me will calm me right down.”
With a low chuckle, he obliges, kissing me deeply until I relax into a puddle of goo, only the strength of his arms holding me up and in one piece.
This time when he breaks the kiss, I let him, blinking up at him slowly. “Let’s just skip this thing and stay here,” I whisper. “It’ll be boring and stuffy anyway. You’ll hate it.”
His laugh vibrates in my chest. “Probably. But you already told your parents we’d be there. I don’t want to give them any more reasons not to like me.”
I straighten at that, taking a half step back. “What are you talking about? They love you!”
His smile turns wry. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. Your mom’s always been nice to me, but your dad barely seems to tolerate me. The looks he gave me that weekend in the Berkshires …”
“What looks?”
He shakes his head. “The looks like he wanted to drag me out into the woods and shoot me and bury me in a shallow grave for having the nerve to touch his daughter.”
I lightly smack his chest. “He did not!”
“He was careful never to do it when you were paying attention.” He nods solemnly. “But yeah. Especially if I had my arm around you, or leaned in close to tell you something. That always earned me a death glare.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he laughs. “Yeah. That’s the look right there.”
Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Fine. Maybe you’re not his favorite person. All the more reason to bail tonight.”
“Nope. Not gonna happen. You always go to these things. I know it. You know it. Your parents know it. Much as I’d love to strip you down and do naughty things to you, we’ll have to wait till after the party.” The heated look on his face darkens into something closer to anger. “And there’s no way I’d let you go alone when I know that snake you call an ex will be there.”
I swallow, dropping my eyes to his tie, reaching up to straighten the knot and smooth the silk. I never told him about the confrontation at my parents’ house a few weeks ago. He already hates Mitchell, I figured I didn’t need to add any more fuel to that fire. But now I wonder if maybe I should’ve said something.
Before I can think about it anymore, there’s a buzz from my intercom and the on-duty concierge’s voice comes through. “Ms. Strickland? Your car is here.”
Pulling out of Marcus’s arms, I cross the room and push the button so I can respond. “Thank you, Susan. We’ll be right down.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marcus
The party is every bit as boring and stuffy as Kendra warned me it would be. Men in boring suits and women in boring dresses, strings of pearls circling their throats, mingle and talk about boring things. Since Mr. Strickland runs a venture capital company, you’d think these people would have interesting things to talk about—new startups, new inventions they’re excited to see take off, new ways to dominate market share in whatever thing they’re investing in.
But no.
It’s all bank accounts and hedge funds and bottom lines with just enough politics thrown in to turn my stomach.
I do not fit in here.
At least my tattoo is easily covered by my own stuffy suit, the ink not crawling high enough to show above my collar. Danny would stick out worse than me, with the colorful sleeves peeking below his cuffs, his gauged ears, and his staunch refusal to wear a tie. Ever. At awards shows, where it’s expected, he shows up with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, more ink showing on the exposed skin of his chest.
I’m the broody frontman. He’s the bad boy rocker on lead guitar. It makes for great headlines and lots of panties thrown on stage.
I sip my wine and glance around the room. Yeah, that definitely wouldn’t play with this set.
My eyes narrow when they snag on Mitchell across the room. He’s staring our way, his gaze locked on Kendra. My hand tightens around her waist involuntarily, and she stops mid-conversation and turns to me. “Everything okay?”
I tear my eyes away from that jackass and look at Kendra with a smile plastered on my face. “Yup. Peachy.”
She stares at me for a beat longer, her gaze assessing, the skin around her eyes tightening a fraction as she tries to decide why I’m bullshitting her. But she lets it go and turns back to the friend of her mother’s that she’s been making small talk with for the last several minutes. They’re talking about the benefit dinner she’s helping her mom plan—the one for the community music program.
The minute she told me about it, I said she could count me in. The rest of the guys too. That’s the kind of thing we always make time for when we can.
With our schedule unconfirmed until we actually get the album finalized, it’s easy to make sure we don’t schedule anything to conflict with that.
Music is the thread that holds my life together. It led me to Kendra, since we wouldn’t have met if I weren’t playing in the pit orchestra for the school play, it brought me my best friends, paid for my parents’ house, and let me make enough money to be able to schmooze with this crowd, even if I do feel painfully out of place.
I’m happy to help in any way I can to afford some other kid that kind of opportunity.
But as much as I don’t mind throwing my name and money behind these kinds of things, letting my fame draw more people with deep pockets, I don’t really care about the flowers for the centerpieces, the silent auction items (other than the one I’ll be donating, though I’m leaving the choice up to Kendra), or the catering menu for the night.
Well, I care a little bit about the catering menu. I want it to be good, since I’ll be there. But I trust Kendra not to feed me something nasty, so it’s not a priority concern.
Not like keeping an eye on that rat-faced weasel who wants to get back together with Kendra.
Not on my watch, asshole.
The high-pitched ting-ting-ting of silverware tapping on glass and amplified by the sound system pierces the constant murmur of conversation, drawing everyone’s attention to the dais with a microphone at the front of the room. Mr. Strickland, Kendra’s dad, is the one with the glass in hand, torturing us all with that godawful sound. Another man about the same age stands next to him.
Mercifully Mr. Strickland stops, clears his throat, and sets the glass and fork on the lectern in front of him. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I’m sure many of you are wondering what the occasion is behind all of this frivolity.”
I have to muffle my snort as he gestures around the room. Frivolity is not the word I would’ve chosen. Kendra shoots a glare in my direction, and I arrange my features into a look of polite interest.
Satisfied, she refocuses on her dad, who’s still blabbering about the frivolity of the evening.
He reaches up and grips the other man’s shoulder. “It pains me to announce that my good friend and longtime partner, James Cunningham, will be retiring at the end of the month.”
A collective gasp goes up around the room, the announcement a surprise to everyone. Mr. Strickland allows a moment for the murmurs to die down before he continues, but I’m not sure what the big deal is. Old white guys retire all the time.
I mean, I know Kendra’s dad works nonstop, and I’ve always figured he’d probably work till he drops dead of a heart attack, but good for this guy for getting out before that happens and deciding to enjoy his life.
Glancing around the room, I seem to be the only one feeling this way. Kendra’s gone pale, and she’s listening, rapt, her hand over her mouth. A few other peop
le mimic her stance, expressions varying from astonishment to dismay to disgruntlement.
But as I scan the room, I realize that no. I’m not the only one happy for the guy. Finding Mitchell again, he looks positively gleeful at the announcement of his father’s retirement.
That weasel is up to something. It’s written all over his weaselly face, and if I were close enough, I’m sure I’d see it in his beady little eyes.
With a concerted effort, I drag my attention away from him, returning it to the front of the room, where Mr. Strickland is giving the other guy a hug, complete with slaps on the back and gripping of biceps as they part. I know they’ve been in business together for something like thirty years, so I understand why this is a big deal to them.
Sipping my wine, I scan the room again, letting my gaze settle on Kendra. At least I don’t have to worry about this affecting her too much. Not directly, anyway.
She has a trust fund from her grandparents on both sides that she’s already drawing from now that she’s graduated from college. Plus, she’ll inherit everything from her parents as their only child.
And she’s got me. Even if all that went up in smoke, I’d make sure she always has everything she needs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kendra
Shock.
That’s the only word that describes how I’m feeling.
James Cunningham, my dad’s longtime partner and best friend, Mitchell’s father, is retiring.
How long has this been in the works?
My mind ticks back to that tea I had with my mother when I knew she was lying about something going on with Dad. This must be what she was talking about.
Why wouldn’t she tell me?
I’m not the only one surprised by the announcement. The consternation on the faces near me and astonished murmurs rippling through the room make it clear that no one expected this.
But the way my parents were pushing me to date Mitchell, the wedding talk so soon after we started dating …
My parents knew this was coming. Soon. Even then.
Mitchell’s been working for his dad since he was in high school, interning there in college, and starting before the ink had even dried on his degree. I’m sure they’ll have a smooth transition of him taking over for his dad.
Does that mean they’ll hire a new person, though? Because Mitchell’s been bringing in his own accounts, and there’s no way that he can handle his existing accounts and take over his dad’s. He was already working close to a hundred hours a week before this.
And there’s my dad. I take a long, hard look at him as he steps down from the podium, cataloguing the new wrinkles, the grayer hair, the signs of aging that I’ve been ignoring. In my mind he’s still the energetic man who used to chase me around the house as a little girl, getting in tickle fights with me, dancing with me on his feet in the living room before picking me up and swinging me around in his arms.
If Mitchell’s dad is retiring, does that mean Dad is thinking about it too?
What will happen to all his clients?
He doesn’t have a son to pass his half of the business to. A pang of something like guilt shoots through me at that thought.
My dad loves me, I’ve never doubted that, but he’s old school, wishing for a son to groom to take over the business. It doesn’t help that I’ve never had any interest. Or maybe it does, saving us both a lifetime of frustration. If I were a boy with zero interest, that would be painful for both of us. Or if I were interested and he still didn’t want to train me to eventually take over, that would be detrimental to our relationship for sure.
But my parents had me later in life, my mom having suffered a string of miscarriages before finally carrying me to term. When I was a kid and asked for a little brother or sister, they always told me I was such a perfect baby that they didn’t think they could get so lucky twice. As I grew up and learned the reality of how difficult having even one child had been for them, I realized that they weren’t willing to risk the emotional toll of either more miscarriages, the dashed hopes, or the constant worry that something would go wrong even if the pregnancy went perfectly.
I’ve never considered that my dad might want to retire sooner than later, but seeing his friend decide to step back from the business they built from scratch … is Dad’s getting tired of working? He’s always said that work gave him purpose, something to do, and he’d be bored sitting around all day.
But now that he’s in his sixties, is that still true? It’s not like he and Mom couldn’t stay busy doing other things.
James says a few words, thanking everyone for coming and their support over the years, but I barely hear anything. My attention is all on my dad at first, then I scan the room, searching for my mom.
She’s standing near the front, one arm around Ellen, Mitchell’s mom, both of them watching their husbands at the front of the room, neither of them surprised. Well, at least they knew ahead of time. With these men, it could easily go either way.
I reach back and squeeze Marcus’s arm that he has wrapped around my waist, drawing his eyes to my face. “I’m going to go see my mom,” I murmur quietly, since my dad’s talking again.
At his nod, I slip away, letting my hand drag down the smooth fabric of his suit, squeezing his fingers before letting go.
When I reach my mom, Dad and James have wrapped up, stepping away from the microphone to hug once more before mingling with the people here. Mom lets go of Ellen to give me a hug.
“Mom, why didn’t you tell me this was what tonight was about?”
She presses her lips together in an almost smile. “I couldn’t. You know how your father is about company secrets.”
My eyebrows creep up my forehead. “But I’m your daughter.”
Her arms wrap around me again. “I know, baby girl. I told your father to tell you, but he’s been so busy preparing for James’s retirement announcement and minimizing the panic that will surely come as a result. You know that James courted so many of the investors personally, so without him around, there’s a chance they’ll pull back or leave the firm altogether.” She presses her lips together, like she wants to say more but stops herself and glances to the side. Then she shakes her head and refocuses on me. “And you’ve been so busy with Marcus …”
I step back. “No. Don’t try to pin this on me. A five minute phone call isn’t too much to ask.”
She reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers drifting down my face, her gaze soft. “I know. But your dad doesn’t see that you have a vested interest in the business anymore.”
“How can—?” I can’t even finish the question, choking on my own frustration.
Mom squeezes my arm. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I am. You should schedule time to talk to your dad and tell him how you feel. You know he’ll make time for you.”
Realizing I’m not going to get anywhere right now, not here at a party full of their friends and clients, investors and startup CEOs alike, I cross my arms and take another step back. “Right. I’ll do that.” Never mind how galling it is to have to schedule an appointment with my own father. But he’s busy, rarely home when I’m at their house unless it’s a scheduled family dinner or other get-together. And those are always attended by other people as well—the Cunninghams, new investors they’re trying to convince to sink money into the companies their firm supports, old investors who need to be stroked from time to time to keep them happy.
Now that I’m an adult, dropping in is frowned upon as disruptive and rude, no longer indulged like when I was a child.
Or maybe my mom scheduled those drop-ins for me, and I never knew they were less spontaneous than they seemed. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true.
Shoving down my irritation, I smooth down my dress. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
My mom squeezes my arm once more as I step away, heading for the doors of the event space—one of the smaller venues Dad’s company favors, not a hotel bal
lroom, since it’s only a cocktail party—slipping out to find a bathroom to compose myself before finding Marcus again.
Before I get far, a hand on my arm stops me.
Turning, I find myself face to face with Mitchell. In a hallway, sequestered from the music and chatter of the party.
Alone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marcus
When Kendra slips out the doors, I move to the edge of the room, grabbing a few canapés and another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. A younger woman—I’d peg her as mid-thirties, which is young compared to this crowd at least, even if she’s older than me—approaches me, eyes narrowed as she scans my face and body.
Stopping in front of me, she taps her lip with a manicured forefinger. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
I give her a quick once over, taking her in. She’s pretty—though nothing compared to Kendra in my opinion—with blond hair, the color probably created in a salon, pulled back in a tasteful updo. Stylish, but conservative dress, glittering jewelry at her wrist, ears, and throat. I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I’m sure she recognizes me, but I don’t want to get into a fan meet and greet here. I don’t think that would win me any points with the Stricklands, and I’d really like them to not hate me. Not that I think they do, but I don’t want to give them any reason to either.
She’s not deterred by my denial. “No, I’m sure I’ve seen you before. Are you a member of the—”
Before she can finish her sentence, my attention is snagged by the door opening and closing. But it’s not Kendra coming back in. It’s Mitchell going out.
Eyes refocusing on the blonde in front of me, I realize she’s been talking and is waiting for my answer, but I don’t have time for this right now. I need to get to Kendra. Because if Mitchell saw her leave and is heading after her, she’ll need my help sooner than later.
Anything You Need (Cataclysm Book 1) Page 13
