DEBT

by Jessica Gadziala

  Then suddenly, I was turning with no help from my own body. Byron's arm went around my back, the other raised, his hand snagging my chin and forcing it up. "Hey," he said. And just like that, the second my gaze found his and saw something there, something I hadn't thought he possessed: compassion, that was when the dam inside broke. The tears broke free and slid down my cheeks as I tried to pull my face from his grip, duck my head, and try to save a little bit of my dignity.

  Surprisingly, he let me go. But only because suddenly I was crushed against his chest, his arms going tight around me, holding me there.

  And the only feeling that broke through all the swirling despair inside was: safe.

  It felt safe there, like that, with him, even when I felt like my life was crumbling around me.

  "You need to talk to him," he said, and I could feel his mouth moving against the side of my head like he ducked his head down toward me.

  "I have talked to him," I sniffled. "I've talked and talked and talked..."

  "Yeah, babe, but did you ever fucking say anything?"

  "What are you talking about?" I snapped, glad for the small spark of anger, almost grateful to him for it. Even if it was, in a way, at my own expense. "I have said plenty. About how he needs help. He needs to..."

  "No, babe," he said, pulling back and looking down at me. "Did you ever say anything? Does he know how your life is utterly fucked because of him? Does he know that you're fucking terrified every time he goes out that you might be the one footing the bill again? Does he know you gave up a dream because of his fucking up? Does he know that shit? Have you ever actually said anything?"

  And, well, when he put it that way, no I hadn't.

  I always focused it on him, what he needed to do to get better, to make his life better. I always tried to keep my selfishness out of it.

  "It's not about me," I said, shaking my head.

  "Like fuck it's not about you. You're the one walking around my house in clothes you hate, doing shit you don't want to do, not him. You're the one with empty bank accounts. You're the one with a car that is older than fucking dirt. You're the one with a pit in your stomach all the time. It's fucking about you. So stop being such a fucking pussy and tell him that." It was harsh, but his words weren't hard. If anything, they were soft, borderline sweet. "You're not doing him any favors by acting like what he does doesn't affect you. What the fuck kind of relationship is built on a lie that big?" he asked, reaching up and swiping the wetness off my cheeks.

  "It's not that eas..."

  "I didn't say it would be easy. I said to man the fuck up and handle it. Nothing that matters is easy. You want him to keep living? You want him to stop throwing his life away at the tables and the tracks... nothing about making that happen will be easy. So stop making excuses, stop bleeding your heart all over the issue, and handle it."

  With that, his arm fell from around me and he took a step back, then turned and strode back across the catwalk toward the door to the security room. I took a minute, wiping my cheeks, sniffling, blinking some of the redness out of my eyes, before turning and making my way back as well, grabbing my heels, but not slipping into them until I was safely back inside the room.

  "Come on," Byron said, nodding his chin at me.

  "What now? Going to take me to see my mother living all happily with her new family?" I grumbled childishly which only managed to make his lips twitch.

  "No, now you're gonna put your big girl panties on and handle this shit while it's fresh."

  "What are you..." I started to ask as I followed him out toward the elevator.

  "Taking you down to my office where Aaron is bringing your father. Talk it out. Get him into a treatment facility. I have a list of in-treatment places. You two hash it out, but, babe, let me tell you," he said, turning to face me fully in the elevator and it took everything in me to not shrink away, "you two aren't coming out until you do."

  "Jesus, what is with this God complex of yours?" I snapped, more to cover the swirling feeling in my belly at the idea of confronting my father, of spilling my heart, my disappointments, my resentments, my fears, than actual anger toward him for pushing me to do so.

  "Let's put it this way," he said as the elevator slid open. He didn't finish until he led us down a hall and stopped in front of a door where Aaron was keeping guard from a few discreet feet away. "Get your father into in-treatment. Because you don't get your freedom until his ass gets back out again, all repentant and steering the fuck clear of my tables."

  With that, he turned and stormed away, leaving me to watch after him for a minute.

  I turned to Aaron who was watching me, his eyes kind, his lips tipped up in a humorless smile.

  I knew his job was to make sure I handled what I was told to.

  There was no getting away with it.

  So with my belly clenching painfully, I turned, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Because, fact of the matter was, Byron was right. Damn him.

  It was time.

  No matter how much it hurt, how hard it was to peel back the bandage and show my bleeding, open wounds, I knew they would never do anything but fester if I didn't air them out and let them heal.

  And somehow, I was indebted to Byron freaking St. James for that.

  NINE

  Byron

  I had barely made it into the break room before Aaron was hot on my heels.

  "Was that really fucking necessary?" he asked, his tone a little dead.

  "Yes," I said, going to the coffee pot and pouring two cups.

  "She was crying."

  "Yep," I agreed, putting cream into his, then turning and handing him one of the cups.

  "Couldn't have eased her into it?" He asked. Aaron, always the bleeding fucking heart. It was a strange quality to find in a security manager, but somehow he made it work.

  "No," I said, leaning back against the counter and rolling some of the tension out of my shoulders. First, because of all that shit that went on out on that catwalk. But also because I'd fucking had her in my bed, hot and willing, when the God damn call came in.

  "Going to explain?" Aaron asked, raising a brow, leaning back against the door jamb.

  "She's so fucking repressed. Everything she does or says, save for fucking snapping at me, is calculated, thought out. She doesn't do shit in the heat of the moment. She needed to get upset and then she needed to immediately take that and direct it where it belongs."

  "At her father."

  "His daughter is living under my roof like she's in some kind of fucking debtors' prison from the nineteenth century and he still can't keep his ass from my tables? Fuck yeah, at her father."

  "Alright, By," Aaron said, carefully choosing his words. "What the fuck is it with you and this girl?"

  "There's nothing with me and this girl. She's living in my house. Her father owes me a fuckton of money..."

  "Yeah, exactly. Her father owes you a fuckton of money and yet she is living in your house. And you're staging a fucking impromptu intervention? What is that all..."

  "She told me you said I was a nice guy."

  "Yeah, maybe that was a bit of a stretch," he admitted with a small, evil little grin. "You can be a ruthless, heartless bastard, but usually only when it matters. And you don't just fucking... take women in exchange for debts owed to you. So, I'll repeat: what is it with you and this girl?" He paused and when I didn't answer, shrugged a shoulder. "She's pretty. I'll give you that. But not drop-dead gorgeous. Very girl next door which has never been your thing. She's got a nice body, but again... you've had better. And, well, she hates your fucking guts, man. Nothing about getting her seems like it would be easy."

  "Maybe I'm getting a little old for easy," I said with a shrug.

  To that, Aaron's confused face broke out into a shit-eating grin. "You're not serious. You can't be thinking about trying to... date her?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," I said, shaking my head
. "She's in my house, parading around in barely more than underwear, spitting fire at me all day and night..."

  "So you just want to fuck her and brush her aside. Classy, By."

  "How the fuck is this news? Ever know me to parade around with the same woman on my arm week after week?"

  "So you're gonna get her in bed then keep forcing her to wash your sheets?"

  "Something like that."

  Probably.

  I just needed to get her out of my system. That was the problem.

  I hoped.

  TEN

  Prue

  I won't lie.

  It hurt.

  Every word out of my mouth was forced, was like ripping a layer of skin off. It burned. It made me choke on my words. It made me cry so hard that I couldn't even get coherent words out at one point. And every single one I did get out seemed to pierce my father's heart. His usually jovial, kind, loving face simply... crumpled. It was like I reached out, grabbed him, and wrung every last drop of happiness from his body.

  But, I realized, as I finally got it all out and cradled my face in my hands, trying to pull it together, it made me feel lighter, like a weight was lifted off my chest and shoulders, like I could breathe again and walk without feeling like I was going to collapse under the burden of everything I had never said.

  "Where's the list, Dear Prudence?" my father's small voice asked through my sniffles. Small. My father's voice always burst out, like his body wasn't strong enough to hold it in. It was always larger than life, filling the room. To hear it shrunken made me have to fight another wave of tears.

  But I blinked it back and looked around Byron's desk, realizing he hadn't given me any kind of instruction on where to find that information. His desk, like his desk in his home office, was orderly. Everything seemed to have a place and be in it. The drawers had files that I didn't dare open. I swiveled the chair and looked on the cradenza, finding a metal file holder with labeled folders. One was for car companies. Another was listed 'others, x'. And, finally, a folder with 'rehabs' written on top. I grabbed it, pulling out a sheet of paper and handing it to my father, barely able to meet his eye.

  "I've never done in-patient," he told me unnecessarily. No one knew that fact better than me. "They're expensive."

  "Don't worry about the cost," I said, though my belly was swirling with worry about it. But I would find a way. I always did. Besides, if it put him on the path to recovery, whatever it cost would likely be way cheaper than a life of continuing to bail him out.

  "I guess Dover Clinic sounds fine," he said, shrugging and reaching for his cell. I watched and listened as he spoke to the woman, his face downcast, and I had to deep-breathe through the knowledge that he was ashamed because of the things I had said. I had shamed him. It was an awful feeling. Even if it was, maybe, necessary. "Okay great. See you then. Thanks. Bye now," he ended the call on a false-cheerful note, then finally looked back up at me. "I check-in in the morning."

  "That's great. Dover is the one in..." I started, reaching for the sheet.

  "Just outside Washington, D.C.," he told me with a nod.

  "Okay. Um. I will have to ask Byron if I can..."

  "Byron?" his voice cut me off, a little sharper than I was used to hearing it.

  "St. James. My boss. Sort-of," I reminded him.

  "You call him Byron?"

  Oh.

  I had just called him Byron. I never said his name aloud like that before, casually, almost intimately. It slid off my tongue like something familiar, like I had been saying it for years. "In my head, yeah," I covered, attempting a smile. "It would be weird to call him Mr. St. James in my head all the time."

  There was a slight tap at the door that drew both of our attention as the door slid open. I felt a strange, trembling feeling in my belly that felt both like anticipation and relief. But Byron didn't step into the doorway, Aaron did. I swear my face must have fallen slightly because his head cocked and he gave me a small smile of his own before he turned his attention to my father. "Heya Mack. Did you guys make a decision?"

  "Dover," he answered, standing slowly and buttoning his jacket. I stayed in my seat, not yet trusting my legs.

  Aaron nodded. "Well, I am here to bring you out to your driver. He will take you back to your apartment to grab your things then drive you to D.C. You don't have to worry about anything."

  "His driver?" I repeated, inwardly calculating how much that would cost.

  "Byron insisted. It's in everyone's best interest. And the service is on payroll whether they work or not. So they'll be earning their keep for a change," Aaron smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

  "Right, well, we should get a move on then," my father said, clapping once as he moved across the floor.

  "Dad?" I croaked out when he didn't come to me, didn't even so much as turn back to me.

  "Dear Prudence, you know I can't do the goodbyes," he said, shaking his head a little.

  I swallowed hard. Knowing that was the truth didn't stop it from hurting. "Okay. Welcome home party then, okay?" I asked, forcing cheerful.

  "Absolutely," he agreed, moving out into the hall with Aaron who closed the door to give me the privacy I obviously needed as I sank forward. My elbows went on the desk, my body arching over so I could rest my head in my hands.

  It seemed like forever later when the door clicked open again. "I'm fine, Aaron," I snapped, not bothering to look over.

  "It's not Aaron," Byron's voice called, making me jump slightly. "And what the fuck purpose does it serve to lie?"

  "I'm not lying," I bristled, sniffling hard.

  "Last time I checked, a woman sitting by herself crying for an hour is usually not fine." Had I not been sniffling so hard, I might have noticed his voice was getting closer. But I hadn't heard it. Then the next thing I knew, my chair was being twisted to the side suddenly, making my arms leave the desk and my back fly back against the chair. And then there Byron was, kneeling down beside me, dark eyes on my face that I knew was a wet, red, splotchy, awful mess. "How about the truth this time?"

  "I... I broke him," I said, my voice wobbly.

  "You didn't do anything to him. He did this. You were just calling him on it for a change. And by doing that, you got him help."

  "I'm paying you back for the car service," I said, my pride somehow a much more easily expressed feeling.

  "Fuck off," he said, making a sound that might have been a chuckle, but wasn't quite fully there.

  "No, seriously. I am..."

  "Prue, stop. Jesus Christ."

  "I don't want to owe you anything."

  "You don't owe me shit."

  "It doesn't feel like that."

  "Then that's on you, not me."

  "Why do you have to be such an ass?"

  "Why do you have to argue over every thing?" he countered. "It's a car service, not a fucking Porsche. If I say we're even, we're even."

  "Except I still have to work for you," I clarified.

  "Until Mack and I are square. Then you're free to going back to your button-all-the-way-ups and kitten heels and ponytails and weekend baking."

  "You make me sound pathetic."

  "Didn't say that. You feel that way, that has nothing to do with me."

  "I just... I don't understand the purpose of any of this," I admitted. Apparently with the dam broken open inside, it made it much easier to admit things and to ask for things I never would normally be able to. "None of this makes sense. Yeah, it makes sense for my father to need to pay for what he's done. But it doesn't make sense why you took me or why he wasn't banned. It doesn't fit that you would help him into recovery. You seem like a practical businessmen. But none of this fits that."

  "Maybe Aaron was right about me," he said, but his tone said otherwise.

  "Somehow I doubt that," I said with an eye roll.

  "Like the fire more than the rain, babe," he said and I imagined he meant my snapping at him over my cryin
g everywhere. And, well, I had to agree.

  "Good. Get used to it. If you're keeping me around, you're going to get a lot of it."

  "I'm counting on it," he said, his voice dipping low and sexy, his eyes getting dark.

  "I didn't mean like that," I insisted quickly, sitting straighter in his chair.

  "Didn't you, though?" he asked, one of the hands on the edge of the chair, shifting closer, brushing my stocking-clad thighs. And, well, there might not have been anything in the world more erotic than hands sliding over your stockings. My legs pressed together without me even thinking about it, making a quiet laugh escape his lips. "Think we'd both be a whole lot happier if you stopped trying to bullshit the both of us."

  "I'm not interested in making you happy."

  "No?" he asked, and that one word was a challenge.

  "No," I agreed, but even I didn't fully believe it. There was a certain kind of happy I did want to experience, with him, and we both knew it. "You know what would make me happy?"

  "A lobotomy?" I mused.

  To that, a small, wicked little smile pulled up one end of his lips. His hand shifted, moving to the top of my thigh and sliding upward, pressing in hard enough for me to know he wanted me to be aware of every inch he touched as he traveled to the top of my thigh then over my hip, up my belly, between my breasts, then settled on the side of my neck, his thumb pressing against the front of it hard enough to make me sure that he meant business. His fingers dug in as my air seemed to get caught in my lungs, unable to exhale, and pulled my face roughly downward toward his. "For you to keep up this act of yours. 'Cause let me tell you, babe, it's hot as fuck. I've been half hard anytime you've opened up that sweet mouth of yours to snap at me. So, by all means, go on and hate me. Just makes me sure it'd be all the more fun to find new, inventive, and filthy ways to make you shut that mouth of yours. And," he said as I went to open my mouth, "don't even try to tell me you don't want me, Prue. I've had my hands up that skirt. I know exactly how wet you get at the thought of me."