As Atlee happily munches, my mind drifts back to my shift yesterday at the café, and I realize I might never be the same. My heart races and my palms moisten just thinking about Ford. He hasn’t changed a bit. And neither has my traitorous body’s reaction to his blatant masculinity. I know I behaved like a flaming bitch toward him. But I don’t really care because he’s got a lot to answer for and none of those answers had been forthcoming. Of course, Dixie sidetracked the conversation with her impromptu Tarot reading and then Justine had sent another stack of dishes to the garbage heap when she overheard Dixie about to slip up and mention Atlee’s name. I’ll be forever grateful for her quick thinking and for taking one for the team.
Ford’s hair is the same midnight black, although more tousled and spiky than I remember. Before, he’d worn it in a more organized style. It’s sexier this way. I shake my head, already pissed at myself for indulging in thoughts of Ford and even more for letting my brain fantasize about him. And those damn dark blue eyes. They could turn into smoldering sapphires at the turn of a phrase. Or a simple touch of the hand.
Why in the hell is Ford home now after eight fucking years? I didn’t really know the answer. And he could sit in a booth all night long and blow smoke up my ass about some app for Nixon and the Promenade boutique. It’s bullshit. He could do technical stuff from his executive chair at his swanky bay area tech firm, Savant. I read all about the brilliant and successful Ford Caldwell in the feature piece that Wired magazine did about him.
In fact, I’d picked it up in this very waiting room. I’ll never forget the day I’d seen the face that still haunts my dreams every night smiling back at me from the chrome and glass table of Atlee’s doctor’s office. I’d quickly snatched it up, heart racing, afraid Atlee might see the resemblance between her eyes and her father’s. Or someone else might notice it and call out, all pointing fingers and recriminations.
I still had the damn thing in a shoebox up in my closet.
And yesterday, without any warning, I had to face the man who’d betrayed me in the worst possible way. He’d taken everything. My heart. My soul. My very sanity. But he would never, ever take my daughter.
“We’re ready for you, Atlee,” the OT assistant says from the doorway, her clipboard in hand. This clinic is in a low-rent part of town, so they don’t have the fancy iPads or laptops like the higher end places. As hard as I work, I’m on public assistance, and that includes public health care. I guess I should be grateful that I can even get Atlee appointments in this place. And it does seem to be helping.
My little girl jumps down from the chair and runs toward the assistant. Before she disappears into the bowels of the clinic, she turns and throws a flirty wave over her shoulder. “Bye, Mommy. I’ll be on my bestest behavior.”
I clamp my eyes shut because I’ve probably been too hard on her lately. But sometimes, my life starts to cage me in and I feel like the walls of poverty, struggle, and hopelessness are closing in on me and choking the air from my lungs, sucking out every single emotion that even resembles joy. Like I can’t draw a single breath without effort. Like I can’t even think without effort. And now he’s here, fucking things up even more. I have a feeling my exhaustion is going to get worse before it gets better.
As if he has some kind of warped sixth sense, my cell phone buzzes with a California area code, and I know he’s calling me already. I told him I’d fucking think about it. That doesn’t mean a couple of hours. He’s not a parent, so he doesn’t know that time to yourself to really consider all options is like meeting a glittering unicorn in the forest. Well, he is a parent but he doesn’t know, and he’s never been a real father to Atlee, so it doesn’t count.
“Ford, I said that I’d think about it. This isn’t letting me think about it in peace.” I don’t even say hello. I figure if I’m bitchy enough to him, he’ll just go away and leave me to regret him in peace.
“Well hello to you, too.”
That damn voice that floats over me like melted butter complete with brown sugar sprinkles gets me every time. My righteous indignation flees the scene, and all that’s left is remorse over what I lost. What I never had, really. Because if I’d really ever possessed Ford Caldwell in any meaningful way, he’d still be with me. He’d never have left me.
Left us.
I imagine him sitting in some swanky office inside the Armónico executive floor, smiling because he thinks he’s got me on the run. The lines of the past radiating from the corners of his eyes, deepening the creases on either side of his perfect lips. Dammit, Haylee, quit going there. I shake my head and eye the woman across the tiny room. She’s staring at her magazine, pretending to be engrossed in a three-year-old issue of Better Homes and Gardens. But she hasn’t turned a page in minutes, so I know what she’s really engrossed herself in is none of her fucking business.
“I haven’t made a decision yet.”
About you. About me. About us.
“So, you haven’t made a decision? That only means one thing? We need to do a cost/benefit analysis.”
I bite my lip and gnaw on it, wishing I were anywhere but trapped in this waiting room with Ford Caldwell on the other end of my ear. Somewhere where his re-entrance into my life doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming. I make myself chuckle, even though it’s useless. What it does is make me feel stronger in the face of his calm demeanor. I wipe a hand across my eyes, wishing the haunting memories were as easy to remove as the tears that threaten to overflow.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“You know, like a list of pros and cons. I’ll start,” he says in the cheeky tone that rubs me the wrong way like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s smarter than I am. He’s not, and he knows it. He wasn’t the class valedictorian in high school. I was. “Pro – you need the money, or you wouldn’t be working as a server in a casino café instead of using your fancy marketing degree from UNLV. I dare you to prove me wrong.”
He’s not wrong and that chaps my hide. If I lie, he’ll see right through me. I never could lie to Ford. Too bad he can’t say the same.
“Con. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“Ouch,” he says, his voice softening. I hear him sigh, and I immediately regret that I hurt him. Puffing my chest up, I shake it off. How dare he make me feel bad for saying something rude? His entire life turned into an advertisement for what not to do in a relationship. “Even though you don’t, some other women might consider that a tally on the pro side.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. You should call them.” I just can’t seem to stop. Normally, I never think of anything good enough to say on either offense or defense until well after the communication is over. The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Truth be told, I don’t want to.
“Haylee?” The receptionist appears few feet away, holding a form. Ford had me so wrapped up in our quasi-feud that I hadn’t even noticed her approach. Shit. I need to get my mind back on my daughter. Ford’s only been back for a nanosecond, and he’s already got me tied up in knots.
“Ford, can you hang on a sec? Somebody needs to ask me a quick question.” I could call him back but making him wait serves two purposes. I don’t want to have to call him, and I do want to annoy him by keeping him hanging on the line.
“Sure.”
“Yeah?” I ask, holding my hand out for the form, thinking it’s some insurance crap that I’ll deal with later.
“Haylee, we’re handing this out to all of our patients with NevadaCare. Unfortunately, occupational therapy for kids with Asperger’s will no longer be covered. If you’d like Atlee to continue seeing John, the treatments would have to be taken care of by an alternate insurance plan or out of pocket.”
I stare at the fucking form like its sprouted fangs and might bite me, spewing venom deep into my veins. It feels the same way because the words that just tumbled so casually out of this woman’s mouth have imploded my entire world. The only reason that Atlee’s manageable
, the only reason she can attend regular school and have a normal life is because of the occupational therapy she receives at this very clinic.
“Do you want to cancel your appointments?”
She asks the questions with an eager expression. Like it’s already a done deal. Like she knows I’m poor because of my threadbare clothes and my second-hand purse from Savers. I push my shoulders back and glare.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be able to pay for Atlee’s treatments myself.”
She widens her eyes until they’re like twin saucers of shock. When I don’t break eye contact, she turns and walks back to the desk to begin typing something on her laptop. I give myself a few more moments to stew until I look down and realize I’ve left Ford hanging after I muted myself so he wouldn’t overhear my conversation. He can’t know about Atlee until I know why he’s here and that it’s safe for him to know.
“Ford?” I ask, bringing my cheap phone back up to my ear.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Change of plans,” I say, puckering my lips, and preparing to eat a heaping serving of crow. “Is the offer still there to discuss the cost/benefit analysis? At a more convenient time maybe? I’m out right now running some errands, and that’s why we got interrupted.”
“Of course. How about if I call you later this evening once you’re in for the night?”
Ford doesn’t understand that a single working mother’s work is never done. Maybe once Atlee falls into bed, I might be able to scrape up a few minutes. I narrow my eyes, and I can feel how tight my jaw has become during this brief conversation. I don’t like that he still has such an effect on me after all these years.
“Okay.”
I take a deep breath, trying to swallow the anger welling up inside me, slithering up my spine like a snake of emotion, insidious in its strength. A ghostly serpent from the past. “And Haylee…it’s really good to talk to you again.”
Chapter 6
Ford
“Mr. Caldwell, this is remarkable.”
My chest puffs up with pride a little bit. I can’t help it. Since I’ve been writing code from the time I could put my fingers on a keyboard, I know my way around a computer like it’s my lover’s body. My apps are in demand and so am I. When Nixon suggested this presentation to the Microsoft execs, I didn’t even balk. My brother’s eyes are glazed over with boredom, but I’m in my element. Although I detest public speaking, I love talking about my inventions. I bite the bullet knowing it’s my time to shine.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to keep pride from lacing my tone.
The last thing we need is for these major industry players to think I’m an arrogant douche. Except when it comes to this app I’ve developed to help kids with cerebral palsy, I am. It’s a game changer. Whenever I have the ability to help kids and make the world a better place, I jump at the chance. I want the rest of my life to be about making a difference, instead of increasing my personal bottom line.
As the executives talk amongst themselves, I shove some papers back into my briefcase. I zone out, allowing my mind to propel me backward in time, unable to prevent the memories that tumble through my head. Images break through from a time when life was simple and all that mattered was chess club, soccer, prom, college applications.
And love.
And love meant Haylee.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that her citrusy scent didn’t haunt my dreams. And the touch of her skin. And her taste…dammit, I’ve got to stop thinking about her like a crazed stalker.
“Nicely done, shithead. Everybody’s talking about how you’re the new boy genius in town.”
Nixon’s voice pulls me from the warmth of the past to the stark reality of the present. Even though she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, Haylee no longer belongs to me and indulging in the mental gymnastics that always ends with her in my arms doesn’t serve either of us. I don’t even care that he’s cursing at me since he’s keeping his voice down, per usual. Nix has the deadly calm tone down to a perfected art. Too many years dealing with Dante Giovanetti can do that to a man.
“Hey, if it helps the kids, right?”
I think about Lincoln, my baby brother. The most badass, smart, capable disabled kid in the whole wide world. Our mother died in childbirth, and Linc has cerebral palsy because of it. If it wasn’t for the braces on his legs, you’d never know. My eyes well up just thinking about him. Linc’s my hero.
You’re my hero, Ford. I can’t wait to become your wife and the mother of your children.
I can almost hear my unborn children screaming obscenities and banging around inside my scrotum. Their mother hates my guts.
“You said it,” Nix says, taking a sip of his water with lemon. His face is puckered up like he’s just sucked the tart fruit down. I’m not sure exactly what’s up his ass. Things are going great. Too great, probably. Nix has never been a glass-half-full kind of a guy. Now, Reagan… that brother’s glass overflows.
“Mr. Caldwell, could you please show us that demo again? I want to make sure my notes are rock solid,” Jim Mitchell, their VP of Marketing asks, tapping his pen against his yellow legal pad. I’m surprised that someone that high up in Microsoft still succumbs to the allure of the hand-written note. As if he’s reading my mind, he says, “I read in the Journal that people who write things down with a pen are ten times more successful than those that type them out on a keyboard.”
I nod and hit the power button on my laptop with a sharp jam of my finger. The screen flickers a few times before the home screen fires back up. It shocks me because my tech is world-class and this laptop’s only got a few hundred hours on it. Flashes of black roll across until a spectacular photo of the bay bridge that I took from my terrace on a clear morning lands and stays still.
Computer, don’t fail me now. I know how important this is to my new position as the VP of IT for Nixon’s company, Armónico Holdings. Even more, my brother’s not fond of looking like an idiot. Too many years of Dante yanking his chain has made him a little bit of a nervous Nelly.
Nixon powers up the overhead projector, and I connect it to the USB port on my laptop. The only way for all the people in this room to really see the functionality of the app is to project it onto the white screen in Nixon’s meeting room.
Jim looks over my shoulder and taps one of the icons on my screen. “Hey, is that the one you created for the fashion show a few months ago? My wife’s been raving about it. Before you go through the demo again, would it be possible for you to open it up? It would earn me major brownie points with my better half.”
“Of course,” I say, clicking on the icon.
My screen flickers again, and when I move my mouse to double click, it’s like some technological monster takes over the grinding machine. I hear a gasp. A woman from Microsoft has her hands up around her chest as if she’s a vampire trying to stop a stake from being driven into her heart.
Fuck you, Caldwell is projected on the black screen of death in bold, white letters that can’t be missed. I stare for a moment, mumbling apologies under my breath, but then decide to just power off the laptop. Nothing happens. I pound on the enter key, snapping it off, then watch in horror as it sails over toward Nixon and lands in his water glass. The laptop’s gone haywire, and I instantly know I’ve been sabotaged.
I’ll kill that motherfucker.
“Ford?”
I look at Nix, and he’s sporting a grimace worthy of a week’s constipation. Rummaging in my bag for a dose of Ex-Lax seems appropriate, but before I can be a smart ass, I’ve got to be competent and take the profanity off the boardroom table.
“I’m on it.”
After the gasp, you can hear a pin drop in the room as all eyes are plastered on the f-bomb gracing the screen. Before I can do anything, the unthinkable happens. The demo I created to highlight Taryn Mitchell’s app flashes on and off multiple times, practically blinding me. After a few seconds, it stabilizes. Everything seems fine, and I’m abo
ut to exhale. But then my heart starts galloping out of control.
A woman appears in living color that looks more like the crypt keeper than Gigi Hadid, encompassing the entire white screen, larger than life. And buck naked.
“Eww,” one of the execs says, looking away.
“What in the hell is going on, Caldwell?”
Reagan’s the best at thinking on his feet, so he stands and grabs the metal pointer. “From a legal standpoint, there were numerous complaints about an unattainable body image, and so our users were demanding more mature, fuller figured models that would be more in line with the average American clothing buyer.”
Mitchell snorts and waves his hand in a wide arc. “Seriously, that was your choice? If she’s average, I’m ready to compete on American Ninja Warrior. Most ninety-year-old grandmas aren’t buying clothes on the Promenade. She looks like she’s in the market for a walker and Bengay, not an exclusive Michael Kors.”
An exec sitting at the end of the table scoffs and slaps his hand down on the table. “It reminds me of a time back in the sixth grade when I walked in on my grandma naked except for her support hose. Thought I’d never want to look at another woman’s body again. Even in Playboy.”
It’s clear that Reagan has completely lost control of the conversation. The slideshow plays on, each image worse than the last. The only ‘models’ being displayed are hideous in every sense of the word.
“That one’s so old her memory’s in black and white,” Mitchell says, leaning back in his chair.
Another guy counters his one-liner with one of his own. “Hey, don’t talk that way about my nana, God rest her soul. Didn’t your parents teach you never to disparage the dead?”
The situation spirals into a black abyss of bad jokes and uncomfortable chuckles. Finally, I rip the power source from my laptop and fling the cord on the ground. The projector sputters and hisses into a dark mass of plastic. Dammit, my life’s gone from bad to worse in a flash of granny porn. What red-blooded man doesn’t have a fantasy of a business meeting gone wrong in a flaming trail of XXX elderly ladies?
Kickback (Caldwell Brothers Book 3) Page 4
