You Dropped a Blonde on Me

by Dakota Cassidy

  Campbell’s smile was warm and doting. “Fries can do that to a person.”

  She chuckled, stretching her legs by pointing her toes and entwining her foot with Campbell’s. “I think we should talk about other stuff that isn’t about me and the veritable idiot I turned into since high school.”

  The tip of his finger slid along her cheek in a tender gesture. “You’re not an idiot. You married young, way before you were mature enough to grow into who you were supposed to be. So you became what someone told you you should be.”

  “I think I can be considered an overachiever. So you know almost everything about me. I want to know about you.”

  The guarded gaze he gave her made her pause. She was coming to know the nuances just one glance from Campbell could create, and this one was, without a doubt, guarded. “What do you want to know?”

  “What do you want to tell?” she countered.

  It’s now or never, Barker.

  He forced himself to keep his chuckle light. “Okay, okay. I’m always pounding you for information. It’s only fair. I left high school, went to college, and graduated with a degree in economics. Probably the most boring degree to obtain ever. I worked as an HR manager for fifteen years then went back to school to get a degree in computer software. Left my HR position and nabbed a job with a starter company. Loved the change of pace after dealing with employee relations. Not fun, employee relations. Unfortunately, the economy led to layoffs and here I am.”

  Her finger trailed along his chest in delicious circles. He was enjoying her uninhibited touch. A far cry from the uptight, always-on-guard Max of a month and a half ago. “So you’re not just a plumber.”

  “I’m not just a plumber.” And you’re not just an ex-HR/computer software engineer either.

  “I’m going to lay bets you didn’t just work all this time since I last saw you in high school.”

  Pony up, pal. “This is where you want to know about all the women who’ve experienced the Campbell Barker charm, isn’t it?”

  “Were there a lot?”

  “No. Just some.”

  “Describe some.”

  You’re stalling . . . “I didn’t count.”

  “You don’t want to tell me.”

  “I was married.” There.

  Max sat up and swung around to face him, crossing her legs. “I don’t want to appear shocked, but I am.”

  “Shocked that anyone would marry me?”

  Max flashed him a smile, one that said she was comfortable, forcing him to tamp down his sigh of relief. “No, I’m shocked anyone would divorce you.” Her expression went from teasing to a dark frown. “Hold on. You are divorced, right?”

  “Yes. I’m divorced. I was married for eight years. Divorced two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not anymore.”

  “But you were . . .”

  “I definitely was. It’s not a time I’d like to repeat.” Not even in the next life.

  “Tell. Me. About. It. Was yours awful?”

  “No. It was pretty amicable.”

  “There’s such a thing?”

  “There is when you know there’s no going back.”

  Leaning forward, she gave him a playful poke. “Hey. I spilled. You have to, too. Enough with the cryptic.”

  “Linda and I were married for eight years. We had a pretty good thing going. At least that’s what I thought. We had trouble conceiving, but due to the magic of in vitro fertilization, we got pregnant in our sixth year of marriage.” Only a little more to go, Barker, and you’re home free. But Jesus, it hurt. Like a sharp knife, cutting deeper and deeper, reopening wounds he thought had healed.

  “You have children?”

  He saw her surprise, registered her drawing back from him. “Had. Our little girl, Gina Marie, died of SIDS at four months old.” Gina’s small, cherubic face flashed across his mind’s eye, toothless grins, baby-powder-scented cuddles, chubby fists lodged against his chest while she slept.

  Fuck.

  The paling of Max’s face, her eyes so full of sympathy, made him physically fight a cringe. “I can’t even imagine.” Scooting toward him, taking the sheets with her, climbing over the box of pizza, she cradled his head against her shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. They’re just words, pointless, empty to you, I’m sure, but I mean them. You don’t have to say anything more.”

  Campbell lifted his head, setting her from him with just enough distance to keep them touching, but enough to not distract him from just saying it. “I was a wreck. Linda was a wreck. Everything was a shitwreck. After Gina was gone, we functioned, nothing more. I worked, Linda went back to work—we ate, we slept, but we didn’t talk. We never talked. I tried over and over until I forgot how to. A few months after Gina died, I caught Linda cheating on me with some guy from her office. Pretty typical as cheating goes, but it was the end for me. Though it didn’t really matter. She told me she’d planned to leave me for him anyway. And the kicker to all of this—she said she could talk to him about Gina. My little girl. Linda married the office guy and they have a daughter now.” How was that for fucking irony? He was done pounding his fist of outrage against his chest, but there was a residual ache always lingering.

  “I think it’s true what they say,” Max responded to his confession with quiet tones.

  “What do they say?”

  “Someone always has it worse. Count your blessings, et cetera. My divorce has been hell on Earth, but if I lost Connor . . . Shit . . . I want to say the right thing here, but I just don’t know what it is, Campbell. I just don’t.”

  He used a thumb to wipe the tears in the corners of her eyes. “I get what it is to be lost and unable to find your way out of the dark. That’s why I came here. My father didn’t just need my help. I needed help, too. I wallowed a whole lot longer than was good for me. I was angry, and I wanted out. I drank. A lot. I blamed. I bullied. My father finally dragged me to a SIDS bereavement program, and though it took a long time, I finally was able to talk about it.”

  Max took hold of his hand, pulling it to her cheek, displaying her seemingly endless capacity to console. Much like her behavior with the seniors, she was always quick to make someone else feel better. He found it ironic she didn’t do the same for herself.

  “So when I tell you I have a fairly good understanding of where you’re coming from, give or take a couple of million dollars, I really do.”

  Max’s face held light and dark emotions, fleeing, returning before she appeared to come to terms with something in her head.

  She said nothing, but her arms pulled him down to her breast, curling into him with that way she had about her that made him feel all man.

  And contentment, deep, abiding, settled in his chest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Note from Maxine Cambridge to all ex-trophy wives: If your husband has an unfair advantage in your divorce, like say buttloads of money and a gangsta-like attorney, you’ll need to be of strong constitution if you choose to face off. So ask yourself this—what kind of precedent do you want to set for not only your children, but your future growth? Are you a worthy opponent? Or are you a chicken-shit?

  “You want to tell me what that was about? Or is it too personal?”

  Len crawled across the hotel room bed, flopping down with a groan. “Bad tuna for lunch.”

  “Three days in a row this week?” Adam asked.

  She left her head down in her folded arms to avoid meeting his invasive eyes. “Must be some kind of bug.”

  She felt Adam’s weight lift from the bed as his voice became distant. “Is that what they call pregnant nowadays? Lots of things change over time. Especially catchphrases. For instance, my niece would roll her eyes at me if I called someone a doofus because nowadays a doofus is called gay. But kids these days don’t mean homosexual gay, they mean gay as in you’re stupid. Yet, I don’t think they’ve changed so much that knocked up isn’t still just called ‘knocked up.’ ”


  Lifting her head was an effort, but she did it in order to take a peek into his eyes. Gazing into them, she wished she’d left her throbbing head buried in her arms. “That’s ridiculous,” she offered a weak protest before pressing her closed fists into her eyes to stop the stabbing pain in them, and avoid Adam’s.

  His weight sank onto the edge of the bed fully clothed, and he lifted her chin, his eyes like chips of ice. “Let me be really clear about something here, Lenore. You’re pregnant. I don’t need a test to tell me so. This has been a real adventure for someone like you, I’ll bet. Married young, widowed, and still fairly young. Rich then poor.”

  Len fought to keep her gaze steady. So he’d looked her up on the Internet? She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  “And I’m sure I’m making up for the college flings you never had because you dropped out. But here’s the thing, I’m not some fling, lady. And I’m done unless you want to tell me otherwise.”

  Adam’s silence was deafening, his eyes angry.

  Yet, she said nothing.

  Nothing to stop him from doing what she’d come to dread would happen all along if she didn’t stop it. That dread was an emotion in the mix should be a sure sign she didn’t want what he was about to lay out.

  Still, she kept silent.

  Bending toward her, Adam let his face come to sit but inches in front of hers. His lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. “I guess I have my answer then. Now let me make one thing clear. You have no idea who you’re playing with. If I were you, I’d be very careful the next move I make, Len. Very careful. Because if it involves not including me in something I have every right to know about, no matter what your decision is, don’t think for one second I’ll allow it. I deserve to know.” Thrusting her chin away, he rose and strode to the door. “And one last thing. Gerald’s dead. I’m not. I’m here. I’m alive. I wanted you for more than just sex. I don’t get why you just couldn’t see that.”

  The door to the hotel room shut with a hushed whisper against carpet, grating her nerves to a worn frazzle.

  Len reached for her cell phone with cold, lifeless hands and dialed her gynecologist before she was unable to make the call for the crying she knew she’d do.

  Adam’s lips thinned when he jabbed the “down” button on the elevator. It was a real effort on his part not to ram his fist through the wall.

  He’d held on for too long, hoping for something fruitless.

  But the fuck he’d let Lenore Erickson walk all over him if there was a child involved.

  He just had to hang on a little longer until everything was in place.

  Then he’d rock Maxine Cambridge’s little world and leave Lenore in his proverbial dust.

  Three weeks later, fury welled up in Max like a pot of boiling water. That fucking puke. She threw the divorce papers Finley had sent on her mother’s table. Rage rose in her with a swell, leaving bile in her throat.

  Finley was really going to do it. So why was she so stunned? Because somewhere deep inside her, she’d prayed, hoped Finley wasn’t a total fuck. Yet here it was in black and white.

  If she signed these papers, they’d be divorced and he’d get away with a measly sum of child support, but worse . . . If she agreed to his terms, which was what everyone did when it came to dealing with Finley, he wouldn’t have to pay a dime for Connor’s college education. Everything he owned would still be in a nice, neat little bundle, all his money still in piles and piles from here to Connecticut intact.

  With a fling of her wrist, Max hurled her purse across the room, watching with satisfaction as the contents scattered on the floor. It was only a small representation of her rage though. What she really wanted to do was go all gangsta on Finley and make him scream in agony, bleed nickels and dimes until she had the money she needed for Connor.

  “Hey!” her mother shouted. “I taught you better than that. No purse throwing in the house, young lady.”

  Pacing, she seethed, ignoring her mother.

  “Whassamatter, Maxie? Don’t tell me you and Campbell had a fight already? Everything was going so well. I like him. I say we keep him—so don’t screw it up by—”

  “It’s not Campbell,” she yelped, struggling for air, dizzy from the effort. She tightened the sweater she was wearing to keep from putting her fist through a wall.

  Her mother’s sharp eyes fell on the envelope from Finley. “Ah. The Talleywhacker. I should’ve known. So what does he want now? Your ovaries cryogenically frozen?”

  “No,” Max gasped from holding her breath.

  Mona yanked the paper off the table and scanned it before her eyes narrowed. “The hell we’ll let him do this, Maxie!”

  She planted a hard fist on the counter out of helpless frustration. Like she could stop him. Like she had the kind of money it would take to find someone who could. Her rage evaporated and defeat settled with a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Goddamn him for always rising to the top like smarmy cream.

  Her mother poked her arm. “Hey. You’re not going to let him do this to Connor, are you?”

  Tight-lipped, Max responded, fighting to keep her anger on the person who deserved it instead of taking it out on her mother. “And how would you like me to stop him? I have no money left, Mom. I’m just now beginning to be able to meet the payments on my credit card for what I’ve spent so far on this divorce. I can’t afford to pay that ass more money only to lose. Besides that, he said he’d need a bigger retainer,” she fumed. The bloodsucking leech.

  Mona rolled her eyes. “So we’ll get him one. Better yet, we’ll get a real lawyer. I’ve said this a hundred times now, Maxie.”

  Her hands went up in the air in a gesture of defeat. “How many more times can I give you the same answer, Mom? Jesus, why won’t you listen? Your retirement fund can’t take any more hits than it already has. Connor and I have been depleting it for going on twelve months. If I get a better lawyer and he at least gets Connor what he’s due, it won’t pay you back, Mom.”

  Her chin lifted with typical defiance. “I don’t care. Besides, when you win, Connor’ll be able to go to that fancy school of his dreams and he’ll earn back the money by getting a good job and supporting his old grandmother with a college degree.”

  Max shook her clenched fists, the blood rushing to her head. “I refuse to risk that. Not. Gonna. Happen. End of!”

  “You know what you’re doing here, Maxie?”

  Her head fell to her hands, weary and throbbing. “What am I doing here, Mother?”

  “You’re throwing it all away because you’re afraid of a confrontation with that pissant, and you’re doing it at the expense of Connor and the fine education he’s worked hard for!”

  Oh-hoh. Hold on there. “I’m not doing any such thing. I’m avoiding confrontation because of my son. What good will it do for Connor if I chase after his father for money while I scream at the top of my lungs? How is that solving anything?”

  Her mother’s finger tapped the counter where the divorce papers now lay. “It’s showing him you have some pride, kiddo. That when it comes time to keep that disgrace of a father from taking everything from him just because Connor believes what his father did to you is wrong, you’ve got him covered. Slugging Finley was fine, but it won’t pay for Connor to go to college. You’re weak, Maxine! Weak and sniveling. I never thought in a million years I’d say that to the fruit of my looms—”

  “Loins. It’s loins,” she took peevish, seething joy in correcting her.

  “Your Fruit of the Looms cover your loins. Whatever,” Mona shouted back. “I never thought I’d call you weak, but this,” she spat, pointing a finger at the paper Maxine was prepared to sign just to get Fin to leave them alone. “This is lying down and dying. That child support isn’t enough to care for an orphan in Ethiopia, and coming from a man who makes more money than God. It’s disgusting,” she sneered, her eyes narrowing with blazing flashes of anger. “And you’re gonna let him do it, too, knowing Connor wants into a school you’ll never b
e able to afford alone, instead of getting up off your ass and fighting back! What kind of example does that set for your son?”

  Mona’s anger wasn’t the worst of what Max heard in her voice. It was her disappointment, so ugly and clear. It was the same kind of disappointment her mother had had in her tone when she’d told her she was marrying Finley in the first place. Her hands gripped the edge of the countertop. “We’ve gone over this, Mom. I don’t have the resources to fight Finley for anything. It takes money to make money, isn’t that what they say?”

  “They sure do, Miss Answer For Everything. They also say the rich just get richer, and in this case, that no good piece of crap’s doing just that. At Connor’s expense, and you’re letting him! I’d give you the resources, if you’d just let me, but noooo—it’s so much easier to pull the covers over your head and whine about your life instead of putting on your boxing gloves and going a couple of rounds with the almighty Finley Cambridge!”

  If her mother’d slugged her, she couldn’t have felt more bruised. Not just because it hurt to be called weak but because she was right. She was afraid to rock the boat. Afraid to take that one last step into the deep end of chaos. A step that would show Finley he couldn’t take advantage of her pansy-ass nature anymore.

  A step for Connor.

  Mona rounded on her, justified anger in her eyes. “You know what you need to do here, Maxine? You need to suck it up, Princess. Stop throwing your hands up in the air like the sky’s falling, Henny-Penny! Stop letting everyone else do everything for you, and do it for yourself. Did you get so used to Finley doing everything, you’ve forgotten how to do anything on your own? Find your pride, for Christ’s sake. Stop damned well letting everything and everyone roll over you and use that mouth of yours you sure don’t mind using when it comes to anyone else but Finley Cambridge these days! Suck up your fears. Suck up your notion that that husband of yours can have whatever he wants if he leans on you hard enough. But most of all, suck it up for Connor. He deserves better!”