by Willow Aster
“I have a great family. But that doesn’t mean life is perfect. It doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days. And I’m a kickass listener.” I scoot my barstool closer to her, needing to comfort her in a way I can’t explain. “So talk.”
“When’s the last time you had a bad day?” She raises a brow at me and my dick goes hard.
There he is.
“Today. When you took my croissant,” I say, and she chuckles just a little, and my shoulders relax. “I’m kidding. But I didn’t mean to piss you off.”
“So, you had a bad day because you pissed me off? You must have a lot of bad days then.” Her lips turn up in the corners. Making her smile when she’s upset actually feels good. Emma is a stone wall most of the time, but clearly now that she’s three martinis deep, she’s less guarded than usual.
“It usually doesn’t get to me. Hell, I know you hate me, but I didn’t mean to dig a deeper grave.”
“I don’t hate you, Spence.” She holds her hand up in the air to let Allen know that she wants another drink.
I reach for her hand and pull it back down to rest on the bar. “Tell me why you’re having a bad day.”
She looks up at me, her small hand still covered by my large one and I can see the struggle. She wants to get angry, but she doesn’t have the fight in her tonight.
“I just saw my mom for the first time in six years.”
What the fuck?
I clear my throat. “You two aren’t close?”
She chuckles, but it isn’t a happy or pleasant sound. I can feel the disappointment oozing from her body. “You could say that. She left when I was five years old. She’s been in and out of my life ever since. Mostly out. Never around for long. One or two days every handful of years.”
I squeeze her hand. The look in her eyes nearly takes my breath away.
Vulnerable.
Sad.
Devastated.
I can see it all there. Emma’s mask has slipped, and it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. I see all the pain. And I hate her mother for doing this to her.
“That had to be tough on you.” A lump forms in my throat when I think of a five-year-old Emma, wondering why her mom left. Hell, my mom is someone I talk to daily. The woman is my sounding board, my anchor. I can’t imagine my life without her.
I realize in that moment that I have misread Emma Kingsley. She isn’t a spoiled princess, she’s a fucking warrior. She keeps her shield close because she’s been doing it her entire life.
“I survived,” she says softly.
“Of course you did,” I say, as Jesse hustles over to us and Emma tugs her hand away. I forgot I’d been holding it, but I sure as shit miss it now that it’s gone.
What’s up with that?
I’m not one for touchy, feely bullshit. But somehow, comforting her feels like the only option.
“Hey, I think Mya has food poisoning. I’m going to take her home. She just got sick in the bathroom,” my youngest brother says, and Mya stumbles over to us.
Emma is on her feet, pulling her best friend in for a hug. “What happened? You were just killing it at darts?”
“I think it’s the shellfish we had for dinner. Do you want to come sleep over and you can tell me about your night?” Mya says, before covering her mouth and gagging into her hands.
“Uh, that’s a hard no. Love you. Call me if you need anything.” Emma pats her best friend’s back before Jesse helps Mya out of the bar.
“I’m going to head home. The pity party is over, Grumpelstiltskin.”
I snort with this latest name, but as she grabs her purse and reaches for her wallet, she sways into me and almost falls off the stool. I hold onto her as I scoot her hand away and drop some bills on the bar.
“I’ve got it. I’ll walk you home. I could use the fresh air.” I move to my feet and put my hand up when she tries to stop me. “You’re not walking home alone. End of story.”
I may be a moody bastard, but I’m not a complete asshole. My parents raised us to treat women with respect. She’s not walking home alone in this state on my watch. Plus, I get the feeling she could use a friend right now. And I may not be her favorite person, but I don’t need to be her enemy either. Not tonight at least.
I let Gus and Caden know I’m heading out while keeping a hand on Emma’s arm so she doesn’t bolt. It’d be more like a slow slide, but still.
Once we make our way outside, and she seems steady, we walk in silence for a few minutes before she speaks. I think this is the longest she’s gone without sassing.
“Thanks for listening tonight.” Her voice is soft and it has no edge.
“Of course. For what it’s worth, I think your dad did a really good job raising you.”
She smiles and pulls her coat closed at the neck. The temperature has definitely dropped since I walked to Mean Mug earlier.
“You aren’t going soft on me, are you?” She forces a smile and it doesn’t reach her eyes, and that bothers me.
“Never. Tell me, how was it seeing your mom tonight?”
She stares straight ahead but her jaw ticks, and I wonder if I’ve pushed her too far.
“It was a little weird, and it was the first time I’ve seen her sober, maybe ever. She brought her boyfriend along. They’ve been together a whopping two weeks and they basically asked if they could stay with me … until she heard where I lived, and then she lost interest.”
Huge red flags wave wildly and I wonder if she can see them too or if you’d ever be able to when you’re always hoping your mom is going to stick around this time. What the fuck is wrong with her mother?
“That sucks. Where do you live?” I suddenly wonder where the hell we’re going.
“In an illegal whorehouse. Apparently my mother is picky.”
My jaw gapes open and I turn to look at her. She bites down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing, but then her head falls back as she loses it.
I fucking love the sound of her laugh.
“You’re messing with me.”
“You think?” She looks at me and rolls her eyes dramatically. “You sure are easy,” she adds.
“I promise you, no one has ever called me that before,” I say, before shoving my hands in my coat pocket because I suddenly have the urge to reach for hers as she rubs them together to warm them up. “So, where do you live, wiseass?”
“I live in an apartment above my dad’s shop. It’s just on the next block over. Perfect location, and my dad let me renovate it.”
“What’s your mom’s problem with it then?”
“I guess she thought I’d live somewhere bigger and fancier, and she hates my father, so there’s that.”
The woman sounds like a selfish asshole, but I’ll keep my opinions to myself.
“Are you close with your dad?”
“Very. He’s the best. Taught me everything I know,” she says as she does this little half twirl with her arms held out to the side.
Sexy as fuck.
“That’s really all that matters, right?”
“What?” she asks, as she pauses in front of a building with an enormous sign that says Kingsley’s Auto Shop.
“That you and your dad love each other. You don’t need to be the perfect family to be a great one. Hell, mine is oversized and loud. Everyone is always in your business. And then there’s Gus. But I wouldn’t change a thing. And it sounds like you have that with your father.”
“Spence Taylor, that just might be the wisest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I laugh, and we stand there staring at one another. Closer than usual. But I can’t seem to move away.
“So this is it, huh?”
“Yep. This is it. Thanks for walking me home.”
“Not a problem,” I say, before leaning forward and kissing her on the forehead. “You’re going to be fine, Kingsley.”
What the fuck? Why am I being so nice to her?
“This conversation never happened,” she says. “To
morrow, we go back to hating each other. Deal?”
“Deal. I hate you already.”
“Right back at you, Old Solemn. I never stopped.” She smiles before turning to unlock her door, and I wait there to make sure she gets in safely. “You can leave. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Are you always such a stubborn ass?” I shout.
“I believe I am.”
The door swings closed behind her and I’m suddenly in a foul mood because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
And that pisses me off.
Because when I wake up tomorrow, Emma and I will be enemies once again.
Chapter Eight
Emma
I’ve died and gone to hell.
The banging from downstairs sounds like a freight train is coming through the floor of my apartment. I sit up and my head pounds out of my skull. I glance down to see that I’m wearing my bra and panties and nothing else. That’s a first. I’m never sloppy. I hate sloppy.
My mouth is so dry that I don’t even think an IV hookup could help hydrate me at the moment. I stumble into the bathroom and shove my mouth under the faucet and turn on the water, drinking like I’ve been trapped on a deserted island for weeks.
Water drips down my chin and I push up to look in the mirror.
I hear one of my favorite NYC Real Housewives, Dorinda Medley, in my head and she’s saying, “I’ll tell ya how I’m doing: Not well, bitch.”
I really have died and gone to hell.
Is that toothpaste in my hair?
Hey, it’s good to know that even drunk off my ass, I remember to brush and floss. I know this because there are flossers all over the floor, as I obviously struggled to get one out of the package.
A for effort.
A pounding on my door pulls me from my haze, and I grab my robe behind the bathroom door.
“Emma, open up.” It’s my father’s voice, and he doesn’t sound happy.
“Please stop banging,” I groan as I whip open the door.
“Jesus. You look like death.” He shoves a coffee at me and follows me inside. “I can’t believe I have to order that high-maintenance drink for you. Triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato. You’re welcome.”
I glance down at my phone because I need to get to work, but I’m actually okay on time.
“Thanks, Dad. I’m guessing you spoke to Dee Dee.” I drop to sit at my kitchen table and take a sip of coffee.
“Yep, she called this morning to make sure you were okay. Why didn’t you call me? I could have been there for you. I figured you went out since you didn’t come by last night.” He unscrews his small bottle of orange juice. Dad doesn’t believe in coffeehouse drinks. He likes his coffee from a coffee pot in his own kitchen. Though he’s never tasted this magic liquid in a cup.
I set the cup down and think about his words. I did go out.
Noooooooo.
No. No. No.
Spence walked me home. Spence sat with me at the bar. Shit. I told him things that he will throw in my face in the future.
“Damn you, dirty martinis,” I hiss and move to my feet, pacing in front of my dad in circles.
“You’ve never been much of a drinker. Did something happen with your mom last night? Did she say something to upset you?”
I come to a stop. I can’t explain to him that I broke down in front of enemy number one. I’m just going to avoid Spence Taylor for a while so he can’t gloat.
“Just her mere presence can hurt sometimes, if I’m being honest. It makes me think about the past more than I want to,” I say before dropping in the chair again.
“Be careful with her, Em. Even if she’s claiming to be sober, you need to watch your back. She usually has a motive. And if she doesn’t, then she can prove herself to you over time. Take it slow.”
I nod. My mom has done a lot of damage to both of us over the years, so I understand why he’s apprehensive.
“We’re going to get together, just the two of us later in the week, so I’ll have more time to talk to her.”
“All right. Just be careful, okay?” He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I needed it today. I better get ready for work.” I push to my feet.
“Start by getting that toothpaste out of your hair.” He laughs as he walks to the door. “Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you, too.”
Mya calls when I’m out of the shower and I put her on speakerphone as I answer.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
“I should be asking you that question. I’ve never seen you look so green.” I dot more concealer around my eyes than I usually use, hoping that helps the puffy, dark circles eye situation.
She groans. “I was fine one minute and miserable the next. I’m working from home today—my stomach is still not happy with me. I’m worried about you though. What happened with your mom?”
I do my eyeliner with precision, a little heavier than normal. I still look exhausted. My head is like a bulldozer wreaking havoc through my brain. I take a second to down a few pain relievers and swig the coffee. “It was interesting. Long story short, she wants to try to have a relationship, but there was a lot of woo-woo mixed in there.”
“Oh. Woo-woo as in healing vibes, or woo-woo as in living in an alternate reality?”
Mya and I have discussed the pros and cons of woo-woo many times and we’ve come to the conclusion that we’re all for a higher level of consciousness but also want our feet on the ground. It works for us anyway.
To each his own tolerance of the woo-woo.
“You know, I’m not sure yet.” I blend in a few places and then grab the lipstick. “If she stays through the week, I’m supposed to see her again. But I know better than to count on that happening.”
“Oh Emma,” she says.
“I’m being careful, I promise. Don’t worry about me.” I press my lips together. Bold red. I feel better already.
“You know I can’t not worry about you after a Veronica visit. Don’t hesitate to come over or call or demand an emergency wine session, if you need to talk it out. I’m so annoyed that I won’t see you at work. You should come over.”
“I love you, girl. I’m fine.” It’s my standard line, even with Mya, and I usually mean it. If I say it enough times, it becomes true.
That’s the way that works, right?
“Do you need anything?” I ask her. My eyes grow huge. “Wait, you’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Uh, that would be a hell-to the F-no.”
Ever since she’s been hanging out with the Taylors, she’s adopted some interesting alternate cussing options. The Taylor siblings cuss like sailors, but their mother doesn’t tolerate it for a second. Mya is trying to wean herself from cussing so she doesn’t let loose by accident when she’s around Melanie, their mom.
“That didn’t even make sense, but I know what you meant,” I say, laughing as I turn off my bathroom light and step into my heels. “And you know you are so in with Melanie, you could tell her she’s the fuckety fucking fuck of a woman and she’d probably squeeze your cheeks and say, ‘You are the best thing that has happened to my boy.’ Tell me I’m wrong.”
Mya laughs and then groans. “It’s too soon to laugh.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I grab my laptop and suit jacket and a bottle of water. I wish I had time for a huge greasy breakfast to cure this hangover, but I can deal with a little pain. It will distract me from overthinking that little visit last night … both with my mom and the blue-eyed ass who wasn’t such a jerk for once.
As I walk down the stairs and then out the main entrance, Stinky Pete and Little Joe are walking in.
“Queenie, missed you last night.” Stinky Pete puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. I melt as always. “And you missed out, let me tell you. Little Joe got his hands on some Atomic Warheads and we had to see who could last the longest without spitting it out.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, that’s convenient.” I’m already laughing. These guys have been medicine for my patched-up heart for as long as I can remember. “You should be ashamed, battling it out while the champion is gone. Who won?” Little Joe and I have done many sour candy showdowns and I always win.
“Your dad,” Little Joe says sheepishly. He looks dejected while I cackle. “I was all excited to show you the Spray Warheads. Next time, I’m taking you down.” He tries to knuckle my scalp while I hightail it out of his way. He is not messing up this updo I’ve got going on.
“I’ll never give up my Sour Champ title,” I yell as I wave to the rest of the guys through the window and hustle out of there.
I barely think of my mom and Spence on the way to work. Nope. I’m fine.
When I get to work, Merv the Perv, AKA, Arwin, is standing outside my office.
“Ohhh, rough night?” he asks as he takes me in, and I have a strong desire to throttle the old geezer. He’s got bags under his eyes, a massive unibrow, and a wandering eye. This jackass is in no position to judge me.
“Nope. All good. Just a late night with my boyfriend.” It’s good to know that even hungover, I’ve still got my edge.
“Lucky man.” He licks his lips, and my stomach wrenches with a mixture of vodka and disgust. “So, Jack asked me to see if you needed any help with the case. You know, he’d like me to be a bit of a mentor on this trial.”
I want to wipe the smirk off of his face. I’m guessing Arwin approached Jack with the idea, because Jack has already offered me his help if I need it.
I nod. “Okay. I’ve got a few things I was going to work through today. Do you have a minute right now to discuss them?”
“I’m free tonight.” He wriggles his brows. “Dinner on me?”
I wish I could projectile vomit on command. Now that would be a talent. My lips turn up in the corners at the thought of covering Arwin’s too-tight dress shirt and bushy unibrow in yesterday’s grilled cheese and martinis.
“I have plans. But I have a few minutes right now.” Firm and to the point. That’s the only way to handle a narcissist with an inflated ego.
