Point of Submission (Point Series Book 1)

by Remy Rose

The two words he said as I left the room startled me. I'm sorry. What did this mean, exactly? What was he sorry for? For punishing me? That I cried? Maybe he was sorry that we didn't actually have sex. Or he was sorry I failed him. Or—and this is what scares me the most—he’s sorry that it’s over.

  He didn’t say anything more after that. On my way out, I stepped over the crop laying on the floor and didn’t look back.

  Mostly, now, I feel a huge, raw ache. My heart hurts.

  It’s starting to rain, which is reflective of my mood. I flick on the windshield wipers, suddenly feeling exhausted. I’m going to go right to bed for what will hopefully be a dreamless sleep. In the morning, I’ll text Teal and say the night hadn't gone well, but that I don’t want to talk about it just yet. There’s no way I can discuss this with her when I don’t even understand what happened.

  I don’t want to talk to anyone. Except Carlo. I’ll keep my phone on my pillow, hoping that a text or call will come from him in the middle of the night. As much as I’m dying to talk to him, he has to be the one to initiate it. He’s the one in charge—of the next move, of the relationship.

  Of my heart.

  chapter thirty-four ~ Carlo

  My headache is fucking relentless. Nothing’s helped. I’ve tried eating something, since my appetite has sucked for the past several days, and I’ve tried drinking extra water in case it’s dehydration. Took aspirin, ibuprofen—even tried to meditate it away, but closing my eyes brings forth images I don’t want to see. So the pain rages on. I’m guessing it’s partly due to the fact I’ve barely slept the past few nights. As much as I hate the idea, I’ll call my doctor for a refill on my sleep aid if this fucking insomnia persists.

  In addition to my headache, I’m dealing with a pain in the ass—a six-foot-four blond one. Brock’s been sulking like a three-year-old since I told him the contest was over—that he won this round by default, and that I’d order him the goddamned watch for his prize, but that the video was off limits. I also made it clear that I’m done with the game, for good. When Brock kept whining about wanting to at least see what had happened that night, I’d snarled, enough. That word jarred me, pulling me back to what I’ve been trying like fuck to shove out of my memory.

  Brock had stared defiantly at me, and then his green eyes glimmered with sudden understanding. I get it, friend, he said, chuckling. She became more than just a plaything, didn't she?

  Please get the fuck out, friend, I’d said, trying to stay calm. I made myself a Scotch and water as the feelings roiled inside me: frustration at myself for needing to drink at work, bitterness toward that smug asshole for concocting the fucking contest in the first place, fury toward myself for going along with it.

  And on top of all of that...deep, gut-wrenching slashes of guilt that I hurt Cassandra.

  Although I made the decision not to contact her, the desire to know how she was doing and what she was feeling has seeped into every moment of every day, and into the few hours of fragmented sleep I’ve managed to get. It hasn’t helped to immerse myself in work, but I have to try like hell and hope these feelings will fade. And although it kills me to think it, I hope Cassandra’s feelings fade, too.

  I’m perusing the New England sales figures when Estelle opens the door. Haven’t seen much of her this week...she must sense my mood. I don’t want to discuss things, so I try to arrange my face to look like I’m fine as my head continues to pound.

  “Carlo...Richard Foster's on the phone and wants to talk to you. Are you available now?”

  Shit. Foster’s the owner of one of our biggest distributors—nice guy, but he'll keep you on the phone forever. And I’m definitely not in the mood for talk.

  “Tell him I'll call him back.”

  Estelle looks at me sharply from behind her glasses. “He said it's very important.”

  “Ah, all right. Put him through.”

  She turns to leave and flashes me a small, anxious smile. “I'm sorry you've been having a bad time of it. I'm here, you know, if you ever need me.”

  “I always need you.”

  Her eyes are bright. “I'll transfer the call.”

  Watching her leave, I rub my right temple. This headache is fucking brutal, and Foster will most likely make it worse.

  My desk phone rings, and I answer. “Richard...how are things in the Pacific Northwest? I've only got a couple minutes—I'm heading into a meeting, but what can I do for you?”

  “It's more about what I can do for you, Carlo.” Foster's usual jovial tone is conspicuously absent. “One of your competitors was in just a little while ago. They have a prototype of a new e-valve, which sounded very similar to the one we were talking about at the trade show in Nashville.”

  He’s got my attention. “Really. Which competitor?”

  “Columbia. They've developed this valve to sell to the Navy, and it works exactly like the one you described to me. Is yours ready for market yet?”

  “No, but hopefully soon—we're shooting for the end of this month. We're still doing performance tests.” I pause. “Did they leave you any technical information on it?”

  “Yeah. They left me a data sheet.”

  “Can you scan it and email it to me? I'd be interested to see it.”

  Foster chuckles. “I took the liberty. It should already be in your inbox.”

  “I'll take a look. Thanks very much...I'll get back to you. Next time I'm in your area, dinner and drinks are on me.”

  So this is fucking weird. The Gatekeeper is a secret project that very few people know about. I’d discussed it in Nashville under the condition that Foster wouldn't reveal its existence to anyone. And I trust Foster. The guy may be a talker, but his integrity is unquestionable.

  I open up my email, find the message from Foster and click on the attached PDF file. I wait as it downloads, my temple throbbing. Skimming it, I feel bile rising in my throat. It’s clear from what I’m seeing that the company's secret project has been compromised.

  What the fuck.

  I punch in the extension for Chris Butler, the engineering manager. I’ll start with him.

  “Chris. I need you in my office immediately. And grab Rodney in IT on your way.”

  I dial Estelle's extension next.

  “Yes, Carlo?”

  “I need you. Actually, I need Tums. Do you have any?”

  I can hear the smile in her voice. “Yes. I'll get you some.”

  “Rodney and Chris are heading to my office. You can send them right in.”

  Estelle comes with a small paper cup that she sets on desk, frowning in concern. “Upset stomach?”

  “Yes, to go along with my headache.”

  “I brought you four. You can take more in an hour. Have you eaten anything today?”

  “Not unless you count the Scotch.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Dealing with a bit of stress. I'll handle it, just like I always do.”

  Rodney and Chris arrive just as Estelle is leaving. I tell them to close the door, chew up the antacid tablets and turn my computer monitor to show the PDF file. “Gentlemen...we have a problem. Chris, does this look familiar to you?”

  He leans closer, eyes growing larger as he reads. “Shit. How did that happen?”

  Rodney squints behind his glasses. “I don't understand what's going on.”

  I explain. “We've been working in secret on an e-valve for the Navy, but our competition apparently trumped us with one that looks and works exactly like it. I want to know how they found out about this.”

  “I can assure you none of my project engineers would have leaked it, Carlo.” Chris is looking at me in earnest.

  “Understood. Rod, it looks like we've got a mole somewhere. I need you to find it. Check emails, check IP addresses, check who had access to project files...” Suddenly, a thought presents itself. I’m remembering what Estelle told me about Brock's supposed conversation with the Columbia CEO about a month ago. “Pay particular attention to Brock Dal
l's activity. Look for any correspondence between him and Ned Hodgins. I want the information today, if at all possible.”

  Rodney nods. “I'll get on it now.”

  “And I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this information can't leave this office.”

  The two men walk out, leaving me with my head and heart pounding. Brock’s an asshole, but is he capable of committing what amounts to corporate espionage? He did cut his teeth working for Columbia, and if Estelle had heard correctly that he’d been talking with Ned...

  No point in speculating. I’ll have to wait and see what Rodney uncovers.

  * * * *

  It’s late afternoon when Rodney knocks, his usually boyish face looking intense.

  “Sorry it took me a while, but I think I figured it out.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “There was an email from Brockton Dall to the address hodgin30, with the subject line Requested info. There was also a reply from the hodgin30 address with the subject Payment. I found multiple emails from Brock to his personal email address, and some of them had encrypted attachments.”

  “Do you have any idea what the encrypted files were?”

  “I traced them through our server.” Rodney paused. “They originated from the Gatekeeper folder.”

  Brock.

  Betraying me, betraying the company and my stepfather, after Scott had made him vice-president and treated him like another son.

  The fucking son of a bitch.

  I can feel my face flaming. “I appreciate your work, Rodney. I'll need a full written report.”

  First Cassandra, and now this fucking mess. I sit down in my chair and lean back, running a hand through my hair as I will my heartbeat to slow.

  Deep breaths. I’ve got to view both situations calmly and rationally. It’s the only way. Gritting my teeth, I leave my office and go to Estelle, who wordlessly reaches for her purse beneath the desk and hands me the bottle of Tums. Thank God for her. She knows I’m not ready to talk.

  I head down the hallway to the catalog room to grab an empty box and then go to the next office.

  I stop at the door, my jaw clenching at the brass nameplate: Brockton Dall, President, Miller Valve. I can’t fucking wait to take that down.

  To take Brock down.

  The door is closed, but I’m going to pull an Estelle and not knock. I turn the knob and step inside. Dall is standing behind his desk putting on his coat, his face shifting from irritated to surprised when he sees me.

  “Carlo. What's up? I've got an appointment...I was just leaving.”

  “And I'm here to help with that. You can use this box to collect your personal belongings.” I throw it toward Brock, the box skidding across the smooth surface of the desk and onto the floor. “I have reason to believe you compromised our project. You're suspended without pay until further notice as I continue the investigation.”

  Brock's expression is smooth, bland. “I don't know what you're talking about, friend.”

  Got to hand it to him—the asshole is cool under pressure. “You can dispense with the 'friend,' you smug cocksucker. It's going to be my pleasure to terminate you and have you prosecuted for corporate espionage.”

  That gets the bastard's attention. The muscles in his cheek are twitching, and his eyes harden. “You have no grounds to suspend me. I'll be contacting my attorney.”

  “You do that. In the meantime, get the fuck out of this building. I'll have security escort you.”

  Dall is smiling coldly as he picks up the box and begins to empty out his desk drawers. I’m on my way out the door when I’m halted by Brock calling out to me.

  “Oh, and friend?”

  I turn around.

  Brock's eyes are glinting with fury. “You'll regret this.”

  chapter thirty-five ~ Cassandra

  Sweeping has always been one of my favorite barn chores. I like the immediate reward a freshly-cleaned floor gives you, the OCD kind of satisfaction you gain from getting every last tuft of horse hair, every stray piece of hay. And the arm workout is a definite bonus. Plus, you can sweep according to your mood: brisk and aggressive if you’re stressed out or pissed off, or long, leisurely strokes if you’re daydreamy.

  Today, I’m sweeping like my life depends on it.

  The five days since I last saw Carlo seem like months. There’s been no contact. After the first couple days, I turned my phone on silent in some lame attempt to have control—so that if he did call or text, I’d be in charge of when I'd see it. Major fail. I kept checking every fifteen minutes, feeling like I was punched in the stomach every time I saw the blank screen, and then hating myself for being so needy.

  Neediness was exactly what I’ve battled over these past few years, and I’ve been winning...until Carlo. Now, not only do I feel like I lost, but I feel lost—lost and alone.

  I jab the broom viciously at the pile of debris in the corner of the aisle, pull it toward the shovel and dump it in the muck bucket. If only I could attack my negative feelings like this—clean them up, all neat and tidy, and get rid of them.

  I wonder what my mother’s advice would be. There was a poster she’d given me when I was in middle school and moping over a boy who’d dumped me. The poster was done in soft, blurred colors: orange and lavender and yellow—and had a picture of a young girl releasing a bird with the sun shining in the background. The caption read, If you love something, set it free...if it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was. I always wondered why the hell the artist would have made that picture look soothing. From my experience, there wasn’t anything soothing about breakups or pining over someone. If it had been up to me? That poster would have been done in blood-red splatter paint.

  The whole idea of just letting something go doesn’t make sense to me, either. It’s so passive. If you love something, wouldn't you fight for it, try to work on things, and then let it go if it didn't work out? How many relationships have been ended by that soothing fucking poster telling people to just let go?

  So what now? What am I supposed to do? It absolutely sucks, being in limbo like this—not knowing what Carlo might be thinking or what he’s planning—if anything. I want someone to give me advice, yet I don’t want to share what happened. I haven’t had much contact with Teal now that the fall semester is in full swing, and she thankfully hasn’t pushed me for details about that night. I’d told her that things had gotten really hot, but Carlo stopped it and was obviously stressing about something, and I didn’t know what. And this part is true. Teal doesn’t need to know about the kinky stuff, and honestly, I don’t want her judging him. Ironic, because Teal was the one to defend Carlo in the very beginning.

  Carlo was true to his word when he told me early on he wasn’t like other men. He proved himself to be complex and multi-faceted, and I feel like maybe I shouldn't make any judgments about him, either, until I figure out more about what’s going on with him. The question is...will I get the chance?

  The October wind rakes its cold fingers through my hair as I step outside. It’s chilly, but I want to have some one-on-one time with my main man—or, more accurately, mane man.

  Brownie nickers to me from the blue gate pasture as I come into view. The other horses lift their heads but go back to grazing.

  “Hey, buddy.” I’m smiling because he’s trotting over like it’s been weeks since we’ve seen each other instead of just hours. He’s so stunning, his flashy black legs pumping as he moves effortlessly toward me, his burnished coat gleaming in the late-day sun.

  I reach into my pocket for a Rounder treat, planting a quick kiss on his velvety muzzle as he crunches. “This is just because you came over first. Don't be thinking you're special or anything.”

  But we both know better.

  I open the gate latch and step inside the pasture. I have to leave soon for my waitressing shift, but I want to soak up some happy horse vibes to get me through the night. I stroke Brownie's muscled neck as he swings his head around to nuzzle
me, his ears pricked forward and his expression serene. My eyes burn with sudden tears. “Pass that mood on to me, would you, bud?”

  “Talking to the horses again?”

  I turn around. It’s Sonya, standing next to the gate and grinning, hands in her coat pockets and a halter and lead rope over her shoulder. Her hair is in two long braids under a baseball cap, making her look about twelve. She quickly loses her smile when she sees my expression. “Aww...you look upset. Are you okay?”

  I blink quickly. “I will be.”

  “Sorry if I interrupted your time with the big boy here. I was going to start bringing them in.”

  “Damn, is it that time already? I better get going.” I give Brownie a goodbye pat and come out of the pasture, holding the gate open for Sonya.

  “Hey, before you go, I've got news, and I'm like dying to share it with somebody.” Sonya's brown eyes are sparkling.

  Just what I need...bubbly Sonya, with good news about her life. I give myself a firm yank out of the pity puddle I’m wallowing in. “Okay...I'll walk in with you.”

  Sonya halters Brownie and leads him out with me at her side. “I just found out I got accepted to study abroad for next semester.”

  “Seriously? That's awesome.”

  “I'm super excited! My advisor helped me apply for scholarships, and I'm going to Sweet Briar College in Nice, France to study international relations.”

  “Wow, Sonya—congratulations.” I’m grudgingly impressed with her for taking this on. “So Ingrid will have to find someone to take your place.”

  “Yeah. She was kind of pissed, but she'll get over it.”

  “She'll have to. It's a great opportunity.”

  “Yes...I can't wait. I'd just been feeling like I was on this treadmill, like doing the same things and going nowhere. So I started looking into going abroad, and I just thought, why not? YOLO and all that.” She grins. “Once I figured out what I wanted, I just decided to go for it.”

  We reach the barn. Sonya unlatches Brownie's stall, and he goes immediately to his grain pail as I stand nearby, thinking hard.